The Art of Fear (The Little Things That Kill Series Book 1)

by Pamela Crane

  “Lookin’ good, ladies!” the driver yelled, stopping alongside our car to salute us with his Budweiser. His buddies joined in with lascivious hoots and hollers. The driver tipped his John Deere cap, gunned the engine, and peeled out in a cloud of dust, exhaust, and gravel.

  “I don’t know about you, Tina, but I’m impressed as hell,” I remarked, piloting the Focus back on the cow path, which I could barely see through the smoke.

  At last we came to the sign, riddled with gunshot pockmarks, for Gregson Road. Josef Alvarez’s house was situated at the dead end, down a long, curving gravel driveway. We hadn’t passed a neighbor’s house for probably five miles, and Josef’s place, nestled in a sea of pines and the odd hardwood, was hidden from the road. The man obviously liked his privacy.

  The house and grounds were from the Early Shithole period. A bald truck tire was marooned on the catawampus roof, and a ratty mattress leaned drunkenly against the puckering vinyl siding infested with cancerous patches of green and black mildew. Tall fescue, littered with crushed beer cans beyond count, grew in scraggly knee-high patches in the muddy yard.

  “Listen, did you hear that?” I whispered to Tina.

  “What?” she replied in alarm.

  “I thought I heard banjos playing.”

  “Ha, ha.”

  The yard’s focal point was a bottle tree unlike any I’d ever seen. These uniquely Southern curios are small trees or posts ornamented with colorful bottles. No two are alike. They can be whimsical, elegant, kitschy—the only limit is one’s imagination. Josef’s was a rotting landscape timber decorated with a willy-nilly collection of tequila and beer bottles, some broken, hanging on rusty nails. All still had the labels on them. At the top of the post sat a deer skull with twin Mexican mini-flags jutting proudly from the eye sockets.

  “I see your pop was an artist,” I observed wryly. “You know, bottle trees are supposed to ward off evil spirits.”

  “Yeah? Guess the old man’s didn’t work.”

  I parked behind Josef’s creepy white van, which would have been right at home in Silence of the Lambs. Bull thistle, dog fennel, and a butt-load of other unsightly weeds thrived among the neglected lantana bushes and canna lilies growing around the front porch, upon which sat a derelict Kelvinator fridge with the door open to reveal a half-empty twelve-pack of Pabst. We crunched up the gravel driveway to the front door.

  “Are we allowed to be here?” Tina whispered.

  “Sure, why the hell not?” I answered matter-of-factly.

  “Because it’s a crime scene, isn’t it?” she answered.

  “Not according to the police. Besides, you’re the next of kin, aren’t you?”

  Tina nodded.

  “Well, then it’s your place now.”

  The screen door groaned in agony as I opened it and tugged on the front door handle. Locked.

  “Got a key, by chance?” I asked, eyeing the lock.

  “Sorry. Didn’t think I’d ever need one.”

  “I wonder if he left any windows open,” I mused aloud.

  “Some investigators we are, showing up with no way of getting in,” Tina said, rising on tiptoes to peer through a crescentic window.

  “I didn’t say I couldn’t get in. It’d just be a hell of a lot easier with a key, that’s all.” Tugging a bobby pin from my hair, I held it up and smirked. “Voila! The enterprising gal’s lock pick.”

  Tina chuckled and rolled her eyes. “You’re a regular Veronica Mars.”

  Bending the metal pin, I jammed one straight end in the lock and twisted it until I heard a faint click. Thank you, juvie. Moments later we were skulking into the living room, where the scene of Josef Alvarez’s death lingered undisturbed. On the coffee table whisky and beer bottles, glasses, and dinnerware sat like timeless heirlooms. A hodgepodge of Mexican religious candles, oddly out of place, stood vigil on the junk store end table. The whole room gave the impression of a museum exhibit, missing only Josef’s corpse slumping on the bloodstained sofa to complete the macabre scene. But his presence was there in the general filth and the odd smell in the air that made my nostrils flare. Like pennies smelled after you’d clutched them in your sweaty palm. The coppery stink of blood.

