Charlotte claps and Roger leans back in his chair, pleased. “How about some of that banana pudding, Nikki Jo? About time for dessert, I’d say.”
Petey walks Mira Brooke out to the yard. The lightning bugs flit from the grass like sparkling embers. Mira Brooke dances in excitement, her chubby bare feet sinking deep in the natural green carpet. What a blessed, near-idyllic childhood my daughter will have, growing up surrounded by this loving family.
Thomas relaxes in the waning light and wraps my waist with his arm. He whispers in my ear. “Didn’t have any idea you were marrying Buckneck royalty, did ya, Mrs. Spencer?”
I love my husband’s warm, masculine smell. As I turn to him, he flashes me one of his huge smiles that make my stomach flip. I give him a quick, soft kiss on those perfect lips.
The deep murmur of Andrew’s voice carries down the table as he’s deep in conversation with Charlotte. Meanwhile, Stella has vanished. I give her the benefit of the doubt and assume she’s helping Nikki Jo get the coffee and dessert dishes. I should be doing that myself, but I’m hypnotized by the heady, luxuriant lull of summer.
My cell phone buzzes in my pocket, breaking the spell. I extricate myself from the picnic bench and walk into the yard. “Yes?”
“Mrs. Spencer, it’s Detective Tucker. Don’t worry about getting hold of Tawny Creeden.”
“Oh, you found her? Great! Did she call you?”
“I went over to the spa tonight to check on things and keep an eye on the woods. I’m afraid I got to her too late.”
“Got to her? What do you mean? What happened?” Even as I ask, my intuition supplies the answer.
“She was killed today, by an arrow. Lowlife threw her in the excavation site…I don’t have a lot of details, but it looks like she was dragged a ways. Forensics should be able to tell us more.”
Nikki Jo emerges from the house, carrying her multi-layered banana pudding in a scalloped serving bowl. I feel like the top of my head is missing. I should have brought Tawny into the reception area, instead of having her wait in her car. I should have given her a little information so she could go back and write up a story. What if the killer locked us in the sauna so he could kill Tawny? What if she was screaming outside and we never heard her?
Detective Tucker’s voice drones on, and I miss most of what he’s saying, but I do catch “not your fault” and “I’ve called her husband.”
Thomas’ strong arms encircle me and I slump into them, dropping the phone into my pocket. I don’t even know if I hung up.
Thomas murmurs, “What’s going on, Tess?”
Nikki Jo rushes to my side. “Are you light-headed? Come on inside and sit in the study where it’s nice and quiet.”
After they walk me into the house, I drop to the couch and try to explain Tawny’s death—something that is inexplicable on every level. I feel sick for ruining such a perfect family evening. Yet part of me itches to pick up my Glock, camp out in the spa parking lot, and blow that killer to kingdom come when he comes back around.
There seems to be no way to evade this invisible rogue hunter. To turn the tables, someone has to expose him before he can strike again.
17
THE TWISTED ROOT OF Sea’s jocular attitude toward me has been exposed. She has been plotting against me. Emmett, the master guide (leader) of our commune, approached me today. Apparently Sea told him some fib that I attacked her that day we sat and talked religion. I feel stabbed in the back, betrayed. I did nothing untoward, but now I almost wish I had to warrant this venom.
How did I react, you might wonder. First of all, I walked out on Emmett. I didn’t confirm or deny the allegations against me. It is beneath me to even have to consider responding to something so inane.
I went back to my room, which I share with three other people, and packed what little I own. All I care about is saving enough to have a place of our own when you come to live with me. Please don’t fret. I will find a cheap place to live in the interim and continue saving.
Even as I packed, Sea bounced in, all shining hair and eyes. It felt like a trap, like she wanted to get me alone. I ignored her attempts at conversation and will admit I wished the earth would open and swallow her up. Conniving ingrate.
I won’t write to you until I’m settled somewhere. In the meantime, please be comforted knowing the universe will protect me, since I am one of its wisdom-bearers.
