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

by Pamela Crane

  A minute later I found myself shuffled out of her house and standing aimlessly on her front porch, wondering what the hell I was going to do now. I had a scattering of hollow answers, but they were only a deluded mother’s version of watered-down events.

  People die, memories fade, and facts can become distorted by the passage of time or shaded by personal grudges and agendas. I had waited long enough to sweep aside those lies we’ve told ourselves to sleep sounder at night.

  I wanted the truth. And I didn’t care what it cost me or anyone else.

  Chapter 35

  I had wasted a precious opportunity emancipating Tina first. I cursed myself for going off-track, nearly losing my momentum. Nearly.

  As impulsive as teenagers are, they are also stubbornly predictable. The trained eye can read telltale patterns in their seemingly scattershot days and nights. Certain friends they see, girls they call, places they eat.

  Killian Alvarez always stopped by his lady friend’s house after her husband left for work. Always. At 8:35 the rich hubby left wearing his traditional gray suit and red tie—a power combo—and zoomed off in his Lexus. By 9:00 Killian pulled up in his Honda beater and did what young lovers do. New love was so passionate, wasn’t it?

  My sights had never been set on the innocent, though. I didn’t want to go through the cougar to get to the cub. So I needed a diversion. Hence, I created one.

  It took some extra planning I hadn’t anticipated, considering the target. A disguise that wouldn’t give me away—a bit more complex than a fuzzy nose and glasses. A Durham Bulls baseball cap helped to hide my face a bit, plus a cakey layer of costume makeup to contour my features. Aviator sunglasses topped it off. At least 90 percent of my face was hidden. I just hoped it was enough.

  I sat at the intersection where I knew he’d be traveling, my foot resting on the brake. I had parked far enough from the stop sign so that any other drivers would naturally veer around me, but close enough that I could see his car crest the hill in my rearview mirror. I had picked a spot free from the prying eyes of a neighborhood watch, shrouded in a copse of trees. It was a street less traveled by white-collar husbands heading into the office or minivan moms taking their kids to soccer practice.

  I heard it before I saw it—the grumble of an old muffler and rattle of loose engine parts. I hit the gas, hard.

  He never saw me coming.

  Never noticed my vehicle until it collided into the rear of his. Perhaps collided is a bit harsh. More like tapped his bumper.

  Nothing serious enough to warrant the curiosity of neighbors. My intention wasn’t to send him to the hospital. I intended to send him to the morgue.

  Naturally, the rest was an unfolding drama that would organically take its course.

  “I am so sorry.” I hopped out of my car and rushed to his door. “This was all my fault. I didn’t see you and my foot slipped …”

  He exited the clunker and inspected the damage. “Hey, hey, it’s okay. As you can see, my car needs work anyways. Your dent matches the others.”

  We both chuckled nervously—him over the shock of the accident, me with relief that he hadn’t recognized me.

  “I really appreciate you not flipping out on me.” My rehearsed accent was coming easier with each word. “This is my first fender-bender.”

  “Well, obviously I’m experienced.” He gestured at the countless scratches and dings from bumper to bumper. “Hey, uh, if it’s the same to you, I don’t have insurance, so I’d prefer to just brush this under the rug. No harm, no foul.”

  “Oh, wow, that’s really nice of you. You sure you don’t want me to pay for the damage?”

  “Absolutely. As long as you’re okay, we can be on our way.”

  “I think so. Though you look like you have a scratch on your forehead.”

  His fingers pattered across his skin, searching for the wetness of blood.

  “Here, let me help.” I moved closer, feeling his breath and smelling his minty aftershave, and I allowed myself to relish this last moment with him.

  But I couldn’t relish long. It was time.

  While my approaching hand blocked his vision, my other deftly yanked out the concealed knife from my belt sheath under my coat, and jabbed it into his stomach. His eyes widened with horror, then he flinched and groaned, grabbing as if to collect the lifeblood seeping out of him. Distracted by the blood, he simply stood there without a fight.