  It was a horrific thought, dying like this, and leaving nothing behind but a shithole of a house and crusty bloodstains in the carpet as your legacy. Oh yeah, and a daughter that didn’t give a rat’s ass about you—and why should she? It was beginning to make sense to me why Josef might have lost the will to live.

  “So, what are we here for?” Tina asked.

  It was a good question, one I didn’t quite know the answer to. “Clues … about his death. Something telling us what happened.”

  “What kind of clues?”

  “If this wasn’t a suicide, there’s got to be evidence that shows how he was killed.”

  “The police have the weapon—the knife. No fingerprints but his own on it, or anything else, for that matter. What else is there to look for?”

  “Well,” I sighed heavily, knowing I was treading in water over my head. I had no idea what I was doing here, but I had to try. “Wasn’t he supposedly on medication for depression? Let’s see if we can find a prescription bottle or something from the doctor. Some kind of medical record or insurance coverage. You go through any paperwork you can find and I’ll check the bathroom cabinet.”

  “Sounds like a start,” Tina agreed.

  I ambled around the sparse two-bedroom dwelling, finding the place bare of anything but the essentials. The spare bedroom was empty except for a beanbag chair spewing its beans in the corner and a shadeless lamp on the floor.

  Josef’s bedroom was a step above this, just one though, with at least a dresser holding a lamp. His bed was a solo mattress tossed in the middle of the room with a pile of crumpled sheets spilling onto the floor. The closet’s bifold door hung open, revealing a handful of shirts hanging from a crooked metal pole haphazardly attached to the walls. I headed into the “master bath,” which consisted of a blue ceramic toilet—in whose disgusting bowl floated a Godzilla-sized palmetto bug, thankfully drowned—and a matching sink. A child-sized shower stall had been shoehorned into the cramped space. Opening the vanity above the sink, I found the personal hygiene paraphernalia of the average male: Barbasol shaving cream, Gillette Mach3 safety razor and blade refill, tweezers, nail clippers, and something unexpected: a thirty-six-count box of Trojan Ultra Thin condoms—unopened. That’s the spirit, Josef; always be prepared. But no prescription bottles, or medicine of any kind.

  Whiskers covered the sink and floor, and tufts of curly hair circled the shower drain—typical slobby bachelor. Under the sink I found a short stack of clean towels and a pile of skin mags next to the can. Well, at least the old boy had a hobby. So I headed back down the freshly vacuumed carpeted hallway toward the spare bathroom. It was completely empty, unused, except for the eye-watering odor of bleach coming from the bathtub. No hand towel, washcloths, or towels to be found. It was all I could do to refrain from writing “wash me” in the thick layer of dust on the vanity mirror, like Carli and I used to do to dirty cars when we were little. Why did I have to remember that? I felt a dark wave sweep over me and headed back to the kitchen.

  There I found Tina rummaging through the cabinets, with a stack of bills splayed out on an otherwise empty kitchen table.

  “Any luck?” I asked.

  “Nada,” Tina reported, slamming the last cabinet door shut. “Just some bills, fast-food receipts, junk mail, address book.”

  “Shit.” I picked up the address book, flipped through it, and pocketed it. I could look later for any information or contacts that might be helpful.

  “Oh, and his latest bank statements. Of course he’s dead broke—no pun intended. At least he could have left me enough to pay for the propane gas here, you know? But other than useless paperwork, nothing medical-related. You find anything?”

  “Nothing showing if he had any prescriptions or doctor bills.” I wondere
d if there was another way we could find out if he had a prescription, then I had an idea. “But I think I know how to find out his medical history.”

  Pulling out my phone, I searched for the closest pharmacy and found the name and number. If he was in their system, I’d dig until I hit pay dirt.

  A nasally pharmacist answered on the third ring, spurting a rush of words—I thought I heard pharmacy among them—I could barely decipher.

  “Hi, I was wondering if you had a prescription ready for my dad—Josef Alvarez? I was going to come pick it up in a little while.”

