by Mary Burton
The sun hovered overhead, and an edginess rippled through her body as she looked at the collection of boxes. She turned and left her house, locked the door behind her, and drove to the Beech Street house to check on Maura’s progress. The red truck was not in the driveway.
She parked. As she looked at the house, her nerves reflexively tightened, as if an archer were drawing them back like bowstrings. Her mind shifted to the last time she was in the house alone with Clarke.
“Come into the basement,” Clarke said.
“Why?” She had made the decision to leave him and was now waiting for the right time. Had he somehow figured out she was planning to take Nate and move out?
“I want to show you something.” His wide grin softened his masculine features, and on some level her worries eased. She had been in the basement a million times before.
She went down the wooden steps, heard the door close behind her, and looked up to see her husband following. At the bottom, she saw the mattress on the floor made up with white sheets. Soft music played. Beside the makeshift bed several electric candles burned.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“I know you want to go to Hawaii, and I know I’ve been putting you off. And since we can’t get away, I thought it might be fun to create our own vacation spot.”
She looked up the stairs toward the light shining under the closed door. “Nate will be home soon.”
“Gideon has the boys.” He took her by the hand in a firm, unbreakable grip. “It’s just you and me. We have several hours all to ourselves.”
“I can’t, Clarke,” she said.
He ran one hand up her flat belly and cupped her breast. The second hand fisted her hair. “I promised you we’d get to making another baby as soon as we could. No time like the present.”
“I can’t think about that right now.” When she’d lost the baby last year, she had been shocked to realize that she had been relieved. Giving birth to Clarke’s baby would have anchored her more tightly to him. That was when she’d begun to face her unconscious fears about her husband, and she had started to think about leaving him.
He leaned over and kissed her and then the hollow of her neck. Accustomed to his touch, she did not resist. “I want you, Ann. I’ve missed you.”
She swallowed the tightness in her throat. “I can’t do this right now.”
“Why not?” He gently nibbled her neck with his teeth. “Prove to me I don’t have to worry. Prove to me you’ll never leave me.”
Tears welled in her eyes, and she allowed him to lower her to the mattress.
Avoiding this place was cowardice. She owed it to herself and Nate to make sure the house was getting a proper cleaning so it earned top dollar on the market.
She shut off the car and hurried to the front door. The worn key slid easily into the lock, and when she stepped inside, she reached automatically for the foyer light switch. A decade of muscle memory was hard to shake.
The scent of pine cleaner lingered in the air, and as she walked down the hallway and looked in each room, she could see they had been completely decluttered, the closets emptied, and the beds staged for the new buyer.
In her old bedroom, the king-size bed conjured images of Clarke sitting on the side, his shirt unbuttoned as he unlaced his boots and grinned up at her. He always smelled of smoke and cinder, but in the early days, it was sexy. Pulling off his boots, he would rise and walk toward her. His muscled frame always towered over her.
When Ann shook off the memory, her breathing was rushed and panicked. She shifted her focus to the closets, now empty and pine scented. The bathroom sparkled, better than she had ever managed when she lived here. The kitchen was also clean, the refrigerator wiped out, and the magnets, flyers, and pictures once on the outside had been stripped. All traces of humanity had been erased with garbage bags, cleaning supplies, and Maura’s yellow rubber gloves. She had done her magic and exorcised the personality from the rooms. And there was a part of Ann that would mourn this lost life.
The furniture would have to be sold, but that came later, after the house. Who knew—maybe the buyer would take some of it.
A hard knock on the front door startled Ann. She turned, heart thrumming in her throat. The oval glass cutout obscured the man on the other side, but she did not recognize him.
Fishing her cell from her purse, she readied to dial 911 for help as she opened the door. The stranger was tall and lean. He had light-brown hair tied back in a ponytail, penetrating green eyes, and an angled face covered with several days’ growth of beard. His gray T-shirt sported a deco-style logo that read RADIO surrounded by lightning bolts.
“Yes?”
“Dr. Bailey?” The deep timbre of the man’s voice hit a familiar chord.
“Who are you?” she challenged.
“My name is Paul Thompson. I’ve left you several voicemail messages.”
She recognized the name. He was the one producing the podcast. “I don’t want to talk to you, Mr. Thompson.”
“Can I come in and talk to you?”
“I said no, Mr. Thompson.”
“Please call me Paul.”
“Doesn’t matter what I call you, Paul. I’m not talking to you about my late husband.”
“I don’t want to talk about Clarke Mead,” he insisted. “I want to talk about Elijah Weston.”
“I don’t know him that well.”
“That’s not what I heard. Some say you were pretty close in college.”
“I don’t care what you’ve heard,” she said quickly. “I’m not talking to you.”
He reached in his pocket. “Let me give you my card.”
“What part of no don’t you understand?”
As if she had not spoken, he scribbled something on the back of the card. “I’ve written the name of my motel on the back. I’ll be in town a few more days getting background material and doing general research. I think it would be good for us to talk.” He held out the card for her.
He was clever. He was smooth. But she was not swayed.
When she did not take the card, he tucked it in the seam between the front door and brick wall. “Call me.”
