Susan Andersen - Obsessed

272 Pages·2016·1.01 MB·English

by  Andersen Susan

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, reveling 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 redheaded phy-
sician 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 staircase in the early morning
chill as they emptied out her apartment, loading her possessions into Sam's truck,
Terry's van and Ivy's car. When the last swear word had faded, the last stray item
had been tucked into a free corner in one of the vehicles, they formed a convoy
and pulled out of the driveway. Their only stop was at a drive-through window at
McDonald's for coffee, and by the time they reached her new apartment,
everyone had finally started to come alive.
Ivy, Sherry and Jaz unloaded labeled boxes, the lighter pieces of furniture,
armloads of hangered clothing, and the one plant Ivy had managed not to kill.
Sam, Davis, Terry, and Sherry's husband, Ben, handled the heavier furniture.
They had to make several trips from the vehicles to the apartment and high
spirits rapidly began to replace the sleepiness with which they'd begun the day.
As was usual when they got together, their conversation rapidly degenerated into
a lot of noisy, good-natured squabbling and boisterous laughter.

Ivy's belongings were banged around with careless abandon, bounced like so
many bumper cars off walls and doorways. Her pride and joy, however, her
brand new, tapestry-upholstered hide-a-bed couch, they treated with kid gloves.
Everyone knew how long Ivy had had to save to buy it.
She stroked its rich fabric affectionately and directed Davis and Terry in its
placement, making them move it three separate times in her search for the
perfect spot to display it to its best advantage. The men set it down in the third
location with an air of finality, and exchanging a glance, flopped down on its
cushions. Ivy stood back and eyed the couch's position critically, undecided if it
looked better where it was or against the wall where they'd tried it a moment
ago. She opened her mouth, but Terry correctly read her intention and forestalled
her.

"Forget it, Ivy," he advised her with calm finality. "We aren't moving it again.
Sucker weighs a ton and it looks just fine right here."
Ivy gave him a look she had patented when she was about twelve years old.
Terry all but yawned, plainly unaffected, so she transferred it to Davis. He'd
always been an easier touch anyway.

He shifted uneasily. "Don't look at me like that. I hate it when you do that."
Terry grinned. "It's her I'm-the-cutest-puppy-in-the-pound-and-they're-gonna-
gas-me-any-minute look." He made his voice a high falsetto. "Save me, Davis.
Save me!"
Ivy wanted to laugh, but she knew she had Davis on the ropes, so she intensified
the soulfulness of her expression instead. Now if only she could dredge up a tear
or two ...
"Knock it off, Ive," Davis demanded. "I mean it. It's not gonna work; I quit
fallin' for that big-eyed look when I was about fourteen."

Sam strolled in from the kitchen clutching a pair of long-necked beer bottles in
each hand. Passing them around, he directed a smile of brotherly maliciousness
at Davis. "Wasn't that the year you decided you were gonna marry Ivy when you
both grew up?" He flopped onto the couch between his brother and cousin, and
Ivy knew she could kiss goodbye to any hope of having them move it for her
again. There had been a slim chance she might have swayed Davis, in which
case Terry might have agreed to go along with it, but Sam and Terry combined?
Not a prayer.

"Yes," Davis replied, giving his brother a sour look. "It was; thanks for remindin'
me. You broke my heart that year when you told me first cousins couldn't marry
because their babies would all turn out to be drooling idiots."

"Sam, you didn't!" Ivy sank cross-legged to the floor in front of them. She took a
sip of her beer and gave her cousin a wry, one-sided smile. A strange expression
on Terry's face momentarily caught her attention, but Sam's reply recaptured it
before she could pin down or interpret its meaning.