  “Let me see, honey. One sec. Um … I only have an expired prescription for doxycycline on record.”

  An antibiotic? “My dad’s kinda tightlipped about his ailments. Would you mind telling me exactly what that medicine’s used for?”

  “Oh, honey, it’s an antibiotic for general bacterial infections. It’s also used to treat urinary tract infections and”—the pharmacist paused for dramatic effect, and I thought I heard her snigger—“social diseases.”

  Naughty Josef. Should have used those rubbers. “Nothing else on file? Dad said his antidepressants were running low.”

  “If that’s the case, he doesn’t get them filled here. I’m not sure where else he would fill them, though. We’re the only pharmacy for miles around.”

  “Thanks. I’ll figure it out. He must have given me the wrong pharmacy information.”

  “You’re welcome, honey.”

  “Well?” Tina said when I’d hung up.

  “Looks like your saintly pop might have had an STD at some point.”

  Tina humphed. “Big surprise there.”

  “Yeah. It was most likely the right pharmacy, though, since his name and medical history were on file, but he apparently wasn’t taking anything for depression. That could only mean one thing.”

  Tina looked at me expectantly.

  “Looks like your dad was drugged,” I said.

  “Whoa, so that’s big, right?”

  “Yeah, damn right. I think it’s important enough to ask the police to follow up on. And I also came across something else that seemed … peculiar.” I tugged Tina’s hand and dragged her to follow me into the living room. “Look at that—the carpet still has vacuum lines. And get this—the spare bathtub was recently bleached clean. Look around—this place is more disgusting than a pigsty. I can’t picture your father on his hands and knees scrubbing his tub.”

  “You think the killer cleaned up after he was done?” Tina asked, one eyebrow rising with intrigue.

  “I think he washed the blood off himself after he killed your dad and then bleached to make sure there were no traces of blood. If they found blood in the tub, it wouldn’t be a suicide, would it?”

  “Makes sense,” Tina agreed.

  “And as for vacuuming, maybe that was to make sure he didn’t leave any hairs or footprints in the carpet that could be traced to him. Better safe than sorry, right?”

  Totally coincidental details.

  Pure speculation.

  But it held weight enough for me to buy murder.

  “It would seem that way.”

  I leafed through my mental catalogue of details from the scene: the pictures, the autopsy report, the suicide letter …

  The suicide letter. It had been scrawled on a yellow piece of lined notepad paper, but I hadn’t noticed any notepads lying around.

  “Hey, did you happen to come across a yellow notepad?” I asked Tina.

  “Mmm, nope.”

  If the tablet he had written his last words on wasn’t here, where could it be? Would the person who forged it have taken it to avoid leaving any DNA behind?

  “It’s just odd,” I observed. “Your dad lived like a monk—a very nasty and depraved one. No creature comforts to speak of except for that piece of shit TV. This place is at the ass-end of nowhere. The perfect spot for somebody to hide out—”

  “—until his killer managed to track him down.”

  Tina was on the right track. And I had an idea who the killer was.

  “The sex trafficker, the scumbag your father sold you to—”

  “George Battan.” Tina spoke his name as if it tasted like shit.

  “Yeah. I think we’ve been ignoring the handwriting on the wall, Tina. A man like that wouldn’t have any qualms about murdering your dad, especially since you say he was in debt to these people.”

  Tina sighed. “Maybe. But you don’t know Battan like I do. He’s a creepy child predator—and you know why he preys on kids? Because he’s a pussy. A cowardly freak. I just don’t see him being able to take my dad on.”

  “Doesn’t he have guys who work for him that could?”

  Tina rubbed her hands across her face. “Yeah, I just didn’t think they’d kill my dad over me escaping. I assumed it was someone else my father had done dirty business with. But if Battan is behind this, Ari, he’ll be coming after me next.”

  “That does it, Tina, you’re staying with me tonight. That guy could strike at any time.”

  “Don’t worry about me. I think I’ve proven I can take care of myself. And I’m not putting you in harm’s way, Ari.”