  The knife wedged into his abdominal tissue up to the hilt, dividing muscles and shredding skin. He swatted at me weakly, a pathetic attempt to push me away. Every moment I savored … the wheezing breaths as Death stared back at me through his eyes. Death ripped at him, dropping him to his knees. He fell prostrate, cracking his head against the pavement. Blood gushing from his open wounds stained the cement in a widening pool.

  Its simplicity had been poetic. The rhythm of his slowing breaths, the lullaby of his gurgled words caught in a mouthful of blood, the serenity of his drifting eyes, the vibrant contrast of sharp red against melancholy gray. The purest form of art—purging bleakness and embracing eternal youth in one swift blow.

  I heard a distant engine rumble closer. By now minutes had passed. I’d spent too much time already.

  I couldn’t let them connect this to Josef or Tina. After slipping on a glove I’d brought with me, I leaned over, fished in the back pocket of his jeans, emptied his wallet of credit cards and cash, then tossed the leather billfold beside his body. Robbery gone wrong, they’d conclude.

  Rushing toward my car, I pulled myself away from the delicious indulgence of watching Death envelop him, whisking him to a better place. I had never wanted him to be alone for those final breaths—the longest, loneliest goodbye—but a car could pass at any moment, a stay-at-home mom could happen by while walking the dog or pushing a stroller.

  As I watched him shrink in my rearview mirror, I felt nostalgic relief. He had turned out to be such a nice boy, despite his irreparable brokenness. I felt confident there was a special place in heaven for him.

  Though, a sad lingering thought toyed with me, taunting me as I left him behind. He had no idea who I was, what I was capable of. And I’d never get the chance to show him.

  Chapter 36

  Ari

  One day until dead

  My newly adopted bulldog cop routine didn’t mesh too well with the protective boyfriend gig that Tristan and I were experimenting with. In fifteen minutes I was supposed to outwit George Battan into confessing his crimes before handing a bag of cash over, but no matter how many times we’d rehearsed it, debated it, and settled on it, Tristan couldn’t jump on board with my involvement.

  Hell, even I couldn’t fully jump on board with it.

  I could feel a migraine coming, no thanks to drama at every turn.

  Back at my apartment, Tina nursed a broken heart after her cell phone rang with a call from the hospital explaining that her brother was in the ER in critical condition after having been robbed at knifepoint. He couldn’t accept visitors yet and was comatose from a head injury after falling—this is normal, the nurse assured Tina, after a brain injury like this. A few days of rest and he’ll probably come out of it. But her medical opinion was little consolation to a sister who had rebuffed her brother time and again, only to find him on the brink of death. The dark patches of skin under her eyes that morning were a telltale sign of guilt eating at her.

  I hated leaving her home alone to brood over her sisterly failings, but I had no choice.

  “I ran out of vacation days at work,” I had lied to her over cold coffee and stale bagels. I couldn’t tell her the truth. Not until it was over.

  So here I sat in Tristan’s unmarked car, decked in scanners and police-issue tech stuff, rehearsing a plan that could get me killed.

  What the hell was wrong with me?

  “A cop should be doing this, not you, a civilian,” he muttered while we waited in the parking lot where I was supposed to meet George. “Especially since you’re a gir
l I care about.”

  The slate sky hung low with morning drizzle, adding a gray chill that worked its way through my sweater. Dense clouds stretched across the expanse, slathering a drowsy sleep upon the damp earth below.

  I felt Tristan observing me, like the hundred-eyed Argus watching from his heavenly abode. My life had become a tragedy—or a comedy—depending on who was watching. A girl desperately searching for answers to a question that wouldn’t fix anything. Like a mouse burrowing in the ground toward its escape, only to hit the plastic confines of its cage. Nothing would free me from what happened, but I’d be damned if I didn’t try to make sense of it all.

  I wondered what Tristan felt for me now. Pity, I imagined.

  “You care about me?” I cooed.

