by Leslie Wolfe
She felt something in the fabric and turned them on the other side to find some embroidery, the name Janelle in cursive silk thread. Who was Janelle, and what had happened to her? Did he grow tired of her? Did he set her free?
Was the little boy upstairs Janelle’s child?
As realization started creeping into her weary mind, she threw the panties on the floor and crawled backward until she hit the wall, as if the contact with the other woman’s garment was somehow fateful, Janelle’s cruel destiny about to engulf her.
“No, no, no,” she whimpered, shaking her head. “Oh, God, no.”
Janelle was gone, and soon she would follow, to make room for someone else.
Soon.
Twenty-Four
Ghost
Kay remembered very little from the journey back. She’d been more than happy to let Elliot drive while she mulled things over in her mind, dozing off at times, or discussed aspects of the case with him, trying to sketch a useful profile with such limited information. Back home, she’d collapsed on her bed, thinking she’d sleep until the alarm went off, but at day’s first light, she was up.
She rose and fixed a fresh pot of coffee, then took the steaming mug by her bedroom window and opened the curtains, letting the sunshine in. Taking big, throat-burning swigs, she looked at the backyard with critical eyes. The lawn was overgrown, out of control, weeds knee high, an embarrassment. The job needed to get done, whether she liked it or not.
The strong brew injected fresh energy into her weary body. Checking the time, she realized she had about an hour until Elliot picked her up. They’d discussed the case at length on the way back last night, and had agreed the best use of their time was to review the San Francisco police and the FBI’s notes on the Hendricks missing person investigation. Maybe something in those pages could give them an inkling of information that would help them find Alison and the missing children.
The thought that Alison and her daughter had spent another night in captivity forced the bile to rise in her throat. Was Matthew still alive? Had the unsub let him go somewhere, only to become lost or victim to another predator? She mumbled a long curse while putting on a pair of old, ripped jeans, then went outside to the garage, where she’d spotted the old lawn tractor. She hoped it still worked.
Opening the garage door, she kicked a few scattered pieces of junk out of the way, rusted tools; an empty, cracked bucket; a few pieces of firewood. Then she started dusting off the seat of the old tractor with a rag she’d picked up with two reluctant fingers from a nearby workbench, hoping no spider had chosen to call that rag home. Cautiously, she grabbed the tractor’s wheel and slid onto the seat, then turned the key in the ignition, instantly filling the garage with loud, sputtering pops and the smell of gasoline.
“Howdy,” she heard Elliot’s voice behind her. She turned the tractor’s key back and the sputtering engine fell silent. Glad he was early, she climbed off the seat and ran her hands against her pants, sending swirls of dust into the crisp morning air.
“You’re early,” she said, unable to contain a smile of relief. He looked fresh, as if he’d slept eight hours, not the three he’d had time for. He wore a black T-shirt, a hint too tight on his well-built torso, and white wash jeans. The way he looked at her would’ve normally made her smile widen and her eyes veer sideways, shielded by her long eyelashes. Instead, her smile waned, and her eyes met his directly.
“Could it be possible this unsub tortures and kills the women, but lets the children live?”
“Could be,” he replied, pushing the brim of his hat upward a little with his index finger. “Maybe he lets them go at some point. But then, why take them? And how many has he taken that we don’t know of?”
“They’re witnesses,” she replied, although she knew it had to be much more than that. “Maybe he let Matthew go, but he was never found,” Kay continued, sounding unconvinced. “We can’t count on that, though. We should still act as if the serial killer has Alison and the two children, and they’re all still alive.”
She stood in the garage door for a while, hesitant to invite him inside the house, where his refreshing presence collided so badly with her memories. It was as if the sadness of her past could stain him somehow, could rub against him, making her see him in a different light.
The simplest definition of insanity, she thought, turning around and beckoning him to follow. Her memories were hers only, deeply buried inside her mind. They couldn’t touch anything from her present or her future, not unless she invited them to. “There’s fresh coffee if you’d like.”
