Hide and Seek Read online

  Hide and Seek

  by

  Allie Harrison

  ImaJinn Books

  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events or locations is entirely coincidental.

  ImaJinn Books

  PO BOX 300921

  Memphis, TN 38130

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-933417-72-1

  Print ISBN: 978-1-933417-49-3

  ImaJinn Books is an Imprint of BelleBooks, Inc.

  Copyright © 2011 by Allison Harris writing as Allie Harrison

  Published in the United States of America.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

  ImaJinn Books was founded by Linda Kichline.

  We at ImaJinn Books enjoy hearing from readers. Visit our websites

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  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Cover design: Debra Dixon

  Interior design: Hank Smith

  Photo/Art credits:

  Woman (manipulated) © Alessandro De Leo | Dreamstime.com

  Background (manipulated) © Wojphoto | Dreamstime.com

  :Eshu:01:

  Dedication

  To Wayne, Rachel, Ben, Stephanie, and Dex.

  With Love!

  Chapter One

  Eighteen Years Ago . . .

  GRANDMAMA WAS DEAD.

  Tess Fairmont sucked in a breath and pursed her lips. No one would see her cry. She looked at her own refection in the mirror. “I hate being ten,” she said out loud. “My legs look like chicken legs. Rodney Wilkens calls me bunny at school because my teeth are too big. And can I please wear makeup to cover up these ugly freckles?. I hate them.”

  “No, besides your grandmama would not want to see you in make­up. She loved you as you are.” There was a pause. Then, “Are you sure you want to go to her funeral?” Lorna, Tess’s mother, asked, as she continued braiding Tess’s honey-colored hair. “I know you were very close to her, but you don’t have to go.”

  Tess bit her lip for a long moment as she contemplated a way around her mother. “I want to go, Mama. I want to say good-bye. I don’t just want to remember her the way she was.”

  “Tess, it isn’t as if she was sick for months. She died suddenly. She looks the same as she did last week. I think it best if you simply remem­ber her that way.”

  Tess allowed her mother to finish with her hair. “Please, Mama. I need to see her.”

  Mama let out a heavy breath, and Tess knew she’d get her wish.

  Two hours later, she sat between Mama and Daddy. Daddy absently held her hand, and the one time she looked up at him, she thought his usual laughing eyes were sad. Now she stared at her new shoes—black patent leather with a heel. Grandmama had taken her shopping less than three weeks ago and had bought them for her. Would Grandmama have believed her if Tess had told her she’d be wearing them to Grandmama’s funeral hardly a month later? Inwardly, Tess smiled. Her grandmama would have laughed and said, “Don’t get all dressed up for me, honey. Make it a picnic to celebrate my life and make sure you play ball.”

  Ever since Grandmama saw Dizzy Dean lead the St. Louis Cardinals to an eight to three win in the first game of the 1934 World Series in Detroit’s Navin Field, she was an avid fan. She often confessed to being in love with Dizzy Dean, too.

  Tess didn’t listen to Father Brannigan. She hoped she wouldn’t go to Hell for not listening, but thinking of Grandmama and how much fun she was, and how much fun she made everything else, made Tess’s heart feel lighter. And she knew that was what Grandmama would have wanted. She wouldn’t want anyone sitting at her funeral with a heavy heart.

  But oh, Tess, was going to miss her so much . . .

  “Come on, Tess.”

  Lorna drew Tess’s attention with a whisper. Tess looked up and saw it was time to walk closer to the casket, to actually look at Grandmama and to say good-bye. She never wanted to go. But she didn’t want to oppose her mother, or leave without saying good-bye, either. She was already worried that a bolt of lightning might zap through the church roof because she’d been daydreaming instead of listening to Father Brannigan, as the nuns taught. Meekly, she followed her mother toward the ornate pink casket. Pink was Grandmama’s favorite color.

  Before she even drew close, Tess saw her grandmama. Her hair was curled a bit more than usual. And Tess thought the pink on her cheeks looked rather funny with the way it was round. Grandmama would laugh hard if she looked in the mirror.

  Tess had never seen a dead person, and she wasn’t sure what she’d ex­pected, but this wasn’t it. In fact, except for the pink clown cheeks, Tess still thought Grandmama looked as if she were asleep. Tess had, after all, spent many nights with Grandmama and had even shared a bed with her. So Tess knew what she looked like sleeping.

  But she wasn’t sleeping, and yes, Tess would miss her. She stared down at the dead woman’s soft, wrinkled face. How many times had Tess kissed that cheek? How many times had Tess felt those arms hold her close in a warm, healing hug? How many times had Grandmama taken Tess’s hand as they crossed the street in front of Grandmama’s house, because Grandmama often said no one ever gets too old to need a hand to hold?

  Tess would never feel any of those things or hear Grandmama’s voice again.

  “Can I hold her hand one last time, Mama?” Tess asked.

  “Of course.”

  Without hesitation, Tess reached out and took hold of Grand­mama’s hand. She was prepared to feel coldness. And she did feel cold, but only for a second before warmth moved up Tess’s arm. Then her throat grew tight. She couldn’t breathe. If she didn’t know better, she’d think she’d tried to swallow a large marshmallow whole and it was caught in her throat.

