by Alex Kava
CHAPTER 23
Luc Racine fumbled with the tangle of keys he found in his pocket. Scrapple waited impatiently, staring at the door as if that might help open it. He knew the terrier was upset with him. He had ducked several attempts Luc had made to pet him.
“I’m not gonna have you eating people, okay?” he told the dog for the third time. “Even if they are dead already.” Only now Scrapple ignored him—not a flinch, not even a perk of an ear, no indication that he was listening—and he continued to stare at the door.
Luc would make it up to him. Surely there was something in the refrigerator besides sour milk. He sorted through the keys again, trying to concentrate, trying to remember. He used to be able to pull out the house key automatically without a second thought. These days it seemed to take all his deductive reasoning, or at least, all that remained.
Then as if in a sudden flash he remembered. He grabbed at the doorknob and smiled when it turned easily. He had stopped locking the door, afraid he would eventually forget to take the keys and lock himself out. Relief washed over him, so much so that he could feel a chill. It was becoming a typical response, his body reacting, first with surprise and disappointment then relief that the mind could still participate.
Losing his memory wouldn’t be so bad if he didn’t know it was happening. That was the worst part. Laboring over shoestrings, unsuccessfully looping worthless knots and all the while knowing that tying his shoes was once something he did without a thought, let alone without a struggle. Learning to tie your shoes. How hard could that be? Easy enough for a five-year-old. Easy. Right. Only now Luc Racine wore slip-on loafers.
But forgetting Jules’s name. That was unforgivable. How could he have forgotten? He could hear what Julia would say to that, “You never forget the fucking dog’s name, but you can’t remember your own daughter’s.”
The house was cold, as if a window had been left open. Summer was certainly over. He didn’t need to see the flaming red of the turning oak leaves. He could feel it in the evening chill, hear it after dark in the chirp of crickets.
He stopped in the middle of the living room. He stopped and looked slowly around. Something didn’t feel right. It wasn’t like last night when he couldn’t recognize anything. No, something felt out of place. A clammy shiver swept through him. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise.
Coming back from the quarry he had gotten the same chill. He had followed the footpath, watching his feet so he wouldn’t trip over the protruding rocks hidden in the tall grass. All the way back it felt like someone had been watching him. Not just Watermeier or one of the others making sure he left, but someone watching. Watching and following. He had heard twigs snap behind him. Thought it was his imagination, but Scrapple heard it, too, growling once, then putting his tail between his legs, his ears back and hurrying home. He barely waited for Luc, only slowing because the wuss of a dog counted on Luc as his protector. There was something wrong with that. Something backward. Weren’t dogs instinctively supposed to be protective of their masters?
Now Luc checked around his own living room, looking for signs that he wasn’t alone. He looked out the windows, checking for anyone hiding in the trees. His only assurance was that Scrapple seemed content, stretched out on his favorite rug. Luc hurried to the front door, turned the dead bolt, then made sure the kitchen door was bolted, too. It was probably all in his imagination, although he couldn’t remember reading a thing about the disease causing hallucinations or paranoia. But then, how the hell would he remember reading about it when he couldn’t remember his own daughter’s name?
He shook his head, disgusted with himself. He stopped to check the meager possibilities for dinner, opening the refrigerator. There had to be something he and Scrapple could eat. He stared at the top shelf.
A twinge of panic rushed through him again. What the hell? Calm down, he told himself. It was nothing. Nothing at all. Nothing but his own stupid forgetfulness. And he grabbed the TV remote from the top shelf of the refrigerator.
“I’ve been looking all over the place for this.”
CHAPTER 24
Henry told O’Dell she could follow him to the morgue. She probably thought he was being considerate. He really just wanted her beside him when they walked out of the quarry together, when the media piranhas attacked. He already knew Stolz wouldn’t be any help. The M.E. seemed to have an allergic reaction to reporters and was long gone.