“I could help you with this lawn,” he offered, “but first we should go back to the morgue. The cadaver dogs discovered two more bodies at Silent Lake last night.”
Her step faltered. “Please don’t tell me it’s the kids,” she whispered.
“The ME doesn’t seem to think so,” he replied, grabbing an apple from the basket on her kitchen table and looking around for a knife. “They’re adult women, and they’ve been dead for a while.”
She released a breath. Maybe there was still a chance to find Alison and the kids alive.
Elliot leaned against the wall in what had become his favorite spot, over by the door, and held the apple in the air. “Knife, please?”
Taking a couple of steps to her left, she reached the knife block on the counter, then froze. All the knives were in their places, except the largest of them, the dark slit that used to shelter its blade gaping menacingly, as if it was about to reveal its secrets.
Elliot approached and reached for the smallest knife, his elbow brushing against hers and sending a shiver through her body. “May I?”
She nodded, her throat constricted and dry. Swallowing with difficulty, she stepped aside. “Sure.”
He removed the small knife and deftly cut the apple in quarters, then offered her one. She stared at the apple slice, suspended midair in the palm of his hand.
“What happened?” he asked. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Twenty-Five
Memories
Katherine had just turned thirteen, her birthday a joyless celebration rushed by her mother who’d made her a small cake that she and Jacob ate quickly before their father came home. She understood why her mother didn’t want to remind her father it was Kathy’s birthday, and she was grateful to avoid the wet smooches he would place on her cheeks and his sweaty embrace that left her body stinking of his booze.
A few days of relative peace had followed Kathy’s thirteenth birthday, each one a miracle in its own way, although Pearl and the kids didn’t know for sure a day was going to be peaceful until it ended. The fear was always there, rattling their lives and making all three jumpy, eager for the day to be over and another one to start, so they could go back to school, and Kathy’s mom to work. Where they’d be safe.
But that day was bound to be different. Her father came home from work late, already drunk and enraged. He’d celebrated a coworker’s retirement or something; there was always a reason for his drunken outings, although the overarching reason Kathy now knew well. Her father was an alcoholic.
He’d come home at about eight that night, landing heavily on the sofa, in the place where the fabric was permanently stained by his sweat, right in front of the TV, and switched on the sports channel. He barely threw a look at Pearl, who was busy cleaning the kitchen after having cooked dinner. Kathy and Jacob had been playing Go Fish on the living room table, but when their father’s truck had come to a stop in front of the house, they quickly collected their cards and found refuge in the far corner of the room, on the floor behind the armchair.
Pearl brought a plate with beef stew and set it quietly in front of Gavin, who barely acknowledged her. Then she brought a fork and a glass of water, and set those down too, before quickly withdrawing to the kitchen sink.
The kids had resumed their game, whispering quietly to each other, when their father’s heavy footsteps drew Kathy’s attention. She peeked from behin
d the armchair and saw Gavin approach her mother, then grabbing her by the hips and pulling her toward him.
“Come here, baby,” he said, his voice raspy, loaded with years of smoking cheap stuff and drinking heavily.
“Hush, Gavin, not in front of the kids,” she whispered, wiping her hands on her apron and pushing him away gently. Then she opened the fridge and took out a bottle of wine, pouring the remaining liquid in a glass she barely filled halfway. “Here you go,” she offered, and Kathy hoped her father would take the wine and sit back on the sofa to watch his game.
He gulped the wine down in one mouthful and set the glass down on the table noisily. “That’s all you can spare for your man?” he asked, his voice menacingly quiet. “That’s all I deserve after a long day at work?”
“Sorry,” Pearl whispered, shooting a quick glance at her daughter, as if to see if she was far enough from the brewing storm. “We’re out of wine, and there’s no money until Friday when you get paid.”
“And what the hell are you working for, huh? Do you ever get paid?” he shouted, and Kathy heard Jacob whimper quietly.
