8 Scream for Me

by Karen Rose

  Daniel straightened abruptly. “Can you check?”

  Luke was already typing into the laptop. “Police arrested Gary Fulmore a few hours after they found Alicia’s body.” He typed again, his keystrokes rapid. “Gary Fulmore was found guilty of sexual assault and murder in the second degree the following January.”

  “It’s January now,” Daniel said. “Coincidence?”

  Luke shrugged. “That’s what you need to find out. Look, Danny, it’s pretty cut-and-dried that Simon didn’t kill that woman in Arcadia. He’s been dead himself a week.”

  “And this time I watched him die myself,” Daniel said grimly. In fact, I helped. And he was glad that he had. He’d done the world a service in ensuring Simon was dead.

  Luke’s eyes flickered in sympathy. “And they caught the man who murdered Alicia. Who knows, maybe this is Fulmore.” He pointed to the rapist in the picture. “And most important, you aren’t solving the murder of Alicia Tremaine. You’re solving the murder of the woman in the Arcadia ditch. If it was me, I wouldn’t mention the pictures just yet.”

  Viewed logically, Luke’s argument made perfect sense. Or maybe he just needed it to. Either way, Daniel blew out a sigh that was mostly relief. “Thanks. I owe you one.”

  Luke raised a brow. “For this, you owe me a lot more than one.”

  Daniel looked down at Riley, who hadn’t moved a muscle the entire time. “I took your dog and saved your sex life. That’s good for one hell of a lot, Papa.”

  “Hey, it wasn’t my fault that Denise wouldn’t live with Brandi’s dog.”

  “Which Brandi only got because of you.”

  “Brandi thought a detective should have a bloodhound.”

  Daniel rolled his eyes. “Clearly Brandi’s assets were not in her brain.”

  Luke grinned. “Nope. But in her defense, my apartment has a weight limit. A bloodhound would have been too big. We settled on Riley there.”

  “I should have given him back to you when Denise split,” Daniel grumbled.

  “Which was two years and six girlfriends ago,” Luke pointed out. “I think you’ve developed an attachment to good old Riley.”

  Which of course Daniel had. “All I know is you’d better not be feeding him any more of your mama’s food or you will get him back. Then you’ll be praying that your next girlfriend likes basset hounds and that your mama likes your girlfriend.”

  Luke’s revolving door of girlfriends was a constant source of angst for poor Mama Papa. Most of them she didn’t care for, but she had never given up hoping Luke would settle down with one of them and give her grandchildren.

  “I’ll just remind her you haven’t had a date in years,” Luke said smugly, getting up from the sofa. “She’ll be so busy finding you a nice Greek girl that she won’t have time to worry over me.” He opened the door, then turned back, his expression serious. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Daniel. Even if you’d reported those pictures ten years ago, no one could have done anything without the evidence.”

  “Thanks, man. That helps.” It really did.

  “So what are you going to do next?”

  “Now, I’m gonna walk Riley. Tomorrow, I’ll follow the evidence on the Arcadia homicide like normal. And I’m going to check out Alicia Tremaine, see if any of her family or friends remember anything. Who knows, it might turn up something. Tell Mama Papa thanks for the food.”

  Dutton, Sunday, January 28, 11:30 p.m.

  “I’m sorry I haven’t come before,” Mack murmured as he sat on the cold ground. The marble at his back was even colder. He wished he could have come here during the daytime when it was warm and sunny, but he couldn’t be seen next to her headstone. He didn’t want anyone to know he was back, because once they knew, they’d know all—and he wasn’t ready for that yet.

  But he’d needed to come to her, just once. He’d owed her so much more than he’d given her. It was his greatest regret. He’d failed her in nearly every way. And she’d died, without him by her side. It was his greatest fury.

  The last time he’d stood here had been under a blazing summer sun, three and a half years ago. He’d worn shackles and a suit that didn’t fit. They hadn’t let him out to sit at her deathbed, but they had allowed him one afternoon for her funeral.

  “One fucking afternoon,” he said quietly. “Too damn late.”

