Desperate to the Max Page 2

  "Why did you say you had to find out who she was?” Witt said.

  His voice snapped her out of her wandering thoughts. “Oh."

  For the first time he turned his head to look at her. Just a half turn and a shift of his eyes, but she felt his gaze like a knife.

  Max glanced at the house, not that Witt made her nervous or anything. She knew that third ring would fail as well, but the stick woman seemed to have endless patience.

  "Okay, okay. It sort of came to me who the murder victim was.” He opened his mouth. She held up a hand. “I'm not done. I was going to say that I don't know her, but I'm pretty sure her name was Bethany."

  Man, that guy could skewer a girl with one look.

  "Bethany Spring to be exact,” she finished.

  Witt gave a dry and humorless smile. “Amazing how you reveal only what you want and keep the rest clenched in your fist."

  It wasn't like she'd never given him a murder victim's name before, so why the hell was he angry? She did not, however, ask him. Cameron, her late and ghostly husband, would say she was afraid of the answer. As usual, he'd be right. On the porch, having failed to get a response, Ms. Stick was finally unlocking the door. “Aren't you going to stop her?"

  "Exactly what should I say? That my girlfriend had a psychic vision about a dead woman lying in that house?"

  Max didn't know which part of the sentence to attack first. She certainly wasn't his girlfriend, and as for that disparaging remark about her psychic abilities... “She's probably messing up fingerprints on the door and the knob and..."

  "Someone's gotta find the body. Better her than you.” He shook his head. “Don't think I could keep you out of jail if that happened."

  It was then the screaming started.

  Chapter Two

  Witt had cleared the white picket fence and reached the front porch, gun out and at the ready, before Max had even moved. His cop reflexes worked overtime.

  Max didn't waste any time either, though she was hampered by the damn high heels and slim, split skirt. She was through the low gate and halfway up the walk when the screeching stopped. Her ears rang in the aftermath, and her feet rooted to the path. Up and down the street, people came out of their houses, mostly elderly women and children since the workday hadn't ended.

  The atmosphere turned deathly still. Silence screamed from inside the house. Before her, the door stood wide like the gaping mouth of some huge beast.

  Vapors drifted out, weaving their way across the sun-heated concrete, then rising to scorch the tissues of her nostrils. Sweet yet fetid, like meat left out too long. She'd smelled it just two weeks ago, far worse and far stronger, yes, but the same scent. She'd never forget. It seeped down her throat until she could taste it and prickled her arms with goose bumps. The scent of death.

  The scent of murder.

  The girl appeared first, Witt close behind her and to the left, one hand on her elbow. Tears streaked her cheeks, but she'd stopped crying. In the late afternoon sun, her features were angular, gaunt, even ugly. Witt helped her down the stairs, guided her across the lawn to the gate at the side by the drive, and there they stood. Still holding onto her, he punched numbers one-handed into his cell phone.

  Not a gun, a cell phone, that's what he'd pulled out. Max almost laughed, lost her balance, and nearly fell to her knees.

  Then the house started calling to her.

  Maaaxx.

  Sing-song. Hypnotic. Beckoning.

  Maaaaxx.

  She quaked in her spike-heeled shoes. Her heart raced. Her head pounded.

  Maaaaaaxx.

  She took two steps and stopped. The blue trim around the windows glowed. The glass panes pulsed. The door frame expanded. Contracted. As if the house lived and breathed. And it was calling her name.

  Maaxx.

  Two more steps, and she'd reached the first porch stair.

  Maaaxx.

  "One more move, Starr, and your ass is grass.” Witt's voice boomed in her left ear. She jumped, skittered like a spider, back a full three feet.

  She let out a long breath, as if she'd been holding it without realizing. She blinked, stared at Witt, and for the briefest moment, wasn't sure how or why she even knew him.

  "You okay, Max?” One hand on the girl's arm, the other an extension of his cell phone, his blue eyes strained in Max's direction.

  "Fine.” Her voice cracked in the middle.

  "Black and white's on its way. Don't go inside."