“Yes, Gavin,” Pearl replied, sliding out from his renewed embrace. A sense of resignation, of acceptance of the pain that was to come was seeping into her breaking voice, bringing burning tears to her daughter’s eyes. “I got paid on the fifteenth, and I paid the rent and insurance and all, then I bought food with the rest of it. There’s only so much—”
“Shut the hell up, woman,” he shouted. “You’re telling me there’s no more wine left?”
“Yes, Gavin, there’s no more wine left,” she replied, her voice strangled, looking at the floor.
Kathy needed all her willpower to not jump out of hiding and tell her father off, but she knew she couldn’t defeat him; it would only make matters worse.
“How about the cellar?”
“You drank it all,” Pearl whispered, raising her hand to shield her face, expecting a blow. Her left eye was still swollen from the last time Gavin had struck her, the bruise now yellowish, but still visible.
Her mother looked tired, drawn, her eyes surrounded by dark circles and her stare hollow, as if something inside her had broken, had been damaged beyond repair. Her gaze lit up only when she saw her children, when she spent time with the two of them. That’s when, for the briefest amount of time, Kathy felt she had a family.
“Come on, give it to me,” her father pleaded, grabbing Pearl by the neck and pinning her down against the wall, while he groped her with his other hand.
“Gavin, please, no,” she whimpered, trying to free herself from his hold.
“You must have a little bottle hidden somewhere, maybe you’re saving it for Christmas or something,” he pleaded. “It’s only two days till Friday, and I’ll buy it back for you.”
“I really don’t have anything left to drink, Gavin,” she whispered.
Her words made him instantly angry, as if her double rejection had fueled his rage, fanning the fire burning already inside him. He slammed Pearl against the wall, and she fell to the ground, seemingly too weak to withstand his attack.
Kathy jumped to her feet, and Jacob with her. They both rushed to their mother’s side, and Jacob tried to draw his father’s attention away from his mother.
“If you want, I can go ask the neighbor if he can spare a bottle for you,” the little boy offered in a slightly trembling voice.
“Uh-huh, you do that, son,” he replied, turning to stare at his daughter and licking his lips, his eyes bloodshot and lustful. “I bet this young thing won’t say no to me,” he said, his clumsy fingers struggling to get his belt buckle undone. “Kathy, pretty Kathy, my sweet Kathy, Daddy really loves you,” he said in a sing-song voice ending in a coughing spell. “Come on over here, Kathy, love your daddy back.”
Kathy stared at him with wide eyes, not sure where to run. Pearl moaned but managed to stand again, holding on to her daughter for support, then shielding her with her weakened, aching body.
“It’s your own daughter, Gavin, your own flesh and blood,” she pleaded. “Don’t you touch her.”
Gavin unzipped his pants, his mind seemingly made up, and took two steps toward Kathy, but Pearl pushed the child out of the way and stood in front of him, trembling.
“Here, take me,” she offered, undoing the top button of her shirt with hesitant fingers.
Shoving her to the side, he reached for Kathy, mumbling words that the little girl didn’t understand. Letting out a short scream, Kathy bolted and found refuge on the other side of the room, by the dresser, where she desperately looked for something to use as a weapon, fear rendering her fingers weak, trembling, useless.
Kathy turned her eyes briefly away from him, going through the drawers as quickly as she could when she heard a commotion. In the corner of her eye, she saw her mother hit her father on the head with a frying pan.
He barely flinched.
He let out a raspy roar of laughter, and then, as if incited by Pearl’s actions, he lunged toward the kitchen where she’d taken refuge by the counter and hit her hard, sending her tumbling to the ground. Then he turned and grabbed the largest knife from the block and raised his arm, ready to deliver a fatal blow.
“I will end you, scum of this earth,” he bellowed.
“No,” Kathy shouted, her hands going through the top drawer in a trembling rush and finding the pistol she knew he kept there.