  He’d had everything stolen from him—his home, his family’s business, his freedom, and finally his mother—and all he’d been allowed was one fucking afternoon, too damn late to do anything but simmer in his rage and vow his retribution.

  Across his mother’s grave his sister-in-law had stood crying, holding one of her little boys by the hand and the other on her hip. His jaw clenched just at the thought of Annette. She’d cared for his mother in her final days while he’d been locked up like an animal, and for that he’d always be beholden. But for years his brother Jared’s wife had harbored a secret that should have been the ruin of those who’d ruined their family. For years Annette had known the truth, but she’d never said a word.

  He vividly remembered the explosion of rage when just nine days ago he’d found and read the journals she’d kept so carefully hidden. At first he’d hated her, adding her to his retribution list. But she’d cared for his mother, and one of the lessons he’d learned in his four years behind bars was the value of loyalty and the karma of a good deed done. So he’d spared Annette, allowing her to go on living her miserable little life in that miserable little house.

  Besides, she had to take care of his nephews. Their family name, such as it was, would live on through his brother’s sons.

  His own name would soon become inextricably linked to murder and revenge.

  He would exact his revenge and then disappear. How to disappear was one of the other things he’d learned in prison. Disappearing wasn’t as easy as it once was, but it still could be done, if one had the right loyal contacts, and if one was patient.

  Patience was the most important thing he’d learned while inside. If a man bided his time, a solution would become clear. Mack had bided his time for four long years. In that time he’d followed the Dutton news while he’d plotted, schemed, and studied. He’d strengthened his body and his mind. And his rage had continued to simmer and stew.

  When he’d walked through the prison’s front gates a free man one month ago, he’d known more about Dutton than any of its residents knew, but he still didn’t know how to best punish those who’d ruined his life. A bullet to their heads was too fast, too merciful. He’d wanted something painful and lasting, so he’d bided his time a little longer, lurking about town like a shadow, watching them, charting their movements, their habits, their secrets.

  And then, nine days ago, his patience had paid off. After four years of simmering, his plan had come together in minutes. Now, the curtain had risen. He was on his way.

  “There are so many things you never knew, Mama,” he said softly. “So many people you trusted who’d already betrayed you. The pillars of the town are more evil than you ever contemplated. The things they’ve done are far worse than anything I’d ever dreamed of doing.” Until now. “I wish you could see what I’m about to do. I’m about to stir up the dirt in this town, and everyone will know what they did to you and to me and even to Jared. They’ll be ruined and humiliated. And the people they love will die.”

  Today they’d found the first one, at the bike race, just as he’d planned. And the lead investigator was none other than Daniel Vartanian himself. Which added a whole new layer of meaning to the game.

  He lifted his eyes and peered through the shadows to the Vartanian family plot. The police tape was gone now and they’d filled in the grave that until nine days ago everyone had thought held the remains of Simon Vartanian. Now the Vartanian family plot had two new graves.

  “The judge and his wife are dead. The whole town came out for the double funeral on Friday afternoon, just two days ago.” The whole town, as opposed to the sad little group that had gat
hered at his mother’s graveside. Annette, her boys, the reverend, and me. And the prison guards, of course. Couldn’t forget about them. “But don’t fret. Not many came out of respect for the judge and Mrs. Vartanian. Most of them really came to gawk at Daniel and Susannah.”

  Mack, on the other hand, had watched the double service from far enough away so he could watch the whole town. They had no clue what was coming. “Daniel was back to work today.” Which had been his fondest hope. “I thought he’d take more time off.”

  He ran his hand over the blanket of grass that covered her. “I guess family means more to some people than others. I couldn’t have gone back to work so fast after your funeral. Of course, I wasn’t given the choice,” he said bitterly.

  He lifted his eyes again to the Vartanian plot. “The judge and his wife were killed by Simon. We thought he was dead, all these years. Remember, you made me and Jared come and stand by his grave. I was only ten, but you said we had to show respect for the dead. But Simon wasn’t dead. Nine days ago they dug him up and Simon wasn’t buried in Simon’s tomb. That was the day we heard Simon had killed his parents.”