LATE IN THE NIGHT, as the box fan thrums and Thomas and Mira Brooke sleep, I formulate a plan. Today will be official Train-to-Kill-a-Killer Day on the Spencer ranch. We can shoot our pistols out on the property and rehearse proper trunk escape procedure. I’ll ask Charlotte over and Nikki Jo might join in, too. Maybe we can even serve refreshments. I want the women in my life ready if they run into this psycho. Stella will just have to operate from her own non-violent handicap, even though I’m fairly certain Andrew will participate.
Explaining the idea to Thomas takes less time than I expect, especially when I throw in the magic words: “Detective Tucker.” After all, the man did tell me to carry my gun and find out how to get out of a trunk.
Thomas is less enthusiastic with the idea of closing me in his trunk, however. We watch several YouTube videos on escape techniques and I figure I’ll be doing great if I can keep my wits about me in the tight space. Mira Brooke cavorts around the living room with her dollies while I discover how to kick rear brake lights out.
By afternoon, we have all assembled at the range, a dirt bunker out in one of Roger’s fields. Nikki Jo finally agreed to join us, as long as we let her bring along lemonade and sandwiches. Nikki Jo’s primary aversion to guns is that they mess with her manicures. Despite that, my blondie mother-in-law is a deadeye shooter, putting even Thomas and Andrew’s skills to the test.
Charlotte hugs me when she arrives, her camo pants looking more vogue than utilitarian. “You okay?”
“I’m going to be. We’re going to get ready for whatever comes next.”
“I hope that doesn’t include your returning to that spa, girl. Hey, where’s my little peach today?”
“Stella agreed to keep Mira Brooke up at the big house. You know Andrew couldn’t resist coming along for some bloodsport.”
Charlotte gives a throaty laugh. “Those two don’t seem…well-matched.”
“Andrew and his girlfriends rarely do.”
She nods. Thomas walks our way. The combination of the Smith & Wesson hitched in his belt holster, faded jeans, and masculine stubble add up to something irresistible. I give him a kiss.
“You two,” Charlotte says, grinning. She walks over to chat with Nikki Jo, diverting Andrew from his gun preparations in the back of Roger’s truck. Roger begins to set up targets with Petey.
We take turns shooting, youngest to oldest. Petey is also a crack shot, and he loves shooting Thomas’ .45. Charlotte borrows my Glock, because she still doesn’t have her own gun, much to everyone’s chagrin.
“What if this killer stalks women?” Andrew asks her, his stubble beard grown out a day or two beyond Thomas’. He wears his beloved Birkenstocks and green surfer shorts, topped by an incongruous Jurassic Park T-shirt he might have had when he was a teen. He’d be hard to take seriously if that Spencer-dude air of aristocracy didn’t cling to him. “I mean, what if he watches women? You’re right there in the middle of town, in that big old house. Wouldn’t be hard to break in. You know what I mean. You’re noticeable. You need to be extra careful, Charlotte.”
Roger, Thomas, and Petey all chime in with suggestions as to how Charlotte can watch her back. Nikki Jo starts setting up the ham and cheese sandwiches. She already out-shot all of us, hitting the bulls-eye nearly every time.
After a couple more rounds of shooting, we sit down to eat. Nikki Jo, Roger, and Petey return to the big house to get Mira Brooke down for her nap. Charlotte and I need to try our hand at trunk escape, and Thomas’ 1980 Volvo fits the bill. No pop-up safety latches with that baby.
The fact we’re going through with
this is a testament to how safe we feel with these guys. Knowing my fear of small spaces, Charlotte volunteers to try it first. Thankfully, the Volvo has a spacious trunk, given her long legs. She folds into the cavernous black space and Thomas gently shuts the lid.
She’s supposed to search for ways to get out and then bang on the lid twice when she feels like she’s found them. After a few muffled thuds and metallic clinks, she pounds the lid and Thomas opens it. Andrew offers his hand, gallantly helping her climb out.
I give her a hug. “So? What was it like?” I need to know.
