Susan Andersen - Obsessed.pdf - Susan Andersen - SilverWitch

OBSESSED

Susan Andersen

This one is for the family;

Dedicated with love

My brothers Ken and Ron Who aren't nearly as obnoxious as they used to be

Auntie Jean and Uncle Chuck

Who know a little something about homemade soup

and handcrafted bears

and to

My cousin Colleen

With whom I can pick up a conversation like it was yesterday even if it's actually been a very long

time

Not to mention All the rest of my sisters-in-law, aunts, uncles and

cousins, nieces and nephews

Whom I'd list by name, if there weren't so many of

you

. . . Susie

Prologue

It was another full moon; he felt invincible and full of purpose when he set out. Everything went like

clockwork at first, too, just as he'd expected. It was, in fact, a downright shame that aside from ole Bess

there was no one around to witness his performance. He was brilliant—anyone seeing him would have

had to admit as much.

Then things started to go sour. For a while there matters got a little dicey before he finally managed to get

a handle on everything. It was his show, though, all the way; so naturally it worked out just fine.

It even got interesting. . . and all's well that ends well, he always said.

He wasn't a killer, but that night he teetered dangerously close to becoming one. Not that he harbored

any particular moral objections to murder; he simply didn't get his kicks that way. No, for him it was the

thrills derived from hurting and terrorizing; he'd opt for those any old time, revel ing as he did in his victims'

fear. He loved to hear the high edge of hysteria that colored their voices when they begged; to see their

eyes stretched by terror as the cool point of his knife caressed their throats, their faces, their breasts; to feel

the futile resistance of feminine muscles violently breeched. Kiss the girls and make them cry—Georgie

Porgie was his kinda guy: a man with a righteous attitude. To curtail the enjoyment by killing seemed to him

unnecessary, pointless .... hell, almost redundant. Give him a good old-fashioned slaughter of the emotions

any old day. It wasn't for nothing that he left each of his ladies with a permanent little memento. He knew

that deep down they all wanted it anyway: he merely did his best to accommodate them. He wished all his

victims a long and fruitful life—years and years in which to remember him.

But that night something went wrong.

He was in the midst of carving his trademark heart in sweet Bess's chest when he realized she had passed

out. "No, no, no, sweetheart," he murmured. "This will never do." He gave her cheek a smart tap with the

flat of his fingers. "Wake up, babe," he ordered. She remained unconscious and he slapped her again

impatiently. "C'mon, c'mon; I ain't got all night. Nobody likes a party pooper, sweetheart, and if I have to go

hunting for the household ammonia . . . well, it's gonna be used for more than just bringin' you around.'' He

glared pointedly at the half completed, bleeding wound on her chest.

It wasn't until he looked up at her face again that he realized her lips were turning blue.

"Shit!" He leaped to his feet and stared down at her. Using his teeth to rip off his surgical glove, he fumbled

for a pulse beneath the curve of her jaw. Once located, it beat with an irregular, thready rhythm beneath his

fingertips.

Damn her! This wasn't supposed to happen. He was supposed to help her get dressed, kiss her goodnight,

and then leave, savoring the power.

In an unaccustomed panic, he hastily tucked himself back into his gaping fly and glanced about wildly as he

zipped and buttoned to make sure he wasn't leaving anything behind. He recovered his knife from the

mattress where it had fallen, removed Bess's blood from it by wiping it on the sheet, and then stuffed it into

its sheath.

He strode swiftly from the room, using the removed glove to turn the doorknob. At the front door he paused

to collect his wits, drew in a deep breath to steady his racing pulse, and then checked his clothing over to

make sure it hadn't been marred by die slut's blood. Pressing a clenched fist hard against his sternum, he

struggled to contain his fury.

Damn that litde bitch! She'd ruined everything. As a rule, he could count on his anger to build slowly over

the course of a month, until it reached a zenith when the moon rode full in the night sky. By that time the

predator to whom his body played host had usually generated a wrath so fierce it left him feeling as if he'd

blow apart if something wasn't done. The instant the timing was right, he purged himself of it. He picked out

a likely looking target, followed her home, forced his way in, and unleashed on her the black rage that had

been building inside him all month. Then he felt good for awhile. He felt released, calm again.