  It had also been the day he’d finally figured out how to exact his revenge. The day he’d found the journals Annette had kept hidden for so long. Nine days ago had been a very good day, all in all.

  “Simon really is dead now.” It was too bad that Daniel Vartanian had beaten him to it. “But no worries, the empty grave won’t go to waste. Soon a Vartanian son will be buried in the family plot.” He smiled. “Soon, a lot of people’ll be gettin’ buried in Dutton.”

  How fast the cemetery got filled would depend on how smart Daniel Vartanian really was. If Daniel hadn’t yet linked today’s victim to Alicia Tremaine, he soon would. Add an anonymous tip to the Dutton Review and by tomorrow morning everyone in town would know what he’d done. Importantly, the ones he wanted to know, would. They’d wonder. Sweat. Fear.

  “Soon they’ll all pay.” He stood and took a last look at the headstone that bore his mother’s name. If all went well, he’d never be able to come back. “I’ll get justice for us both if it’s the last thing I do.”

  Monday, January 29, 7:15 a.m.

  “Alex. Wake up.”

  Alex opened the bedroom door at Meredith’s hiss. “No need to be quiet. We’re both awake.” She pointed to Hope, who sat at the bedroom desk, her bare feet swinging inches from the ground, her bottom lip between her teeth in concentration. “She’s coloring.” Alex sighed. “With red. I got her to eat a little cereal.”

  Meredith stayed in the doorway, dressed in her running clothes and clutching a newspaper in one hand. “Good morning, Hope. Alex, can I see you out here?”

  “Sure. I’ll be just outside the door, Hope.” But Hope gave no indication she’d heard. Alex followed Meredith into the sitting room. “When I woke up she was sitting at the desk already. I have no idea how long she’d been awake. She didn’t make a sound.”

  “I wish I didn’t have to show you this.” Meredith held out the newspaper.

  Alex took one look at the headline, then sank onto the sofa as her legs gave out. Background noise faded until all she could hear was her own pulse pounding in her ears. MURDERED WOMAN FOUND IN ARCADIA DITCH. “Oh, Mer. Oh, no.”

  Crouching, Meredith met her eyes. “It might not be Bailey.”

  Alex shook her head. “But the timing’s just right. She was found yesterday and had been dead two days.” She made herself breathe, made herself focus on the rest of the article. Please, don’t be Bailey. Be too short or too tall. Be a brunette or a redhead, just don’t be Bailey. But as she read, her pounding heart began to race. “Meredith.” She looked up, panic shooting like a geyser. “This woman was wrapped in a brown blanket.”

  Meredith grabbed the paper. “I only read the headline.” Her lips moved as she read. Then she looked up, her freckles standing out against her pale cheeks. “Her face.”

  Alex nodded numbly. “I know.” Her voice was thin. The woman’s face had been beaten beyond recognition. “Just like . . .” Just like Alicia.

  “My God.” Meredith swallowed. “She was . . .” She looked over her shoulder to where Hope sat, coloring as furiously as before. “Alex.”

  She’d been raped. Just like Alicia. “I know.” Alex stood up, willing her knees not to buckle. “I told the Dutton police something terrible had happened, but they wouldn’t listen.” She straightened her spine. “Can you stay with Hope?”

  “Of course. But where are you going?”

  She took the newspaper. “This article says the investigation is being led by Special Agent Daniel Vartanian, GBI. GBI’s the state crime bureau and they’re in Atlanta, so that’s where I’m going.” She narrowed her eyes, back in control. “And by God, this Vartanian better not even consider ignoring me now.”

  Monday, January 29, 7:50 a.m.

  He’d expected the call ever since he’d picked his paper up from his front porch this morning. Still, when the phone rang, he was angry. Angry and afraid. He snatched the receiver, his hand trembling. But he kept his voice neutral. Even a little bored. “Yeah.”

  “Did you see?” The voice on the phone was as unsteady as his own hand, but he wouldn’t allow the others to see his fear. One sign of weakness and the others would fall like dominoes, starting with the one who’d taken a stupid risk in calling him like this.

