by Brenda Novak
“I’m not trying to get you to confess to anything.”
Chains dragging, he got up and began to circle the room like a caged panther.
“You don’t have enough humanity to give those poor families the closure they deserve,” she explained above the rattle of his movement. “I’m aware of that. I just want to let you know from the outset that you don’t fool me. I know who and what you are. And I know what you’ve done, even if you’re still denying it. So there’s no need to keep lying.”
Stopping at the plexiglass, he gnashed his teeth at her. “Then maybe you can tell me what I’m going to do to you!”
It was her turn to stand. Putting her clipboard on the utilitarian table to one side of her chair, she left her glasses there, too, since they were more for eyestrain than anything else, and approached him. Getting so close frightened her despite the barrier, the video monitoring and the handcuffs and chains. He had eyes like Jasper’s, eyes that snapped with evil intent. But she wanted nothing more than to see him get what he deserved.
“Go ahead and try, Mr. Garza,” she said. “I guarantee you will be sorry for the attempt. Stop the self-mutilation.” She didn’t care if that term was no longer politically correct, not when talking to him. “Stop the disruptions. And get used to the idea that you are here and will not be leaving, and there’s not a damn thing you can do about it.”
He banged his head against the glass and laughed when she stumbled back. “And if I don’t?”
“If you don’t”—a surge of anger gave her power—“you’ll be wearing a straightjacket for the rest of your life and drinking your food through a straw.”
“We’ll see about that,” he said.
“Yes, we will,” she responded, and buzzed for the COs to take him away.
They entered the room immediately, but Garza resisted long enough to shout, “That woman who was murdered today? She’s just the beginning. Do you hear? I will paint this fucking place red with blood. And then I’ll come for you!”
He kept yelling as they escorted him down the hall. Evelyn could hear the echo of his voice but tuned out his words. Allowing Fitzpatrick to badger her into confronting Garza had been a mistake. She’d been hoping to strike back at psychopaths in general—for Lorraine, for herself, for Garza’s wives and all the other victims of a psychopath’s violence. But every time she confronted such an individual, she felt more powerless than the time before.
She was beginning to wonder what she’d gotten herself into—and to fear that she might never get herself out.
* * *
Someone had shoveled her walks. Evelyn guessed it was Kit, the mentally challenged son—who was maybe thirty-five—of her closest neighbor. Sometimes she’d come home to find him standing in the road, staring at her house, doing nothing. If she stopped to ask if he needed something, he’d hunch in on himself and hurry off without responding. If she ignored him, he’d continue to stand there, still as a statue, as if he thought he was invisible.
Normally, the attention he paid her made her uncomfortable. But today she was grateful for his kindness. She was so bone tired she didn’t think she could have cleared the walks if her life depended on it, even to get her car into the garage so it wouldn’t be buried in snow if it stormed before morning.
The grind of gears sounded as the garage door opened and then lowered behind her, but she stayed in her car, summoning her energy. What a day. What a heartbreaking, terrible day.…
After taking a couple of minutes to regroup, she grabbed the files she’d brought home with her and her winter hat, which she’d remembered to take from the office this time, and let herself in through the mudroom.
Sigmund, her cat, was normally waiting to greet her the second she walked in. Tonight, however, he was nowhere in sight. She figured he was napping—or punishing her for neglecting him yesterday when she couldn’t get home. Fortunately, his food and water bowls were full, thanks to the refill mechanism, so she didn’t have to fret that he’d gone hungry or thirsty.
That was something to be grateful for, she supposed.
After removing her boots, she passed into the kitchen, where she peered into the refrigerator. She was hoping to find something quick and healthy to eat so she could drop into bed. But she didn’t have a lot of options. She’d left what she and Amarok hadn’t eaten of the groceries she’d bought from Quigley’s at his place, not that any of it was particularly healthy.
Just as she decided that celery with peanut butter was her best option, the phone rang. Putting the celery on the counter, she picked up the handset. “Hello?”
“You okay?” It was Amarok. She’d left him a message, wanting to know what he’d found out about Danielle.
“I think so. How’d it go today?”
“Wish I could tell you I found the rest of Lorraine Drummond, but nothing has turned up.”
Hugo’s intimation that he could’ve saved Lorraine echoed in Evelyn’s mind. She felt as if she should tell Amarok that she had a patient who pretended to possess information on the case. But she feared that would only turn Amarok’s attention back to HH.
The killer had to be a free man. That was all there was to it.
“Maybe you’ll have better luck tomorrow, when … when word spreads and more people help search.”
“My luck couldn’t get any worse than it was today.”
“You don’t think Lorraine’s ex could’ve killed her, do you? They really weren’t getting along there at the last.”
“It wasn’t Vince.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“He’s been in Texas, staying with his oldest son since the divorce. I’ve confirmed it.”
Shit. She’d been hoping Lorraine’s murder could be solved that easily. With a frown, she took the peanut butter from the cupboard. “Were you able to locate Danielle?”
“I’m afraid I’ve got bad news there, too.” The volume of his voice dimmed as if he was rubbing his face. “I got inside her place, but she wasn’t around.”