Her hands shook badly, and the gun seemed heavy, too heavy for her to hold. She grabbed it with both hands, the cold metal chilling her to the bone, but then dropped it before she could take aim, the loud thud echoed by Gavin’s scornful chuckle. She grunted loudly, then, as her father’s raised blade descended on her mother’s defenseless chest, she dropped to her knees, reaching for the fallen weapon, sweat-covered palms extended as far as she could reach, sweeping in a frenzy under the table.
She fired just as Jacob had charged with his baseball bat, the bullet barely missing her little brother. Horrified, she screamed, but then saw Jacob backing away from the line of fire, the bat clattering as it fell from his hands. He was still standing, unharmed.
Her father groaned, the knife still in his hand, coming down forcefully toward Pearl’s chest.
She pulled the trigger again.
Twenty-Six
The Others
Kay was grateful to see they’d arrived at the morgue. It had been increasingly difficult to field Elliot’s questions and hide her rebel tears. She couldn’t blame the detective, though; her recent behavior would make any decent cop want to throw her into an interrogation room and push her until she unloaded all her secrets, broken, indefensible.
Or maybe not… Regardless of how jumpy and irrational she might have appeared, it didn’t warrant too much suspicion, not of a law enforcement nature, anyway. Maybe of a personal one, from a man who might’ve found her attractive, who might’ve wanted to know her better. As good a cop as Elliot was, he had no way of knowing what monsters lay hidden in her past.
Still, she flinched when he touched her elbow and asked, “Really, what was that all about?” He looked straight at her with the unyielding focus she’d seen in countless cops when asking critical questions of a suspect. He’d parked the vehicle in front of the morgue, and there was no escaping him.
“It’s nothing,” she said, her broken voice betraying her. “It’s about my mother. She, um, bought that knife block, for Christmas, a few years before I left. She got a coupon in the mail, and—” Kay let the welled-up tears flow freely, no longer preoccupied with hiding them. “It’s just that being there, in the house where she lived, where she died… I didn’t expect it would be so difficult.”
He squeezed her hand gently, the intrusiveness in his gaze softened. “I’m so sorry,” he said, his gentle words soothing, threatening to weaken her more. She inhaled sharply, reminding herself she’d just lied for the most part, and he’d probably behave entirely differently if he knew the whole truth. She couldn’t afford to let h
er guard down; not now, not ever.
“Thank you,” she whispered, then gently removed her hand from his and climbed out of the SUV. When her feet touched the asphalt, feeling the firmness of the earth supporting her and knowing she was safe from scrutiny—at least for a fleeting moment—only then did she breathe. She hadn’t realized she’d been holding air trapped in her lungs, as if letting it out would’ve risked exposing all her secrets.
She entered the morgue, the chill and fetor of the air inside sending shivers through her body and calling all her senses into high alert. All three tables in the morgue were taken, the thin, bony silhouettes on each of them covered with white sheets that seemed to glow under the fluorescent bluish lights. Seated in front of the microscope, Dr. Whitmore prepared a number of slides, and as he put one under the powerful lens, a magnified image displayed on the wall screen, colorful yet unmistakably lifeless.
“Not what you had in mind for retirement, Doc, I could bet on that,” she said, approaching the table covered in small trays and sample holders. She touched his shoulder, and he turned only briefly toward her with a hint of a smile.
“Not at all,” he replied. He put another slide under the lens, then sighed and continued, “I’d expected to be bored and have time to read the entire works of Tolstoy, followed by some Steinbeck and maybe re-read Jules Verne, my childhood favorite.” He saved a few images, then changed the slide again. “But no, there’s a sick son of a bitch out there who’s keeping me chained to the autopsy table.” He saved a few more images with mouse clicks that echoed strangely in the cold silence of the morgue, then turned to her. “Please catch the bastard, Kay. I promised my wife I’d take her to Cancun for Thanksgiving.”