  “I’m looking at it right now.” The headline had grabbed his attention. The article had grabbed his gut and squeezed, leaving him nauseated. “It’s nothing to do with us. Say nothing and it will just go away.”

  “But if somebody starts asking questions . . .”

  “We say nothing, just like we did then. This is just some copycat. Act naturally and everything will be fine.”

  “But . . . this is really bad, man. I don’t think I can act naturally.”

  “You can and you will. This has nothing to do with us. Now stop whimpering and get to work. And don’t call me again.”

  He hung up, then read the article again. He was still angry and afraid. He wondered how he could have been so very stupid. You were just a kid. Kids make mistakes. He picked up the photo on his desk, staring into the smiling face of his wife with their two children. He wasn’t a kid any longer. He was an adult with far too much to lose.

  If one of them broke, if one of them told . . . He pushed away from his desk, went to the bathroom, and threw up. Then pulled himself together and got ready to face his day.

  Atlanta, Monday, January 29, 7:55 a.m.

  “Here. You look like you need this more than I do.”

  Daniel smelled the coffee and looked up as Chase Wharton sat on the corner of his desk. “Thanks. I’ve been looking at these missing persons printouts for an hour and I’m starting to see double.” He gulped down a swallow, then winced when bitter dregs slid down his throat. “Thanks,” he repeated, far less sincerely, and his boss chuckled.

  “Sorry. I had to clear the bottom of the pot before I made a fresh one and you really did look like you needed it.” Chase looked at the stack of printouts. “No luck?”

  “No. We got no hits on her prints. She’s been dead two days, but that doesn’t mean that’s when she disappeared. I’ve gone back two months and nobody stands out.”

  “She might not be from around here, Daniel.”

  “I know. Leigh’s requesting missing person reports from departments in a fifty-mile radius.” But so far their clerk hadn’t found anything either. “I’m hoping she’s only been gone the two days and nobody’s missed her, since it was the weekend. It’s Monday morning. Maybe somebody will report her today when she doesn’t show up for work.”

  “We’ll cross our fingers. Are you going to have an update meeting today?”

  “At six tonight. By then Dr. Berg will have done the autopsy and the lab will be finished with the crime scene.” He drew a breath. “Until then, we’ve got other problems.” From under the stack of printouts, he pulled the three pages that had been waiting for him o
n the fax machine when he’d arrived that morning.

  Chase’s face darkened. “Sonofabitch. Who took that picture? What paper is this?”

  “The guy that took the picture is the same one that wrote the article. His name is Jim Woolf and he owns the Dutton Review. You’re looking at today’s headline.”

  Chase looked startled. “Dutton? I thought this victim was found in Arcadia.”

  “She was. You might want to sit down. This could take a few minutes.”

  Chase sat. “All right. What’s going on, Daniel? Where did you get this fax?”

  “From the sheriff in Arcadia. He saw it when he stopped to get his coffee this morning. He called at six a.m. to let me know, then faxed me the article. From the angle of the picture, he’s thinking Jim Woolf was sitting in a tree watching us the whole time.”

  Daniel studied the grainy photo and his anger surged again. “Woolf has got all the details in there that I would have held back—the victim’s broken face, her being found wrapped in a brown blanket. He didn’t even have the decency to wait until they’d finished zipping her body bag. Luckily Malcolm’s blocking most of his shot.” Her body was hidden, but her feet were visible.

  Chase was grim. “How the hell did he get through your barricade?”

  “I don’t think he got through, not if he was sitting in the tree Corchran thinks. There’s no way we wouldn’t have seen him climbing that tree.”

  “So he was there before you got there.”

  Daniel nodded. “Which at a minimum means that somebody tipped him off. Worst case, it could mean he tampered with the scene before we got there.”

  “Who called this in? I mean initially?”

  “Biker in the race. He said he called 911 without ever getting off his bike. I already filed a warrant to check his cell phone records to see if he called anyone else first.”

  “Vultures,” Chase muttered. “Call this Woolf guy. Make him tell you who told him.”

  “I’ve called him four times this morning, but there’s no answer. I’ll drive to Dutton today to question him, but I’m betting he’ll hide behind the First Amendment and won’t reveal his source.”