  She glanced at the white facade, wondering what the hell had happened. It was a house. No pulsing, no monster breathing, just a house. And that deadly smell. She hadn't a single intention of going inside.

  A crowd had formed at the edge of the property. Curious, almost excited whisperings teased her ears, but Max couldn't make out the words.

  A boy rode his skateboard back and forth along the road, the sound grating against her nerve endings.

  The whoop-whoop of a siren filled the distant air.

  A child laughed, a woman's voice shushed.

  "Keep back, give the boy some room,” an elderly lady's words rang out. Her blue-gray hair glistened in the sunshine. She fanned her hands. “Go on, back, back,” the lady shooed, and the small gathering took a collective step away from the picket fence.

  Witt turned back to his charge. A woman or a girl, Max couldn't tell; she was ageless. Starvation wizened her face, hollowed her cheeks, pulled at the flesh beneath her eyes. The baggy shirt gaped at the neck, revealing sharp collarbones. The material hung on her slight body, making her chest appear concave. Sunlight shone through her thighs though she stood with her feet close together, knees resembling the knobs on a door.

  With his big hand still on the girl's arm, Witt leaned close, murmuring to her. Calming words, Max assumed. Why did he have to keep touching her? Max definitely did not like the idea of the man's big hand—which she was extremely partial to—on that waif-like creature. Maybe he did that with all his witnesses. She tried to remember his reaction to her all those weeks ago, when that car had almost run her down. He'd yelled, that's what he'd done. He'd called her an idiot, told her to keep her nose out of his investigation, told her ... so why the hell was he being so nice to that emaciated wretch?

  Damn. She sounded like a pathetically jealous heroine in a romance novel. She was also absolutely dying for a cheeseburger with fries and a strawberry shake.

  Her stomach growled.

  Oh no. No, no, no. Please. Not again.

  There was no getting around the plain truth. Like those other times, her brain had been invaded by the personality traits of the victim. Life, or death, wasn't fair.

  A siren wailed, closed in. The promised black and white wheeled around the corner, pulled to the curb facing the wrong way, and stopped nose to nose with her little Miata. The uniformed officer climbed from the car, and the crowd, driven by the blue-haired woman, parted like the Red Sea. The cop smiled broadly at the elderly lady from a too-young face. “Thanks, Ladybird.” The name sounded like a cute little garden bug.

  Sweeping the gate aside, the cop crossed the lawn with long strides. Witt met him halfway, leaving his ... witness by the edge of the driveway. The uniform clapped him on the shoulder. Witt clapped back. Jeez, cop fraternities; he hadn't even pulled his badge to ID himself. Witt grabbed the younger, smaller man's forearm while they talked. Cops were a touchy lot in a macho, big guy sort of way. Witt sure did his share of touching her now that she was neither a victim nor a suspect. Touchy, yeah, in a very different way that usually left her panting for more. Between the two men, there was a lot of pointing, first at the girl, then the house, finally at Witt's department vehicle parked across the street.

  Max felt conspicuous in the fact that Witt acknowledged her with neither a look nor an introduction. She stood stranded in the middle of the walkway, but retreating to her car would have been akin to defeat.

  The officer's mike, clipped to his shoulder, crackled. He spoke into it softly. Witt left him, and fin
ally came to Max's side. For some strange reason, she wouldn't have minded if he put his arm around her shoulder as he had the baby-faced officer. He didn't. “Meat wagon's ordered, and the on-duties'll be here soon."

  "On-duties?"

  "Detectives. Harmon over there called ‘em out. We'll wait. They'll want my statement since I was first on the scene."

  She really hadn't meant to put him in an awkward position. “Do they want to know why you happened to be first one here?"

  Witt stared at her. He was detached, his usually expressive blue eyes now bleak and cold, and his cop jargon callous.

  Max shivered. The sun was going down on the early October afternoon. She wondered if this was what he'd meant when he said—what, a week, two weeks ago?—that most women wouldn't understand a man like him. He was like a chameleon, changing his colors, his mood, his manner, and even his voice to fit the surroundings.