“Did it look like she’d moved out?”
“Not at all. There were dirty dishes on the counter, the remains of a meal. Her makeup, deodorant and toothbrush were in the bathroom. Clothes littered the bedroom floor. I noticed a suitcase in the closet, which she probably would’ve used if she was going anywhere for an extended stay.”
“Oh God.” Forgetting about the food she was preparing, Evelyn leaned on the counter. “What could have happened to her? Was there any sign of an abduction … maybe a forced entry?”
“None. But I did find her purse.”
Danielle would have taken her purse even if she were just making a run to the store. “Anything missing?”
“Not that I could tell. Her money, what little there was of it, was still in her wallet. I got the impression she’d had a nice dinner with someone, someone she was excited to see. And she just … disappeared from there.”
“What about”—Evelyn had to clear her throat as the dead bodies of her high school friends flashed before her eyes—“blood?”
“I used luminal as well as an alternate light source, but her duplex showed nothing that would lead me to believe anyone was seriously harmed in that space.”
She tried to imagine what could have happened but had no idea.
“I did find one thing that might turn into a good lead—or, rather, a lot of leads,” Amarok said.
“What’s that?”
“She seems to have been well acquainted with the men in these parts.”
“And you know that because…”
“I talked to her neighbor. He said she was with someone almost every night.”
“Maybe she was frightened, didn’t want to be alone.”
“It’s a bit more than that. She kept a very unusual record, one that suggests she had far more than her share of sex partners. Some days she slept with as many as six guys.”
“How is that even possible?” she asked. “For one, there aren’t a lot of people living in H
illtop. For another, she’s fairly new here. And she worked forty hours a week at Hanover House.”
“If a girl’s determined and not too picky it wouldn’t be that hard.”
“The threat of venereal disease would be enough to deter most people.”
“She must have been some kind of sex addict or something, because she’s been with well over a hundred men since she came to town.”
“Who are these men?” Evelyn asked.
“I recognize the names of those who hang out at the Moosehead, or have lived here for some time. A few are married, which isn’t going to make my visit a welcome one. But the rest … Maybe you’ll recognize them as correctional officers or other staff at HH who drive over from Anchorage.”
“Even if I don’t, I can check employee records to help figure out who they are.” She pulled a pad and pen out of a drawer. “Why don’t you give me the list?”
“Bill Huntington, Tom, Tim—”
She shook her pen; it wasn’t working. “What about Tom’s and Tim’s last names?”
“I have some with two names, some with just a first name and others with just a last name. The information isn’t always complete. But I have their dick sizes, if that helps.”
“What?”
“I guess we could put everyone in a line and measure them to be sure they all match up.”
She straightened. “Are you joking?”
“About measuring? Yeah.”
“I could tell that from the sarcasm. I mean that … that she kept track of penis sizes?”
“’Fraid not.”
She dug through the drawer but couldn’t find another pen. “Now there’s behavior I’ve never run into before. And I thought I’d seen everything.”
“I could be wrong about the notations she made, but what else could they refer to? They range from three inches—poor bastard—all the way up to eight.”
“Who’s got eight inches?” She wasn’t in a joking mood, but she couldn’t resist that one, especially since he’d started it with his “measuring” comment.
“What does it matter? I’ll make sure you get everything that you want. There’s no need for you to look anywhere else.”
She let her head fall back against the cupboard. “How can you say that after last night?”
“At least you tried.”
That made her feel a bit better about the situation. “You’re not in Danielle’s book, are you?” She was appalled by the thought but had to ask.
“No.”
“Not even once? If Danielle was obsessed with getting laid, I can’t imagine someone like you escaped her notice.”
“She came on to me a few times. But now I’m not nearly so flattered,” he added dryly.
Evelyn couldn’t help chuckling. “You turned her down?”
“Wasn’t my type.”
“I haven’t seen you with anyone since I’ve been here. So … who is your type?” She held her breath after she asked. She’d opened herself up, knew he had to understand she wanted to be his type—but she’d been so skittish with him. First she’d let him down last summer. Then today she’d told him that what they’d shared was an “isolated incident.” Had he taken her words to heart? Did he view their encounter the same way?
“Apparently, I like uptight psychiatrists.”
She smiled at his response. “Who are afraid to make love. I hate that I left you hanging. I-I really didn’t want to do that.”
“It’s fine. I’m not afraid of a challenge, Evelyn. Not if it’s our challenge.”
“Meaning…”
“We could work on it together—get past it.”
She bit her lip. Part of her, a big part, insisted it would be much smarter not to get his hopes up again. But he was the only man she’d met in such a long time who made her want to try. “You seemed pretty angry this morning.”
“Not over last night,” he clarified. “I wasn’t angry with you, anyway, if that’s what you thought. I was angry at the situation.”
“A problem you believe I brought to town.”
“What you’ll be leaving me with when you go.”
“I’m not going anywhere, Amarok, not anytime soon.”
He lowered his voice. “That’s good, because I can’t quit thinking about you.”