  Grandmama, her casket, and everyone around Tess disappeared in an instant. Tess saw whiteness, filled with black spots, and recognized it as the ceiling tile in Grandmama’s bedroom. Her vision moved to the left, and Tess saw Grandmama’s dresser where she kept her jewelry box and loose powder and makeup and her pink hairbrush. In the mirror, she saw Uncle John. He held a pillow in his hands. Tess even smelled Grand­mama’s perfume she always wore.

  Then she heard Uncle John’s voice. “I’m tired of waiting for my money, old woman.”

  Tess felt her own heart pound in her chest, as Uncle John brought the pillow close to her face. Or was it Grandmama’s face? She just knew she tried to scream and couldn’t, as the cool cotton of the pillowcase filled her world with unending, terrifying darkness. She tried to breathe and couldn’t . . .

  The next thing Tess heard was screaming—her own.

  Her father, gentle and kind but strong, held her wrists and tried to calm her as she kicked and screamed and punched. His dark, wonderful eyes came into focus, and Tess realized she lay on the floor beside Grand­mama’s casket. Everyone in the room was silent as they stared.

  “It was Uncle John,” Tess said breathlessly. “He killed Grandmama with a pillow for her money.”

  The gazes of everyone in the room moved to Uncle John who stood nearby. After a long moment of hushed silence, several people gasped, and suddenly, Uncle John turned and fled . . .

  Eighteen years later . . .

 
The horrid dream of Uncle John staring at her with red, hate-filled eyes was whisked away by the shrill sound of her cell phone. Still half asleep and on automatic pilot, she grasped the small device, opened it and held it to her ear. “Yeah?”

  “I’ve got a body for you, Tess,” said a familiar voice.

  “Yeah?” Tess glanced at the bedside clock and worked to focus on the numbers. One-thirty-eight. It was times like this that she hated being on call for the Chicago Police Department.

  “I’ll have her at the morgue for you by the time you get there.”

  He hung up without a good-bye or an adios, amigo, but what Tess hated about Detective Jake Williams was not his lack of greeting or salutations. It was the fact that he referred to the body as a “her.” If he’d called the body an “it,” it wouldn’t be so personal. In fact, she wouldn’t have to think of it as a person at all. “Her” made the body a real per­son—a real dead person—a female, a girl or a woman. She would have blond, red, brown, gray, black, or any shade of hair in between. She would be someone’s daughter, sister, wife, mother, friend, or lover.

  Tess slid her feet to the floor and forced herself into a sitting posi­tion, fighting the slight dizziness and clouds that still fogged her mind. She rubbed her eyes and reached for her shirt at the same time.

  There was no way she’d ever thank Detective Jake Williams for call­ing her in the middle of the night, but there were two consolations. One, his call had ended the nightmare that plagued her all too often. And two, at the morgue, she’d get to see Dr. Michael Adams.

  Why did she even think about Michael Adams? Why would she al­low herself to wonder about him? It was, after all, a waste of time. He was smart, handsome, compassionate—at least to the dead. Why would she ever think he would be the least bit interested in a freak like her?

  MICHAEL KNEW TESS was in the room. He didn’t have to open his eyes. Even with the absence of perfume, he sensed her. Her own unique woman-scent, over the clean smell of vanilla and some sort of flowery soap, touched him with familiarity and filled him with warmth like sun­shine on a perfect spring day.

  Wanting nothing more than to breathe her in, he still didn’t open his eyes as he leaned back in his chair and kept his legs crossed up on his desk. He thought if he remained quiet, allowing her to think him resting, she might draw closer. He knew she kept her distance, even from him, despite the fact that he never gave her reason to.

  Finally, he could put it off no longer. “Hello, Tess,” he said.

  “Hi, Dr. Adams.”

  He liked the sound of her voice too, had from the first moment he met her. Throaty and rich, rather deep for a woman, he thought she could make a mint on the radio or perhaps as one of those telephone sex voices men called, paying with credit cards to listen to nasty words or live out their fantasies.

  But he was sure glad she walked into his morgue a few times a week instead.

  He still didn’t move, still kept his eyes closed. Yet, he knew she wouldn’t venture far into his office, nor would she touch him. Touch was different for Tess Fairmont. For her, there was nothing casual about touch. She saw things when she touched people—usually dead people. At least, it was the dead people he knew about. He’d seen her touch the dead many times, as she helped the Chicago PD. He heard what she told Detective Williams, and he knew she saw enough to help Williams catch the bad guys. He didn’t understand how she did it, but he respected it and didn’t question it. Even more, he respected her. He’d never known her to be wrong in what she saw.

  At the same time, he wondered what she saw when she touched live people. But then, he seldom saw her get close enough to touch anyone.

  He wished she wasn’t afraid to touch him.

  “How did you know I was here?” she asked in that wonderful voice.

  “You aren’t the only one who sees things sometimes.” He opened his eyes and looked at her.