She waited and watched until his car lights swept the house as he pulled away.
When she was certain he was gone, she snatched up the card. She was tempted to toss it, but she feared this was not the last she would see of him.
She locked the front door and jiggled the handle several times until she was convinced it was locked.
Time to find Maura, get her key back, put this house on the market, and then bury the past forever.
I hurt people, but I do not enjoy it. And like it or not, pain is unavoidable. In this case, a lesson needs to be taught.
As I sit beside the sleeping woman’s bed, I’m struck by how soundly she sleeps. I remember when I was younger, I slept that hard. But as I got older and the Need inside me grew, sleep abandoned me. Once, seven hours of sleep a night was the norm. Now it is closer to one or, if I’m lucky, two hours.
Tonight is no different. The catnap lasted all of forty-nine minutes, and my eyes popped wide open, and I was ready to go. Feeling at odds, I spent some time driving, looking for an all-night coffee place. And when I found one, I ordered a double latte with extra sugar. Images of her grew stronger until I knew I had to act.
Leaning forward now, I stare at her closed eyes, knowing her lizard brain will soon sense my presence. It is one of those evolutionary quirks. We think we have dragged ourselves out of the primordial ooze, but in reality, that lizard brain is as it was during our ancestors’ time. It’s always on the lookout for danger.
With gloved hands, I tug at her sheets, slowly pulling them off her body until I see her gray flannel nightgown covered in purple flowers. Christ, how does a grown woman end up wearing something like this?
Her nose twitches, and she reaches for the covers. When she does not find them, her eyes flutter open. She was not expecting to wake. But when those beady littl
e eyes crack, they do not see empty darkness. They see me. And I am smiling.
“Hello,” I say softly.
Alert, her eyes blink like a newly installed stoplight. She wants to clear her vision and convince herself this is a nightmare.
“No, I’m still here,” I say.
She scrambles to a sitting position, her full breasts flopping under the flannel. More blinking and then: “What do you want?”
“Not much,” I whisper.
“Don’t hurt me.”
She reminds me of my aunt who brought me the marshmallow chocolates I hate at Christmas and who always smelled of coffee and cigarettes.
“I have money,” she adds.
“Do you? How much?”
“A couple hundred dollars. It’s in my purse.”
Cash always comes in handy. “Could be of use.”
Her gaze darts to the door, as if she’s calculating an escape. “You’ll take it and leave?”
“You won’t tell the cops I was here?” I tease.
She shakes her head. “No. I swear.”
Ah, she swears. That means I’m in the clear, right?
I rise, knowing this is a mini fakeout. I love those. As I stand, she relaxes, believing after she has seen my face that I am going to take a couple hundred bucks and be on my merry way.
As she unclenches her fists a fraction, I take the moment and move quickly to grab the other pillow and press it against her face. I am on top of her like a cat, smashing the down pillow against her nose and mouth. She grabs my arms and digs fingernails into my skin. That pisses me off, and I thrust a knee into her gut twice.
Pain makes her go limp, and I press the advantage and the pillow harder, gripping her sides with my thighs.
It all takes four minutes of holding her down before I feel her energy evaporate. Finally, when she goes limp, I am breathless, and there is sweat beading between my shoulder blades.
It is not so easy to suffocate a person. It causes undue stress for both of us, and I am not happy about that. As I rise, I sense she is still breathing. “Damn it. What does it take?”
I finger the knife in my pocket as I watch for any signs of life. Her chest moves slightly. I open the knife.
Raising it above my head, I jab it hard into her chest three—no, four—times. The blood splashes my hands and stains her nightgown. When I rise off the bed, I wipe the blade on the sheets and replace it in my pocket. I will not be taking this face.
I pick up the pillow and fluff it, taking a moment to remove the imprint of her face.
My clothes are not too bloody, plus it is night. As I leave, I pause to turn the air-conditioning down to fifty degrees. Obscuring the time of death means it will be harder for the cops.
Did she die on Saturday or Sunday?
Either way, I will have an alibi.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Missoula, Montana
Saturday, August 21
9:15 p.m.
Bryce spent a couple of hours at his office calling in requests for Dana Riley’s phone and credit card records. Both would re-create her travel patterns and tell him where she had been before she died. Then it would be a matter of locating surveillance footage from the establishments she had patronized. Likely many had been erased, but he would at least have a beginning.
He parked and eased out of the car, looking for the trio of German shepherds illuminated by the porch light glow. When his mother, his brother, and he had moved onto the ranch with Pops, there had always been rescue dogs on the property. Whenever he came home from school or a rodeo event, they had raced to greet him. This new brood did not greet him, nor did they wag their tails. But on the bright side, no one was growling, and so far, they had not bitten him, which, according to Dylan, was high praise.
He passed by the dogs, who sniffed and eyed him closely, and then he went inside. Around the side of the house, the clank of dog bowls was followed by the thud of paws and then Dylan’s steady, stern voice. Shrugging off his jacket, Bryce reached in the refrigerator for two cold beers.
He found his brother standing in the center of a circle of bowls as four dogs ate. The newest was smaller than the males, but she possessed an edgy energy that hinted at a hair-trigger temper.