“First of all, it was brighter than I thought,” she says. “Sunlight filtered in through the cracks and the brake lights. I think kicking into the light cavities would be no problem. But this all hinges on one thing: I would have to have my hands and feet free. Is that how they were, Tess?”
Everyone looks to me, and I don’t even want to speculate. Mostly likely the women’s legs and arms weren’t bound, because they were probably dead before they were placed in the trunk. I don’t want to go there in my mind. We’re focusing on live-kidnap escape methods.
Andrew seems to sense the morbid reason for my silence. “Tess, what about this. We could tie you up and see if you can—”
“Not on your life,” Thomas interrupts.
“Wait,” I say. “This could happen, to me or to Charlotte or even to your mom. We need to be prepared. Duct tape my hands and feet.”
Thomas looks sullen as a scolded child. I stick to my guns, determined to override his reticence. “Do it.”
After a brief stand-off, Thomas reluctantly pulls the roll of tape from his tool kit. Charlotte looks desperate. “Let me go in there, Tess. You don’t have to do this.”
I think of Dani’s spider story. There was more than a kernel of truth in it. To get past this claustrophobia, I need to make myself overcome it—to crush it. I have to keep a level head if the serial killer gets his hands on me. “This is actually one thing I have to do. Now stop coddling me and let’s get on with it.”
I put my arms behind my back. Thomas slowly wraps a strip around my wrists, then stops abruptly. “I can’t.”
Charlotte takes over, gingerly wrapping my wrists and ankles. As Thomas and Andrew hoist me into the trunk, Andrew jokes, “Good thing you’re a lightweight shortie, Tess.”
Thomas shoots him a death glare. Charlotte’s warm amber gaze speaks louder than words, but she closes the trunk.
Blackness. No air. Only glimmers of light. No way out.
I force myself to breathe evenly, despite the sweat that quickly dampens my shirt. I face the trunk opening, hands behind me. The brake lights are slightly backlit by sunlight. I think I could kick out a light from this position. I tentatively push toward one with my boots. Sure enough, I could dislodge or break it and shove my feet out.
I stretch my arms back. Even with their limited range, I could grope around for items to use for weapons. If I twisted around, I could kick into the back seat. Anything to make driving difficult for the kidnapper, they say.
Things are looking hopeful, as long as I’m conscious when I go into the trunk. I could do this. I force myself to take a couple more deep, measured breaths, then kick the trunk twice.
It opens immediately, three shadows hovering just beyond. Thomas has his knife ready and cuts the duct tape, then hoists me out. He looks more apologetic than I’ve ever seen him. “I don’t like seeing you like that…helpless, like when you were in labor with Mira Brooke.”
“It all turns out fine in the end.” I smile. “I love you all. Thank you for being here while I did that. Now we’re ready to roll.”
18
SO SORRY IT’S BEEN five months since I’ve written. Much has happened in that time, much I can’t really explain. Suffice it to say, I’m still working at Woolworth’s and I have a place to live. Just send your letters to this P.O. address.
I was sorry to hear of your mother’s strange disappearance. Thank you for letting me know, although I’m not sure why you asked if I knew anything about it. I haven’t contacted your mother for months and I certainly wouldn’t seek her out willingly. It is odd that she left, given that she’s not a real self-starter. I thought she’d stay in that house forever, nursing the hopes of reuniting with you and trying to forge a “family” of us again.
I’ve discovered I have a new skill: acting. Every time Julie reprimands me, I become penitent, groveling loudly like a jilted lover. It’s appalling, but it’s impressive how quickly it shuts her flapping mouth because it highlights what an oppressor she is. I did this one day when the store owner came to visit. I stayed late just to watch him haul Julie into the office to be reprimanded. I’m not above assisting karma so I watch it play out in this lifetime.
ON SUNDAY THE SPENCER clan attends church. Stella deigns to make an appearance, astonishingly clad in a tube-top and fitted short skirt. Nikki Jo makes a point of putting as much distance as possible between herself and Stella on our pew.