  She’d come into his office far enough to be just across the desk from him. Dressed in jeans and a plain red t-shirt, she wasn’t glamorous. But she was a looker. Her wavy hair was the color of dark honey, and it was pulled back in a simple ponytail. The deep blue of her eyes seemed to cross the desk and grab him. Her full lips invited him to kiss her.

  He longed to release her hair from the barrette that held it and run his fingers through it. While she touched him.

  Why did he want her touch so much?

  Because he knew she never touched anyone freely. Like a child told he could never have a piece of candy, he craved it, knew it would taste wonderful when it finally reached his tongue.

  He vowed then and there that he would feel her touch. And he would feel it soon. “And would you please call me Michael? I think we’ve known each other long enough to let go of the formalities,” he said, deciding that if they were going to be skin to skin soon, they should at least be on a first-name basis.

  His question seemed to throw her off balance. For a long moment, she looked down at his desk, as if she couldn’t meet his gaze. Michael had no trouble looking at her. She wasn’t very tall, five-two, five-three, tops. And curvy. He liked that about her. She had soft-looking hips that he wanted to grasp in his hands as he pressed her against him and . . .

  Hell, he was going to have to stop thinking like this, or he’d better stay tucked in his desk chair. Otherwise, when he stood, she might label him just another hard-up guy who fantasizes about sex every three sec­onds.

  Okay, so he did fantasize about sex. But it seemed like these days, he did it when she was either close-by or he thought of her, and he only fantasized about sex with her.

  And he wished he knew how to get beyond the barricades she al­ways had up. He also wished he could interest her in more than just dead bodies.

  “So, tell me about the latest body,” she said.

  She must be reading his mind. Hell, who was he kidding? She was nothing but business as usual. Cool business, at that. If he didn’t find a way to warm her up to him, he was never going to touch her. He was never going to be skin to skin with her. He was never going to move past her barricades and touch her soul. Why would she be interested in some geek who worked with dead bodies more than she did? She probably thought of him as nothing more than a vampire, a man who works in the cold, hidden from the sun with no one to converse with other than the dead.

  He had to clear his throat before he spoke. “Female, approximate age late twenties to early thirties.”

  “Where’s Detective Williams?”

  “He said he had a lot of paperwork to fill out and he had to meet with some bigwigs.”

  She seemed to think about that a moment, then said, “He thinks this one is the work of a serial killer, doesn’t he?”

  He wondered how she’d jumped to that conclusion, but didn’t dare ask. “Yes.”

  “So he’s meeting with the FBI, isn’t he?”

  He noticed something in her eyes. Was it fear? “I think so. If this is the work of a serial killer, the FBI would no doubt be involved. Does that bother you?” It was clear to him that it did. He wished she’d open up and share her fears with him. He’d listen. He wouldn’t even force her to get close to him or to touch him.

  Unfortunately, she didn’t share her thoughts. He had so hoped to­day would be different—that she would let him see inside, perhaps just a glimmer of the mystery she kept hidden from the world. He wanted to know her. He wanted . . .

  Let it go, he thought. Let her go. It’s obvious she’s not interested.

  “Why should it bother me?” she asked.

  Because you suddenly look as if I’m a pirate making you walk the plank and sharks are waiting for you in the water, that’s why, he thought. He shrugged, as if it didn’t matter. Michael unfolded himself from his desk chair and stood. He stretched to ease the stiffness in his shoulders.

  “You look tired.” r />
  “It’s two in the morning.” As if he needed to remind her. “And two cars full of teenagers hit head-on yesterday afternoon. It’s been a busy night.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “So am I.” He led her to the door of his office and headed down to the cooler where the bodies were kept. Without a sound, she followed him.

  At the swinging double doors that led into the cooler, he paused, his elbow against the door ready to push his way through. He turned back and met her gaze. “When we’re through here, would you care to have a cup of coffee with me?”

  Okay, so he wasn’t quite ready to give up on her yet, even if she had turned down every offer he’d made for them to have a cup of coffee together.

  This time was no different. “No, thank you.” Her soft voice echoed off the tiled walls around them. Without another a word, she stepped ahead of him and moved into the cooler.

  Just as smoothly, he reached out and grasped her arm, stopping her in mid-step. She turned and looked at him, her expression startled, as if his touch burned her. It was nearly enough to make him let go. He didn’t. “Will you ever say yes?”

  “No.”

  She stood just inside the room, and he didn’t release her. They stood that way for a long, silent moment, then he said, “You don’t like me because I’m a pathologist, stuck down in a cold cellar where I cut on dead people, right?” He should be too tired to care why she always turned him down, but he wasn’t. She was the first woman to interest him in a very long time, and he never gave up without a fight. But, hell, as hard as she made it to move forward with her, he could have been a dentist trying to pull her teeth.

  She blinked at him, as if she didn’t understand the question. Or per­haps she didn’t have an answer. Then she blinked a second time. He stared back, feeling mesmerized. He could drown in her gorgeous blue eyes.

  “Which body is it?” she asked, ignoring his question. Her voice sounded deeper, perhaps even rougher, and definitely breathier than usual.