  “Of course I care about you. Why else would I be letting you do this if I didn’t? I could get in big trouble for doing this on my own. But I know you want the satisfaction of bringing him down. I respect that.”

  “That, and I’m the only one he’ll meet with.”

  He deflected my comment with a shrug. “I just want to get it over with. You remember what you need him to admit to?”

  “Yep, let’s not go over it again, please. You’re making me nervous.”

  “You should be nervous. This is a big deal. Try to breathe, and don’t forget I’ll have eyes on you.”

  Tristan—my all-seeing eye.

  “Oh, I got you a gift.” Tristan handed me a small box wrapped in colorful happy birthday paper. “Sorry—it was the only wrapping paper I could find.”

  “Aw shucks,” I said with a smirk. “I didn’t get you anything to commemorate our first date.”

  Shaking it, I attempted to figure out if it rattled or chimed or rolled or clinked. Nothing gave it away.

  “Just open it.”

  “Pushy much?” Carefully untaping each edge, I unwrapped the package, discovering a can of mace. I looked at him, eyebrows raised in a question. “How romantic.”

  “In case you need it. That stuff is highly effective in an emergency, and it attaches to your keychain.”

  He lifted my keys out of my hand and attached the bottle.

  “Thanks … for caring.” My smile was genuine, even if mace was the last thing I would have put on my gift list.

  With my mace swinging from my pocket, I stepped out of the car and headed to the bench where we had agreed to meet. The sticky tack of tape tugged at my skin, and I fought the urge to adjust the tiny microphone clipped to my bra, abrasively chafing my breast. I had only been standing a few minutes—I was too fidgety to sit—when a black Volvo parked in front of me and a slightly built man of less than average height got out.

  With his neatly trimmed mustache and old-school Jeffrey Dahmer-parted haircut, he sure looked like a George. The wire-rimmed glasses reminded me of Dwight Shrute’s from The Office. The ideal sociopath’s eyewear. He blinked a lot, his eyes huge and owlish behind the thick lenses. His fishy pallor suggested a subhuman creature not unaccustomed to coming out in the light, which is exactly what the bastard was. Bookish and altogether unimpressive. I wasn’t afraid of him.

  Standing next to me, eyes darting to and fro warily, he kept his jaw trained forward, but I saw the nerves twitch beneath his poker face. The sweat beading on his forehead. The habitual poking of his outsize square-ish glasses up his slippery nose. The way he fingered the gold bracelet of his Rolex.

  His leg jitterbugged, as if shaking off nerves that wouldn’t let go. For a man of his reputation, it was disconcerting that he was more nervous than I was. I guess he had a lot more to lose and a lot worse to gain—like a jail sentence.

  I admit, I was surprised to see him show. I was almost certain he would have sent a minion to meet with me. He was ballsy.

  “Anxious?” I asked, flicking my gaze over him.

  “Ms. Wilburn, you assured me there would be no cops. I assume you kept your word? Because if I don’t make it safely home, Tina will never find her daughter.”

  It was hard to match his words to his threat when I recognized the smooth, eerie girlishness of his voice. I couldn’t tell if he was insinuating he knew Tristan was listening in, but I’d play blond-girl dumb.

  “No cops—as promised.” I hoped I buried the timidity of my lie under enough conviction to persuade him. “I’m guessing you’re here for this.” I patted the handbag swung securely across my shoulders.

  “Is it the amount we agreed on?”

  “You can count it if you want.”

  “I trust you wouldn’t want more problems for you or Tina—or Giana.”

  “So this means Tina is done, right?”

  “Right.”

  He reached for the bag, but I pulled it toward me. I knew this wasn’t enough to put him behind bars. I needed more.

  “No, you said you would look me in the eyes and say it. Assure me that you’ll leave her alone. No more sex trafficking, no more threats, no more debts.” I pivoted, facing him, daring him to meet my stare.

  Pushing his glasses up, he fixed his owlish eyes on me and said, “Tina’s balance is paid in full. Consider our business done.” With an outstretched arm, he flipped his hand at the money, urging me to pass it over.