  Finally, he said, “Told ‘em my Mom lives in the area."

  Max gave him an admiring wide-eyed look. “Wow, that's great thinking.” She tipped her head. “What if they decide to check out where your mom really lives?"

  "They won't."

  He was so sure. She let him be so she wouldn't have to worry about him. “I suppose they'll want to talk to me, too."

  He gave her a look, his head tilted back, his nose appearing longer than usual. “Why?"

  She smiled thinly. “They'll want to know what I saw."

  "You didn't see anything. You dreamed it."

  "Since when did you stop believing in me?” Jeez, that sounded bad. Proprietary. Needy even. She couldn't remember him saying he believed in her, only that he believed some of the things she told him. “I mean since when did you question my psychic abilities?"

  "Since the day I met you."

  Men. They were all scumbags. She narrowed her eyes. “You know I was right the last time. You know it wasn't a lucky guess. You saw that with your own eyes.” On video even, played out exactly like her vision.

  "I know. These guys don't. Stay out of this mess."

  She narrowed her eyes on him. “What did you see in there?"

  "Classified until I give my statement."

  "Bullshit."

  He raised a brow at the word.

  "It was exactly like I told you, wasn't it? Right down to the peach-colored robe she was wearing and the truffles she hadn't finished eating."

  Something flickered in his eyes. Fear maybe. No, he wasn't afraid of anything. When he spoke, his voice had hardened. “Stay. Out. Of. It."

  Oh yeah, that's exactly what he'd seen. Bastard for not admitting she'd been right. He was worse than a plain old scumbag, he was a dictatorial one. Well, he'd find out fast that attitude had never—and she meant never—worked on her. “How will they know she was a phone sex operator? How will they know to look for the guy on the phone? How will they know he knew where she lived? If. I. Don't. Tell. Them."

  His hand whipped out and cupped her cheek. The abrupt change in attitude stole the breath from her lungs and set her skin buzzing while his eyes suddenly blazed. “Trust me."

  God, the worst words any man could ever say in a rasping tone that melted her from the inside out. Yes, yes, yes. She wanted to, she really did, wanted to lean into that warm touch, lean on him, and turn her lips to his palm. But... “You already know the answer to that."

  He dropped his hand. “Do I gotta be dead, Max, before you trust me?"

  She hissed in a breath. “Low blow, Detective.” It didn't hurt. It really didn't. He was right. She trusted Cameron with things she wouldn't tell a living soul. Let alone Witt.

  Witt shook his head. “Don't wanna fight, okay. Let the case alone for now. We'll figure out the phone sex angle later."

  "And you'll somehow lead your detective friends in the right direction without involving me? How chivalrous.” Her tone was snide—she hated being left out—but there was something so damn sweet about the way he tried to protect her.

  He smiled, one sexy dimple appearing. She'd been forgiven. “I resemble that remark."

  God, he did. Dudley Do-Right of the Royal Canadian Mounties. Damned if she wasn't his little Nell. Perpetually out of his reach through no fault of his own.

  She tugged on the knot of his red tie, a singularly intimate gesture. She wondered if he knew that or if, like most men, he was oblivious to a woman's odd signals.

  "What are you doing, Max?” Suspicion narrowed his eyes.

  She eyed the little waif now talking with Harmon by the drive gate. Staking a claim, that's what she was doing. Making sure little Miss Stick, Harmon, and the small crowd by the fence didn't mistake their relationship. He's mine, mine, mine, mine...

  God, she was hungry, starving, dying for one of those Sara Lee's Raspberry Cheesecake Bites.

  There she was again. The dead woman. Wheedling her way into Max's subconscious, giving her strange thoughts she'd never have on her own in a million years, and making her feel emotions that simply were not her own.

  A chill scraped across Max's scalp. She stepped back, stared at Witt. She was skirting the hairy edge of a relationship she really wasn't ready to handle. And dreaming about food as if it was somehow better than sex.

  She stared at the gaping door of the house. “No way. Not again. Not this time."

  Witt's brows pulled together. “What?"