But the fury that had drained in the sweet aftermath of his attack on Bess was back in force now. How

dare she wreck his hard-earned tranquility this way? Hell, she'd wanted it—they all wanted it. Women

were sluts. A man merely had to observe the way they were forever wiggling their butts and their tits in his

face to know it, had only to see them showing off their bodies in their skimpy summer clothes. Bess was no

exception.

Now that she'd gotten her just desserts, however, she thought she could deny her own culpability by turning

her toes up. Well, if she thought for a goddamn instant that by dying she could make it all his fault, she was

sadly mistaken.

He cracked open the front door cautiously and looked both ways before stepping out into the hallway.

Bypassing the elevator, he pulled open the fire door to the stairwell and slipped through. As he clattered

down the stairs, he pulled off his ski mask and stuffed it into his hip pocket. Shoving unsteady fingers

through sweat-dampened hair, he swore viciously under his breath.

The disguise had to go; it was too damn ludicrous for words. Here it was a breathlessly hot night and he

was running around in friggin' wool. Before the pressure within him built once again to uncontrollable

proportions, before the voice in his head drove him out into the next full moon, he was damn well getting

himself a cooler disguise.

Out on the street, he controlled an uncharacteristic impulse to run and forced himself to stroll along with

studied nonchalance. There was a dumpster halfway down an alley at the end of the block and he tossed

his disposable gloves into it. Stepping back onto the sidewalk, he studied his surroundings to make sure his

presence had gone unnoticed. A. pay phone on the neon-washed arterial an avenue away caught his

attention. He hesitated.

He didn't know what the hell was the matter with ole Bess, but he didn't want her to die. Where was the

fun in that? She had a responsibility here— she was supposed to remember him. It was gonna be one

fuckin' short memory if he allowed her to up and croak, and from the looks of her that was

exacdy what she was going to do if she didn't get some attention.

He covered the distance to the phone, fished a quarter from his pocket, wrapped his T-shirt around the

receiver to keep his fingerprints off it, and dialed 911.

Okay, he thought as he hung up a few moments later, you've done your good deed for the day. You

have been, in fact, a regular goddamn boy scout. . . Now get the hell outta this neighborhood.

He fully intended to do just that, to melt into the quieter side streets and slip unseen through the darkened

residential district to the place where he'd parked his car a safe distance away. Then as soon as he'd

driven far enough from the scene of the crime, he meant to stop by the first bar he came upon for a tall,

cool drink to celebrate a job well done.

His curiosity, however, proved to be stronger than his ever-vigilant caution. He found himself drifting

back toward Bess's apartment house, lured by the swirling lights and wailing sirens of the emergency

vehicles that careened off the arterial and roared up the darkened side street.

He wasn't the only one drawn to the scene. The excitement of sirens destroying the silence of the night

had brought out a considerable crowd from the neighborhood. It was simple to blend into the gathering

spectators, and when the voices eddying around him asked each other what was going on he was hard

pressed not to fill them in on all the delicious details.

The paramedics were in the building for what seemed to him an inordinately long time, but eventually they

rolled Bess out on a portable gurney. Much to his disappointment, she was covered to the shoulders with

a white sheet that effectively hid his handiwork. An oxygen mask was strapped over her nose and mouth,

and an IV bag hung from an overhead hook and rocked with the motion of the gurney.

He overheard a paramedic telling the patrolman who held back the crowd that Bess was still in critical

condition as he and his black partner bundled her into the Medic I truck. When the cop inquired where they

were taking her, the paramedic called out the name of the best-known trauma unit in town. The doors of

the vehicle slammed shut and it roared into the night With nothing left to look at, the crowd began to

disperse.

He knew then he should call it a night and go get that drink. But somehow, once in his car, he found himself

driving at top speed to the hospital. The paramedic had said Bess was still critical. He needed to know she

was going to live. She had to live, dammit ... to remember him. To relive his mastery over her again and

again.

The emergency room was bright, noisy, and busy. Bess's rapist took a seat in the crowded waiting area but

quickly grew impatient when he was unable to see anything. He hadn't come all this way just to sit here

twiddling his thumbs—he wanted to know what was going on. Getting up, he drifted through the corridors,

craftily avoiding contact with any hospital personnel who might tell him he was in a restricted area. At an

intersection of two corridors, he came across a large, wheeled canvas cart pushed up against one of the

walls. Liberating himself a pair of surgical scrubs from the soiled laundry within, he donned them as

protective camouflage and moved on.