Mira Brooke loves the nursery and nearly jumps out of my arms every time I drop her off. She’s the kind of child who loves variation from routine and embraces new people. I lean on the top of the nursery’s Dutch door, watching her glossy curls bob toward the toy box, her fluffy green dress cushioning her when she tumbles back into a sitting position. She grips the doll she’s plundered and pulls herself up to investigate again. Intrepid little sweetie.
Last year was the first time I’d returned to church since I was a kid. Since then, I’ve attended two women’s Bible studies with Nikki Jo and learned more than I ever thought I could. It’s like my eyes are opened and nearly every time I read the Bible now, it speaks to me. Thomas is excited with my change of heart toward all things spiritual and I am too. I had pretty much written Jesus off after my childhood and college experiences, but as it turns out, Jesus never wrote me off.
AFTER A HUGE MEAL AT Nikki Jo’s, Thomas and I bow out for naptime—Mira Brooke’s and ours. There is something positively tranquilizing about Sundays after church.
But before we leave, the doorbell rings, launching Thor into a burst of manic barking. Roger, still wearing his blue striped oxford-cloth shirt, bow tie, and penny loafers, strides over to open the door. Low voices murmur, then Roger returns to the dining room.
“Detective Tucker is here to see you, Tess.”
Nikki Jo cranes her neck, trying to get a glimpse of her childhood friend. Unable to see around the dining room wall, she gives up that tactic and plows ahead of me, hand outstretched, to the front door.
“Zeke! Fancy meeting you here! Law…I haven’t seen you in a coon’s age!”
Detective Tucker loses his usual commanding vibe. “Nikki Jo,” he says. “You haven’t changed a bit.”
“Why, thank you. How’s Tilly? And your children?”
“All fine, thank you kindly for asking.”
Silence falls over the two of them. I feel like there’s more back-story here, but it’s none of my beeswax.
“Come on in for coffee and pie?” Nikki Jo offers.
“I’d love to, but I really need to get back. Just needed to talk with your girl here.”
Once again, I love how I’m lumped right in with the Spencers as if I’ve been one of them all my life.
“Of course, sure thing. You tell Tilly I said hello.” Nikki Jo pats my arm and returns to the dining room. Wild yelps ricochet from upstairs and I’m sure Petey’s holding Thor back from making a mad dash outside. I walk out on the porch and sit in a rocker, unable to think what to say.
“It’s not your fault.” Detective Tucker reads my mind. “Mrs. Creeden was determined to get the scoop and who knows, she might have nosed around the wrong person. Reason I’m here is that she did work up a story for The Buckneck Daily and we found it on her computer. Guess who she’d been talking to that very day she disappeared? Mr. Byron Woods.”
“What? What could he know? He was just a hanger-on, doing computer repairs at the spa.”
“Apparently, he was
watching and taking notes…meaning he stumbled onto the fresh body that morning and told Tawny about it. He was also particularly interested in why you didn’t want him seeing the crime scene.”
“Insinuating I was somehow involved? How dare he?”
“The article had some other interesting ideas, but it wasn’t complete yet. For one thing, Mrs. Creeden was snooping around the truck stop bathroom. She thought she’d figured out how the killer took Melody Carroll—our motorcyclist victim.”
Melody. Tawny. Was there something about the names the killer liked? Probably a long shot.
“Detective Tucker, do you have a list of names of all the victims?”
“Yes, happy to get that to you. Why?”
“Off the top of your head, do you know if their names all ended in ‘y’?”
He shifts in his chair. “No. Not as I recall. So far the only connection is that three of the earliest victims were from California, so the killer might have lived there in the late eighties, when the first killing occurred. But how the bodies wound up across the country, I’d love to know. And outside those first three, the rest came from the Midwest, the South…all over the place. The only victim from West Virginia is Tawny Creeden, so I have to believe she somehow got too close.”
I’m still ticked that both Tawny and Byron were aware of the dead body that morning at the spa, but they acted oblivious about it. “Have you checked her computer history, like what she was Googling, that kind of thing?”
“No, but I’ll get right on that and let you know. Like I told you earlier, our resources are stretched pretty thin.”
Trial by Twelve Page 9