  I shook my head. “You’re a stubborn bitch, aren’t you?”

  “Takes one to know one.”

  Chapter 14

  Ari

  Ten days until dead

  It’s a frightening thing getting that unexpected call—the late-night ring that means either someone died or is about to.

  I’d never been someone’s emergency contact before. My vibrating phone jarred me up at around eleven o’clock midway through an REM cycle and a sexy dream about Tristan—banish the thought!—and yet the voice on the other end was calmly professional and polite. Not a hint of urgency to be found, but too ambiguous to be trivial.

  The vaguer the message, the worse it usually was.

  “This is Duke Hospital psychiatric care. May I speak with Ari Wilburn?” The sweet but shaky voice sounded like an elderly church lady—someone who might have been my grandma in another life.

  “Speaking,” I answered warily, waiting for the bomb to drop.

  “I’m calling because you are listed as the emergency contact for Tina Alvarez.”

  It took a dull moment before the name sunk in. I kicked myself for leaving her alone, for not forcing her to stay with me the past two nights while the specter of her trafficker hung over her head. She said she was a big girl and could take care of herself, and I was naïve enough to believe her. For all her bravado, something had pushed her over the edge.

  “Oh my God, is she okay?” I blurted before Church Lady could elaborate.

  “She attempted suicide this evening and was brought in. She’s stable, but we’d like for you to come down to speak with the doctor.”

  “I’ll be right there.” I jotted down Tina’s room number—402—scraped my hair back into a ponytail, tossed on sweatpants and a sweatshirt, and hopped out the door with one flip-flop on and the other in hand.

  **

  By the time I’d found parking at the hospital and got lost in the maze of hallways and medical wings half a dozen times, it had taken me almost twenty minutes before I tiptoed into Tina’s room, finding her lying upright in a hospital bed, her eyes closed and hands folded peacefully across her chest like … Oh, God, was she—?

  Get a grip, Ari, you morbid idiot. Her chest’s moving up and down. She’s just asleep.

  I shuffled to a stiff chair beside her bed, settling against the uncomfortable plastic, which parted in protest. Her brown eyes peeked open at me.

  “Hey,” she squeaked.

  “Hey,” I whispered.

  We sat in silence—her watching me, me waiting … for what, I wasn’t sure. For starters, an explanation of what had happened between yesterday and today that would make Tina want to cash in her chips.

  Finally I spoke. “Pills? Been there, done that. It’s no fun when they come back up.”

  “Yeah, nothing like a nurse shoving charc
oal down your throat to kill the buzz.” She smiled weakly, but my lips formed a stern line. “I’m sorry, Ari. I don’t know what else to say except that … I’m sorry.”

  It sounded sincere, felt genuinely heartfelt, but it wasn’t enough. No, if there was one thing we had agreed on, one thing that we bonded over during the car rides and lunches and one-on-one talks these past few days, it was the pain that suicide caused to those around us, those left behind. The complete and utter destruction it left in its wake. She knew this. We agreed. We’d both been there, but that was before. This was now—and now meant we learned from the before. Shit! She wasn’t allowed to hurt me like this … not this way, never!

  Yes, it was only a handful of days since we’d become fast friends, but we were intimate in that forever besties kind of way. We’d shared our secrets, silent moments, chitchat, and laughter and what I thought was a true friendship … perhaps my only taste of something real since Carli. So yes, while a week normally wouldn’t entitle one to full disclosure of someone’s innermost thoughts and feelings, in our case I felt it did.

  All I could think was how dare she?

  But all I said was a simple “Why?”

  Wordlessly, she pulled out her cell phone and pressed a couple buttons, then handed it to me. “Listen,” she ordered simply.

  I pressed my ear to the phone and heard a man speak in a cloying voice that instantly creeped me out:

  “It’s been a long time, I wanted to say hi. I admit, I was hurt when you left without saying good-bye. We had been getting along so delightfully lately, Sophia. Or should I call you Tina now? The name doesn’t become you, dear.”