She didn’t know how to respond. For once, she was as frightened of rejecting someone as she was of accepting him. What if Amarok gave up on her? She didn’t want to miss out on getting to know him. “You have more confidence in me than I do.”
“Your Ho Hos are here. Why don’t you come get one?”
She smiled again, but she knew herself. She wasn’t ready to risk a repeat of the frustration they’d experienced last night. Maybe she could if that was all she was dealing with. But in the aftermath of Lorraine’s death … she didn’t have it in her to tackle her sexual problem at the same time. “Maybe another time.”
There was a long silence.
“Can you wait?” she asked.
“Yeah. I’ll be here when you’re ready.”
She hoped that was true. She missed the comfort and security she’d felt when she was with him. But she’d be fine here, with Sigmund, she told herself.
Except that Sigmund hadn’t put in an appearance yet. Where the heck was he? He was always eager for her company when she arrived home.…
Planning to look for her cat, she told Amarok to e-mail her those names, since she had no way to write them down given the dearth of pens in her kitchen. Then she hung up and stripped off her heavy coat. That was when she realized something else was wrong. It was cold in the house. And she didn’t think her alarm system had sounded its usual warning signal when she opened the door.
The power had been out for a long stretch thanks to the storm. Maybe the system hadn’t been able to rearm itself. Or it was broken. Those were plausible explanations—but she couldn’t help fearing it was something other than that.
Reclaiming the cordless phone with one hand, she got her 9mm GLOCK out of the drawer with the other. She had Mace in her purse, but after what’d been done to Lorraine she wanted to be able to use lethal force, if necessary. She wouldn’t be attacked again, not without giving her attacker one hell of a fight.
“Sigmund?” She moved slowly into the living room. “Sig, baby, where are you?”
When her cat didn’t come, her heart pounded harder. Something was wrong, all right. Part of her insisted the temperature of the house and the missing cat had to be related to the storm in some way, but she wasn’t taking any chances.
She hit the light switch in the hall. This elicited no sound, no creak or commotion. But she wasn’t sure she would hear such things. If she was about to come face-to-face with the man who’d killed Lorraine, and very likely Danielle, he’d be crouched and ready to spring.
Another uncertain step brought her almost to the entrance of her home office. Sigmund’s scratching post and other toys were in there. She hoped to find him sleeping on his mat. But before she could go any farther, she spotted her bedroom door. She always shut it when leaving for work in the morning to keep Sigmund from getting fur all over her new comforter.
That door wasn’t closed now. It stood ajar by about two feet.
Someone’s been in my house.
Her legs went to jelly; she had to reach out and brace herself. With such a sudden deluge of adrenaline, she was afraid she might slide down the wall and wind up in a heap instead of offering the resistance she’d imagined. But she managed to remain standing.
Was her visitor still around? Watching for her? Waiting?
And what had he done with Sigmund?
She felt the weight of the phone in her hand. She wanted to call Amarok, but she knew whatever was going to happen would happen before he could arrive. She’d be smarter to get out of the house. She could lock herself in her car, call him while she still had the phone within range of its base, then leave.
She turned to do that—and heard a me-e-ow.
Sigmund! He
was alive. And in her bedroom. Maybe she hadn’t latched the door tightly when she left and he’d been able to nudge it open. He was good at that kind of thing, smart. Had she gotten herself all worked up, terrified, over nothing?
It appeared that way.
She inched forward, gun at the ready, craning her neck to see as far ahead of her as possible.
Everything looked normal, exactly as she’d left it. From one vantage point, she could see the swish of her cat’s tail. Sigmund was on her bed even though he wasn’t supposed to be, but she was so relieved to find him that she didn’t care.
If someone were in the room, Sigmund wouldn’t simply be lying there.…
Still, caution prevailed. She crept through the door and scanned the outer edges of the room.
Nothing. No one.
She checked the closet, the bathroom, under the bed. Everything was as it should be.
Thank God.
Setting her gun on the dresser, she breathed a sigh of relief and turned to scoop Sigmund into her arms. His name was halfway out of her mouth when the other half froze in her throat. He was fine, but what he’d been playing with, the reason he’d been too preoccupied to come when she called, made her sick.
A human arm, cut off at the elbow, lay between the pillows. And that wasn’t all. The fingers were taped so that only the middle finger stood up.
10
I don’t lose sleep over what I have done or have nightmares about it.
—DENNIS NILSEN, MUSWELL HILL MURDERER
Evelyn woke with a start. Oh God … where was she?
Heart hammering, she blinked rapidly, trying to peel away the darkness. She wasn’t in her bed, where she’d expect to be in the middle of the night.
At first, she was convinced that she was once again in that remote shack with Jasper, the one they’d visited so many times as teenagers. The day they discovered it, it had become their special hideaway, where they’d made love for the first time, where they’d go to ditch school and wile away a lazy afternoon.
But her favorite place on earth had nearly ended up becoming her grave.
Her neck felt wet. Was her throat cut?
Fear clawed at her chest, growing in power and intensity until—