Eventually he located the cubicle that held Bess. The curtain wasn't fully drawn and he could see through a

gap to the medical team working on her. Finding a nearby vantage point, he positioned

himself to remain inconspicuous while retaining an unobstructed view.

Attention fully captured, he stared at the physician in charge. A lady doctor no less. He studied her with

interest.

Not at all his cup of tea, of course; he could tell just by looking at her that she was one of those

strong-willed, authoritative types. He liked women who were weak, submissive, and easily intimidated.

Nice tits, though. And great legs. She was way too tall, of course, and too bad about that hair. He had

never seen the point of red hair. Well, hers wasn't really red red—what did they call that deep copper

color, strawberry blonde? No, that couldn't be right; there wasn't any blond in it. Well, regardless of its

name, it was still too red for his taste. He preferred his ladies dark . . . like little Bess there, lying so still.

Nevertheless he found himself watching the doctor with increasing absorption. He'd never cared for strong

women, but there was something about this one that tugged at him. Watching her bend over Bess, directing

low-voiced orders to the staff around her, he wondered if perhaps it wasn't simply a matter of her being a

provider in the healthcare profession. He'd had an aunt who was an LPN and she'd treated him pretty good

during the worst period of his life. She'd treated him, in fact, better than any woman in his life ever had. Not

that the Doc here looked anything like Aunt Flo. Still, there was something about her, and when she

stepped out of the cubicle to consult with another doctor, he found himself relinquishing his vantage point

and strolling casually past her. From the corner of his eye he read the little name tag pinned on the breast of

her white lab coat. I. Pennington, M.D. it said.

There was a water fountain located just beyond the conversing physicians, and he bent over it, sipping

slowly until she returned to the cubicle and the other doctor left. Then he took up his post once again, and

as he continued to watch her his fascination grew.

A nurse suddenly tugged the curtain fully closed. Afraid of courting discovery by staying in one place too

long, he was just on the point of drifting away when the detective arrived. Oh, sure, the cop was dressed in

plain clothes—-jeans and running shoes no less—but the watcher wasn't fooled, not for a goddamn second.

He could smell a cop a mile away.

Dark and towering, this one came barging onto the scene, just another aggressive, bullshit cop making

demands that brought the tall red-headed physician out of the cubicle. They were too far away for the man

observing them to overhear their conversation, but it wasn't difficult to figure out what was being said. His

lip curled in disgust.

He knew all about cops and their arrogant ways, and this one looked typical. He looked, in fact, even more

overbearing than most. . . and that was saying something. Bess's attacker didn't have to actually hear the

conversation to know the detective was aggressively badgering the doctor for information. God, he hated

cops. In the end, they always bullied people into giving them exactly what they wanted.

The doc, however, surprised him. She stood her ground, brushing the detective off with swift, unsmiling

efficiency, and then she returned to the cubicle, leaving him to scowl after her departing back. Not

surprisingly, given the inherent pushiness of police the world over, the detective immediately bulled his way

into the cubicle after her, but he was back out in the hall again in record time. He stood there for about two

seconds before he stalked off down the hallway.

A strong surge of affection suffused the hidden observer and he immediately forgave the doc her height,

her hair color. .. even her air of authority. Oh, this was just too fucking perfect. His doc had gotten the best

of a goddamn cop. Hell, not only gotten the best of him, by God—she'd actually managed to royally

frustrate the guy in the process.

He knew he'd better move along now before he risked drawing the cop's attention to himself. He didn't

underestimate the tenacity of cops when there was something that they wanted .. . and this one looked

particularly unlikely to give up without a fight. Taking care, the silent observer navigated the hallways,

hugging his near-perfect contentment to his breast.

The doc was all right, he thought. Hell, she was more than all right; she was a goddamn miracle worker.

She'd cured him of his corrosive anger, and that was not a negligible endeavor.

Wrapped in a cocoon of warm euphoria, he decided he just might be in love.

Chapter 1

Three weeks earlier

Ivy Pennington was becoming upwardly mobile today and several of her cousins had turned out to lend

their assistance getting her moved. They arrived with the dawn at her old apartment above Aunt Babe

and Uncle Mack's garage.

Ivy had packed her coffee maker the night before and much to everyone's disgust couldn't remember into

which box it had been stuffed. Yawning and bleary-eyed, her helpers stumbled up and down the exterior

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