Driven to Death
by Carolyn J. Rose

EXCERPT

Chapter One

"That looks more like human sacrifice than a wedding ceremony," Casey Brandt muttered as she watched an Aztec dancer bound through the orange flames leaping from a pit in the center of the grassy courtyard.

Stu McKnight chuckled and grinned. "Human sacrifice. Your first marriage. Same things, aren’t they?"

"Pretty much," Casey agreed, studying the dancer again as he circled the fire pit. His feathered headdress rippled to the insistent drumbeat, his naked chest and thighs glistened with perspiration in the cooling October afternoon, and the rattles around his ankles chattered as if still attached to the snakes from which they’d been hacked. He seemed to have been plucked from a temple a thousand years ago, carried across time, and set down in the adobe-walled former convent on the outskirts of Albuquerque. Swaying, he raised his right foot and thrust it into the flames.

Casey gasped and Stu’s hand tightened around her fingers. "Don’t worry, babe," he whispered. "He’s done this a thousand times. He won’t get burned."

The dancer, head aloft, remained still. The drum throbbed on and the other dancers shuffled around him. His face showed a fierce pride, but no trace of pain.

On the far side of the courtyard, Barb Monroe and Neal Thompson twined their arms around each other and watched the dance of new fire in honor of their wedding.

In spite of daily vows to move on with her life, Casey once again made a mental tally of what her ex-husband had cost her: love, trust, self-esteem—not to mention time and money. Her fingers strained against Stu’s, curling into fists.

"What do you think, babe?" Stu whispered. "Want to book these guys for our aisle walk?"

Casey winced. Stu had referred to her mating debacle as her first marriage. She still preferred to think of it as her last, her only. "We’d need an asbestos carpet in the church," she pointed out, trying to deflect his question with humor.

The lead dancer drew his foot slowly from the flames and joined the other figures snaking around Neal and Barb.

"We could have it right here." Stu pressed against her back, his lips brushing her ear, sending electric sparks down her spine. "In the spring, maybe? I checked the bookings; March is wide open."

The drummer changed his rhythm and picked up the beat, pounding on the sides of the log drum, then on the bleached leather of the drum head. The dancers shuffled faster, silver bracelets flashing, beaded skirts and loincloths whipping around their legs. Casey felt herself swaying with them. She drew in a deep breath, smelling bourbon on Stu’s breath and Old Spice on his cheeks. Don’t push it, she thought. I’m not ready to marry again. I may never be ready. Just let it be.

He didn’t. "You say ‘yes’ and I’ll get you a diamond so big you can mount it on a belt buckle."

In spite of herself, she smiled at the image for the few seconds it took her practical side to compute the cost of such a stone. Stu loved to buy treats and give presents; he believed that as long as he had blank checks, he still had money. Casey doubted he had enough put away to afford a rock much bigger than a fly speck. If she wasn’t ready to commit, she certainly wasn’t ready to have him go into debt for a symbol.

A gust of wind showered golden leaves down around the dancers, and they raised their hands to the blue dome of New Mexico sky. Barb and Neal smiled at each other, and kissed slowly. Easy for you, Casey thought, you’re both so sure you want to be together for the rest of your lives, so willing to work out all those little problems, hurdle those obstacles. She realized she was frowning at her best friends, and pulled her lips into a smile.

"So, how about March? Or April? Before it gets too hot."

Casey leaned back against Stu’s broad chest and the stomach he could never quite suck in. His arms tightened around her and he kissed the top of her head, a small familiar gesture that made her feel wanted, protected. She tilted her head so he could hear over the throbbing drums. "We’re here to celebrate with Barb and Neal. It’s their day. Let’s talk about
this later, okay?"

"When later?" His voice slid up a notch. "Exactly when?"

"Ssshhh." Casey scanned the friends and co-workers ringing the courtyard. Everyone seemed to be focused on the dancers. "Just later."

"Tonight? When we get home?" His hands tightened on her shoulders.

She felt claustrophobic, felt she was being herded into a pen. Stu had come down with a full-blown case of wedding fever a week ago and cast off all his own doubts and fears. "Just later, okay?"

"No. You know what? It’s not okay." He jerked away. Casey stumbled backward, high heels sliding on the weathered stone path bordering the courtyard. She flung out
her arms for balance, smashing her knuckles against a cedar post. "Ow!" She flexed her hand and saw blood welling from a scrape.

A woman next to them gasped and a man stepped toward her. Stu didn’t seem to notice. "You say ‘later’ all the time, babe. Later isn’t coming around fast enough for me." Head down, he shouldered aside an elderly man, plowed through a gaggle of children, and left the courtyard through a shadowed archway.

People on all sides turned to look, brows furrowed with concern. Casey sucked at her knuckles and felt her cheeks burn as if she’d been slapped. From across the courtyard, Barb shot her a quizzical look and Neal raised his eyebrows. She shrugged in return and turned aside, chewing at her lower lip. Were they feeling sorry for her? Or for Stu?

The drumbeat was giving her a headache. Why couldn’t Stu understand that she wasn’t the heroine in those happily-ever-after movies he loved to rent on Friday evenings? She wasn’t ready to ride off into the sunset with a middle-aged disc jockey even if he had helped her overpower a killer before she became the fourth victim. Feeling grateful, triumphant, and lucky to be alive wasn’t enough of a foundation for spending the rest of her life with a man. Especially when he stomped off like a two year old who wasn’t getting his way.

From the corner of her eye she saw Stu emerge from another archway, slap an advertising executive on the back, give a fellow deejay a high five, and snag a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. He emptied it in a huge gulp, and took another. Turning, he stared at her, raised the glass in a slow salute, then drained it, too.

Very adult, Casey thought. Well, he could pickle himself if he wanted. Ignoring the whispers around her, she watched Barb and Neal sharing sips from a single glass and smiling at the dancers who circled before them. The drum beat louder and faster, then slowed, like a runner’s heart when the race was finished. The dancers stopped, bowed, and ran from the courtyard to a spattering of cheers and applause.

As that died out, Casey heard loud laughter echoing off the adobe walls. She turned to see Stu fling an arm around the narrow shoulders of a very thin, very blonde woman in a glittery red wisp of dress. The woman simpered up at him, tossed her hair, and offered him a sip of her champagne. Stu laughed again and knocked back the bubbly.

Oh, gag me. She’s barely old enough to vote. Casey wanted to yell the words across the courtyard, wanted to point at Stu and watch everyone turn to look. But they’d look at her, too, she realized. And they’d say she was jealous. Jealous? Hah! She was a television news director. She was smart, witty, and, with her recently streaked hair and new turquoise silk dress, not bad looking for a woman standing in the shade of forty. She turned and bolted through the nearest archway.

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