“So tell me, Agent O’Dell, from what you’ve seen, any ideas who I need to start looking for? And you can spare me the basics.”
“The basics?”
“Yeah, white male, twenty-something recluse whose mama abused him so now he doesn’t know how to respond to a woman except with violence.”
“How does Steve Earlman’s mutilation fit into that profile?”
Damn! He’d forgotten about Steve, didn’t even want to think about poor Steve.
“Okay, so let’s hear your basics on this one.”
“It’s too soon to give you a physical description, except that yes, he is most likely a white male in his twenties or maybe early thirties. He drives an SUV or pickup or has access to one. He probably lives alone on an acreage outside of the city, but he lives within fifty miles of this quarry.”
Henry glanced down at her, trying not to show his surprise or that he was impressed.
“This is all premature,” she continued without him prompting her, “but just from looking at the place he chose to dump the bodies says a lot about him. Most serial killers leave their victims out in the open, some even display their handiwork. It’s part of their ritual or, in some cases, part of their thrill to see others shocked by what they’re capable of doing. This guy goes through a lot of trouble to hide the bodies. He didn’t want them found. I’m wondering if he might even be embarrassed about what he’s done. Because of that, I’m guessing he has a paranoid delusional personality, which means he’ll feel threatened by us discovering his hiding place. He’ll think we’re out to get him, and it might make him do something irrational.”
“In other words, he might screw up, and we’ll be able to catch him?”
“He might panic and kill someone he thinks is out to destroy him. In other words, a panic kill. Yes, that could mean he screws up and leaves something behind for us to use to catch him, but it also means someone else could be killed.”
“Not at all what I wanted to hear, O’Dell,” Henry said, almost wishing he hadn’t asked. He already had the governor up his ass. What the hell would happen if this madman started killing again? Jesus! He hadn’t even thought of that.
As they got to the road, Henry noticed that the state patrol had arrived, two fresh officers to relieve Trotter and set up guard posts for the night. Earlier Randal Graham, the governor’s gopher, had offered the local National Guard. All Henry could think of at the time was that the locals would panic if they started seeing the fucking National Guard moving in. This was bad enough. He didn’t need to draw more attention.
“Sheriff Watermeier—” the media mongrels began the barrage as soon as he and O’Dell were in earshot “—what’s going on?”
“How many bodies are there?”
“Is it true a serial killer is on the loose?”
“When will the victims’ names be released?”
“How long has this been going on?”
“Hold on a minute.” Watermeier raised one hand and stopped O’Dell with his other by gently taking hold of her arm. She shot him a look, part surprise and part irritation, just enough for him to know that this was not in her plans. He didn’t care. What he did care about was retiring in a community that respected him. And that community damn well better think he was doing everything he could to protect it.
“I can’t tell you any details, except to say that yes, there are fifty-five-gallon drums, sealed barrels that have been buried under some rock,” he told them, slowing his words so that no one had an excuse to misquote him. “And yes, some of those barrels do h
ave bodies inside. That’s all I can say about that right now. But I will tell you that we have everything under control. We have experts on the scene collecting evidence and we have—”
“But what about the killer, Sheriff?” someone from the back yelled, interrupting him. “You have a serial killer on the loose. What are you doing about that, Sheriff?”
Jesus! These assholes were hell-bent on starting a panic. Henry tucked his hat lower over his brow, as if to ward off further blows and hopefully to let them know he couldn’t be goaded into their hysteria.
“We’re working on that,” he lied. It was only the second day. How the hell was he supposed to have a list of suspects already? “That’s why we have Special Agent Maggie O’Dell here.” He gave her a slight shove forward. “She’s a criminal profiler with the FBI, up here from Quantico, Virginia. Her specialty is catching guys like this. So you see we’ve got the very best working on our team. That’s all for now.”
This time he grabbed O’Dell’s arm to lead her out of the crowd, Officer Trotter clearing a path for them.