  Was it enough? I had only this one shot at catching him where I needed him, and since Tristan wasn’t running toward us with his handcuffs ready, I could only assume I needed more.

  “What about her baby? Can she get her baby back?”

  George turned on me, his fish face now a shade of pink. “That was not part of the agreement. And no, I can’t get back the baby. The baby has been sold. Nonrefundable. Now if there’s nothing else, I must go.”

  Gotcha.

  I lifted the strap off and handed him the bag, my fingertips still holding on. But there was one more thing … one nagging question.

  “Wait.” I gripped the strap tighter. “I want to know why you trashed my apartment. That was you, wasn’t it? You made a mess of my place. What the hell were you looking for?”

  His face screwed into a probing question mark, and his lips curled in disgust. “You think I have nothing better to do than to break into your apartment to toss it? Sorry, darling, but you have the wrong man. Clearly you have bigger problems to worry about if you have people searching your apartment. I guess I’m not the only one with secrets.”

  After unzipping the nylon bag and peeking inside, he rifled through the wads of bills and then lifted it from my loose hands as he headed to his car.

  “It was a pleasure doing business with you,” I called after him.

  The chirp of a car alarm unlocking his door, then tires on wet concrete screaming to a stop behind his Volvo, then the clatter of brisk footfalls … A blur of chaotic activity, and suddenly the dull slam of a body … on top of mine.

  I heard a scream I didn’t recognize.

  My own.

  As my back smacked against the concrete, George circled around me, dragging me against him by my neck. A pinch bit into my jugular as he pulled me to my feet from behind, screaming, “Stay back or I slice her throat!”

  Spittle sprayed my ear and the knife twitched against me, cutting a thin line.

  It hurt like a paper cut, until the drip of blood slid down my throat under my collar.

  He was crazy and panicked enough to really kill me!

  In front of us stood Tristan, gun aimed … right at us.

  “George, you need to calm down.” Tristan’s voice was distant and calm. “Just let Ari go and we can talk about this.”

  “I’m done talking!” As George yelled the knife trembled against my flesh.

  “George,” Tristan soothed as if beckoning a child, “don’t add murder to your list of charges.”

  But George was growing more frantic. I could feel it as the blade sank deeper.

  My fingers blindly fumbled for the mace, but George’s face was pressed so close to mine that I was sure I’d end up spraying myself.

  Suddenly I remembered a little Self-Defense 101 lesson from b
ack in juvie. Forgoing the mace, I grabbed my car key, stuck it out through my fist, and jammed it backward right into George’s eyeball.

  Shoving me forward, he shrieked and clutched his eye socket, moaning in agony as his body drooped to the ground.

  I ran toward Tristan, and the next few moments passed in frenzied action like pages in a flipbook.

  The rush of activity was exhilarating as Tristan hoisted George upright and cuffed his hands behind his back, despite the obvious eyeball pain he was in. I missed the flurry of words from where I stood, catching only bits and pieces that sounded like Miranda rights while Tristan shoved him into the backseat of his car without guiding his head, which got slammed against the roof of the car.

  I crept closer to watch with fascination, and as George shrunk into the seat not more than an arm’s length from me, our eyes—or should I say eye—locked for a brief moment. I could feel the heat of his stare, I was breathing it all in, letting the relief wash over me like a cool shower on a hot day.

  “An eye for an eye, you bastard,” I seethed.

  As Tristan moved to close to door, something popped into my head. It was just a tiny thought at first, a word here and there, scuttling about in my brain. But then they bloomed into a much bigger picture. A frightening image that siphoned all my strength. Puzzle pieces were scrambling together in my mind’s eye, tying everything together in an appalling package.

  “Wait!” I called out. I glanced at George, who looked up at me through the open backseat door, unsmiling, his jaw quivering.

  “Burt Wilburn—my father—did you kill my sister to send him a message, you sick bastard?” Could it be that this man was the business associate Dad referred to?