  Didn't he know? Couldn't he tell? Wasn't it obvious?

  Max was possessed.

  Again.

  Chapter Three

  The whole possession thing was happening again. Max knew it. Psychic emanations oozed from the house. A supernatural bond with a dead woman stole out to stake its claim on her.

  "I have to get out of here.” Or go stark raving mad. “I'll wait in the car. Didn't you tell me that's what I was supposed to do anyway?” she said, hoping compliance would sidetrack Witt.

  She backed away from him toward the gate in the picket fence. His eyes tracked her as if she'd grown a second head. Once at the gate, she pushed through the knot of crimescene gazers, pulled the door of the Miata open and flopped down in the seat. Thank God she'd put the top up before Witt arrived. She didn't have time to struggle with the damn thing now.

  Starting the car, she rammed it into reverse and pulled three car lengths away from the cruiser. Parked once more, she turned the engine off, and looked up. The blue-haired lady's eyes had followed her, and a hint of a smile crossed her lips. She plucked at the folds of her flower print dress, the silver-blue petals matching the color of her hair. Max received the air waves between them as if she were a fortune-teller reading tea leaves. Mrs. Blue's life story seemed to be suddenly right there in Max's head. The woman wore polyester for durability and cost, machine washable, lasted forever, and she lived in one of these small, modest homes with exceptionally neat lawns. She'd raised her child here, survived her husband's death, and now watched Maury Povich religiously.

  Still looking at Max, the woman gave a tentative wave before turning back to the spectacle. Max didn't even begin to wonder how she knew all that about the woman, nor did she doubt her assessment was correct. This “sensing” had happened before. She knew things about people, the soul-deep stuff that a person kept hidden, sometimes even from themselves. Max somehow tapped into the knowledge even without trying.

  Strange psychic things like that had started when Cameron was killed two years ago, the incidents increasing exponentially over the last few weeks. As if Max were racing toward ... something. She hadn't a clue as to what.

  Harmon had the yellow crimescene tape out. A tan sedan, a twin of Witt's, pulled in. Another black and white arrived with two officers. They pushed the crowd back with easy authority.

  Max passed a tired hand over her eyes and leaned her head against the driver's side window, the glass cold against her cheek. The weather had turned yesterday. October was so unpredictable. Sometimes hot like summer, sometimes cold and wet and blustery. She hated October. So many bad things happened in October. Black Monday, the day t
he stock Market fell in the 80's. The Loma Prieta earthquake of 1989. The Oakland firestorm. Her birthday; she'd be thirty-three this year. Cameron's murder at the corner 7-11 two years ago. Yeah, October was a really bad month.

  Dammit, why was this happening to her again? “Cameron, you get in here and talk this woman out of me right this minute."

  She didn't care that someone might see her. They'd think she was talking to herself. Maybe she was, since she was the only one who heard Cameron. Then again, maybe she was crazy. As with Cameron himself, the question had never been laid to rest.

  The air shifted in the close confines of the car, and the scent of peppermint wafted past her nose. “Her?"

  "Bethany Spring. She's in me, I can feel her. I won't stand for it this time, Cameron.” Brave words. She didn't have a clue how to exorcise the woman now, without first finding her killer. “Use your ghostly wiles on her."

  A soft sigh across her nape. She closed her eyes briefly.

  "How many times must I explain, my sweet? She's on another plane. She isn't even aware of me. You're the only one who can oust her. By finding her killer."

  Her stomach growled. “She's hungry."

  "Feed her."

  "I will. Turkey."

  "I think I resent that."

  "I meant I'm having turkey for dinner."

  He laughed softly. “Ah yes. Dinner with Witt's mother. How pleasant."

  She swallowed her sudden panic. “Cameron, I can't go through this again. I really can't."

  "You can, and you will. You get better at figuring out the truth every time. Run with her feelings. Let her go deep inside you. Find out all her secrets."

  The idea terrified her. Bethany Spring was the third phantom to haunt her dreams. The third victim crying out for justice. The third ghost trying to take over her mind and her body.