“The badass, Venus, has arrived,” Bryce said, handing a beer to Dylan. “How’s it going?” He loosened his tie and twisted the top off the bottle.
“As long as none of the guys get in her face, I think she’ll be fine.”
He watched Venus gobble up her food, and when she was finished, she sat and looked at Dylan. “What’s her story?” Bryce asked.
Dylan fished a treat from his pocket, gave it to her, and rubbed her between the ears. “Handler couldn’t take her. Like the rest of my pack, she was deemed damaged or high maintenance.”
He studied Venus, who was not concerned by her reputation. “Welcome to the club, Venus.”
Dylan pulled four red rings from his back pocket. He tossed one, called out a dog’s name. Each waited their turn and then gleefully chased down their rubber prey.
“I wanted to talk to you about something,” Dylan said.
“Have at it.” The cold beer tasted good.
“It’s time I became gainfully employed,” he said.
“I told you there was no rush.”
“Well, I’m like you. I need to work.” As he spoke, he retossed the rings for each dog. “I’m thinking about creating a breeding and training camp for service dogs.”
“You going to breed any of this crew?”
“Hell no. Venus is too old, and if she did produce a pup with any of these guys, I’m afraid we’d have a modern-day Cujo.”
The image prompted a grin. “I don’t suppose there’s a market for that.”
“No. But there’s a need for service dogs for retired military.”
“I say go for it.”
“Just like that? No discussion? You understand it’s going to require more than the barn renovation.”
Bryce took a long sip, trying to imagine the yap of puppies in the yard. “Do it, if it suits you.”
“I have plenty of savings,” Dylan offered.
“And I might kick in.”
Dylan eyed his brother. “I thought you wanted to get some cattle.”
“At the rate I’m going, the back fence will never be installed, and I’m not ready to tie myself to the land yet. Maybe in a decade or two.”
“If you’re really okay with this, I’ll be making calls first thing Monday to contractors.”
“I get to name the first puppy.”
Dylan grinned. “You can name the whole damn litter.”
“Will do.”
Dylan tossed a ring for each of the dogs again. “Where were you today?”
“In Helena, investigating the July murder. Took Dr. Ann Bailey with me.”
Dylan cocked his head. “Didn’t I read something about Dr. Bailey’s husband?”
“Late husband. Yeah. He was in the news last fall.”
“How’s the doc doing?”
“She’s doing well.” He took another sip of beer, wondering if he might get a chance to spend time with her that did not involve homicide. “She’s a strong woman.”
“Doesn’t she have a kid?” Dylan asked.
“Nate. He’s ten.”
“How’s he faring?”
“He’s camping with his uncle now.”
“That’s not what I mean.” He threw the rings several more times.
“According to his uncle, he’s smart enough to audit classes at the university. He’s edgy by nature and worries. But given what he’s been through, I’d say he’s doing well.”
“Any signs of his old man in him?”
Bryce frowned. “He’s a kid.”
“Jury is still out on the nature-versus-nurture match.”
“Are we talking about Nate or us?” Bryce asked.
His brother regarded him with the open honesty of blood. “You sound a little defensive.”
“Let’s face it. We both worried that we’d end up like our old man.”
“But we didn’t.”
His brother had always keyed into genetics. Their father had been a drunk and a wife beater, and witnessing violence in their home had left them both wary. Since his return to Montana, Dylan had shifted his obsession with genetics to the dogs. He knew better than anyone there were traits to encourage and ones to avoid.
“And neither will Nate. The kid has spirit, he wants to learn, and he’s willing to work,” Bryce said.
Dylan’s grin was sheepish. “And the mother? What do you think about her?”
“She’s smart. Determined. Unafraid.”
“And attractive, from what I remember.”
“Can’t fault the woman for that.”
Dylan laughed. “And you like her.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Yes, you did.” Dylan held up his hands, laughing at Bryce’s frown. “Hey, if you like her, ask her out.”
“She’s gun shy.”
Venus ran up to Dylan and dropped her ring at his feet. He flung it and watched her lean, sleek body race across the tall grass. “The best take time and patience.”
“Maybe.”
“Flowers don’t hurt, either, or so I’ve heard.”
“Thanks for the advice.”
Growling drew Dylan’s gaze to the field. A snarling Venus now had all the rings and was facing the males. Dylan broke away immediately and, speaking German, ordered them all to stand down as he put himself between the dogs. His voice raised, he commanded all to sit.
“Some take more patience than others?” Bryce goaded.
Dylan kept his gaze on Venus, who looked ready to spring into the air. “Rome wasn’t built in a day.”
It was after midnight when Ann pinned a long white piece of paper on her wall and, with a black marker, wrote out the dates of the three murders: June, July, and now August. Under each she wrote the city and then jotted down Sarah Cameron’s name under June, Dana Riley’s under July, and, beneath August, Jane Doe. She printed off pictures of the two identified victims as well as the Polaroid, then taped each under the corresponding month. Next came a collection of sticky notes with scribbled notations. Stabbing. Facial mutilation. Polaroid images. Social media posts on Sarah Cameron’s and D. Riley’s pages that appeared days after either their disappearance or death.