“Have you brought in any suspects yet, Sheriff?”
“When will you give us more information? Like a profile of the killer?”
“That’s it, folks. That’s all I have for today.” He waved a hand at them and continued to plow through, shoving the cameras aside when they refused to move.
As soon as they were across the road, O’Dell wrenched her arm from his hold and without a word marched to her Ford Escort. He didn’t care if she was pissed. Tomorrow she would probably be long gone. All she wanted was to find her precious missing person, and there was a good chance the woman was waiting for them in the morgue.
CHAPTER 25
Maggie waited, gloved hands at her sides, while Dr. Stolz unzipped the body bag. She was used to participating in autopsies. Her forensic and medical background had prepared her for doing everything from helping place the body block to taking fluid samples to weighing organs. But she knew when not to participate, too, and this was one of those times. Dr. Stolz had made that clear. So she waited, alongside Sheriff Henry Watermeier, still angry with him for blindsiding her, but anxious to have this trip over and done with.
She was trying to be patient despite her anger and her urge to help. She wanted to help clean the woman’s chest wound so they could see the incision, the puncture marks, the rips and tears. There had to be multiple ones to have caused such an eruption.
Stolz must have sensed her restlessness when he said, “The chest wound is not the cause of death. Not as far as I can tell from my preliminary exam.” He began parting the long tangled hair, his gloved fingers carefully splitting dried, bloody clumps to reveal a large crescent-shaped wound to the side of the corpse’s head. “I’m betting this is what knocked her lights out for good.”
“There was an awful lot of blood in the chest area,” Maggie said, trying not to contradict the doctor. “Are you sure she wasn’t just knocked unconscious?”
Stolz looked at Sheriff Watermeier and pursed his thin lips as if showing him that he was purposely refraining from what he’d like to say. Then he began sponging the woman’s chest, cleaning the wound, the mess. “If he started cutting her immediately after he killed her, there would still be a boatload of blood. Especially here in the chest where there’s some major gushers. And he cut deep. May have even punctured the heart.”
“Wait a minute. Deep wounds sound like fatal wounds,” Watermeier said, which drew a scowl from Stolz.
“Not stab wounds.” The medical examiner lifted skin he had just cleaned. “She’s cut open. Nothing pretty about this handiwork, though. At least not as precise and detailed as with Mr. Earlman.”
“What did he remove?” Watermeier asked before Maggie got the chance.
“I’ll show you.” Dr. Stolz began opening the wound with one hand and with the other flushed the wound with the sprayer hose attached to the side of the stainless steel table. “My first guess would have been the heart, maybe a lung. You know, stuff like the usual crazies take. But this one sort of defies anything I’ve ever seen.”
With the wound now washed clean, Stolz pressed the mangled skin to the side and moved back for Watermeier and Maggie to take a closer look.
Watermeier stared, scratching his head, puzzled and not recognizing the scarred tissue. But Maggie knew immediately. And without getting out the photo Gwen had given her, Maggie also knew that this was not Joan Begley.
“I don’t understand,” Watermeier finally said, looking from Maggie to Stolz and realizing he was the only one in the dark.
“This woman must have been a breast cancer survivor,” Stolz explained. “The killer took her breast implants.”
Maggie had already prepared herself, had already planned what she would say to Gwen when she called with the news that her patient had been murdered. She should have felt relief. But for some reason she felt beginning panic instead. If Joan Begley wasn’t dead, where the hell was she?
CHAPTER 26
Joan Begley woke to the sound of doves cooing. Or at least that was what it sounded like through the spiderweb in her brain. Her eyes felt matted at the lashes, stuck down with webs. Her mouth was cotton dry. But the cooing reminded her of summer mornings, waking up at Granny’s dairy farm outside of Wallingford, Connecticut. A distant humming lulled her in and out of sleep. The breeze over her head felt and smelled like dew-laced grass, the fresh air wafting in from the meadow. Along with the breeze and the cooing came a feeling of contentment.
A click startled her awake. A click and then a low rumble of a motor coming to life. She sat up, her eyes flying open, her arms straining. It was the leather wrist restraints that renewed the panic, that brought her back to reality. Or rather brought her back to her nightmare.
She stared down at the restraints clamping her to the bed rails, and for a brief moment she thought she might be in a hospital. Had he taken her to a hospital? The room was dimly lit, darkness filled the huge windows. She looked around the area and could see walls made of sturdy timber, rafters of the same, more windows with thick glass, none of which were open. The breeze she had dreamed of was only the ventilation fan above the bed, the hum of a chest freezer in the corner. It looked like she was in a cabin or converted shed. As frightened as she was she had to admit this place had a warm and almost cozy feeling, despite the smell of disinfectant laced with, of all things, the scent of lilac.
Where in the world had he taken her? And why?
She looked around again, her vision still blurred, distorting the items on the shelves, elongating and swirling them like something out of a van Gogh painting. Maybe she was hallucinating. Yes, maybe this was all a dream, a nightmare.
She tried to think through the cobwebs in her brain. She needed to stay calm. No good would come from panic. And she didn’t seem to have any energy left. She couldn’t allow the panic to take control of her again, to exhaust her. Last night…or was it days ago? How could she be sure? He had drugged her. Asked in his polite tone that she drink a bottle of some concoction.
“It won’t hurt,” he had promised her in that little-boy voice that she had once found endearing. “It tastes like cough syrup.”
But when she refused, she remembered how he grabbed her, shoving her into a headlock. She had been surprised by his strength, by his frenzy, by his…his madness. He had forced the liquid down her throat despite her clawing at him, despite her kicking and coughing and gagging. Yes, he had become a madman, totally out of control. Someone she didn’t recognize, and certainly not the Sonny she thought she had gotten to know.
She began to cry, thinking about it. Why had he done this? Why had he brought her here? What did he intend to do with her? If she screamed would anyone hear her?
She looked around the room again. The door was certainly bolted even if she could escape her restraints. Now she noticed that there were leather bindings attaching her ankles to the bed rails, as well. She couldn’t focus on that. She wouldn’t panic. She would ta
lk to him. Yes, they would talk. Where was he? Had he left her? What in the world did he intend to do with her? She knew he hadn’t sexually assaulted her. If that wasn’t what he wanted, then what was it?
As if trying to find the answer, she began examining the room. There were shelves with jars of all sizes, crocks with metal-clasp lids, plastic containers, bottles and gallon glass containers. Close to her bed was a table with a lighted aquarium, illuminated jellyfish floating along the surface. On the other side was another table with what looked like bowls made of bits and pieces of shells.
There were pictures on the wall. Black-and-white photos of a boy and his parents. She couldn’t tell if the boy was Sonny. This was definitely someone’s work space or hideaway. There was no need to feel frightened, she tried to convince herself. She could talk to Sonny. Yes, talk and see what he wanted from her.
She lay back down, feeling better. The pillows were so soft. He had gone to some trouble to make her comfortable, despite whatever drug he had forced down her. But even the drug had simply made her sleepy. No headache, no hangover. She would just wait. Eventually he would come in and they would talk. She could feel herself relaxing. That was when she saw the shelf above her head.
She bolted up in bed, straining against the leather and twisting to get a better view, making herself look despite a fresh panic and the urge to flee. On the shelf above her were three skulls, hollow eye sockets staring out at her.
Oh, dear God! Why? What was this place?
She tried to focus on what was in the jars across the room, but it was too far to see anything more than blobs. Then she stared at the jellyfish in the aquarium next to the bed. They were transparent, illuminated from the backlighting, floating on the surface. There was nothing else in the aquarium. No little rocks at the bottom, none of the colorful greenery. She pulled herself closer for a better look. Did jellyfish always float on the surface like that?
