by Anthony Izzo
“That’s why I don’t want to go to that hospital. There’s been disappearances there, Jill. And patients mysteriously dying. I’m sure they didn’t tell you that when they hired you.”
“It’s not exactly good PR material,” she allowed.
“Let me know if you run across anyone else like that. And if you do, stay away from them.”
“I’ll try. But one of them’s my boss so it’s kind of hard.”
It was getting easier to believe there were strange creatures living underneath human skin running around Lincoln.
But you already knew that, right? What chased you in that warehouse?
“You’re not still planning to go after Rafferty, are you?”
“I wish I could tell you I wasn’t. Jill, I joined the Rangers for more than one reason. One of the main ones was so I could learn combat techniques.”
“Well, I’m going to do my best to talk you out of it.”
“Save your breath.”
Again, a hard look of determination appeared in his eyes. It had to be awful for him, losing his whole family. When she thought about it, his desire for revenge became more understandable; the loss of her own father was incredibly painful.
“We shouldn’t say any more in here.”
“Matt, the only other people in here is that couple over there.” Jill nodded in the direction of an elderly couple, who were hunched over plates of baked ziti.
“You let me know if he bothers you,” Matt said.
“Why, so you can bash his nightstick with your face again?”
“Very funny.”
“I’m sorry, that was mean. I just hate to see you get hurt again.”
“Maybe I’ll do a Dirty Harry on him, ask him if he feels lucky. That punk.”
“I don’t see you as the Clint Eastwood type.”
“What type do you see me as?”
“The type I’d like to get to know a lot better.”
“Why don’t we take a walk when we’re done?” Matt asked.
That sounded good to her.
Donna sucked down the last of her Pepsi and the waitress arrived with the check. The bill came to four-fifty. She had initially wanted only a drink, but after seeing another customer order a slice of peanut butter pie, she had to have one. She left five-fifty on the table and walked back to the truck.
She drove back to Rhonda’s street and cruised by the house, scanning the street. Every third house had a streetlight with a broad rim over the lamp. The front windows were dark in the Victorian next to Rhonda’s, and a look down the street showed only empty lawns and porches.
She found it strange that there was nobody sitting on any of the porches or strolling down the street. It was a nice evening, despite the temperature still reading eighty degrees at eight o’clock. She expected to see people out walking or kids on bikes, but normal summer activity seemed to have ceased.
Parking the car down at the end of the street, she checked her holster, secured the Beretta in place. She straightened the blazer to conceal the weapon, though she planned on taking the garment off as soon as she was inside. Grabbing the flashlight off the seat, she got out of the car.
She strolled down the gentle curve of the street, noticing the houses were nice, but plain. No hanging baskets dangled from porches, the gardens held only dirt and weeds, and she didn’t hear so much as a radio or television from any of the homes. As she reached the house next to Rhonda’s she noted its crisp white paint job and black shutters. The wraparound porch showed only white boards and railings—no furniture.
Rhonda’s house, by contrast, was a pale pink with lavender shutters. As Donna turned up the driveway, she admired the arbor that marked the entrance to the front walk and the vines cascading over top of it. She walked up the asphalt drive until she reached the side door. Two strands of yellow police tape made an “X” across it. The front door would be the same.
She walked toward the backyard, flipped on the flashlight and shone it at the rear corner of the house, where a garden hose lay curled in a heap. She worked the light in an arc across the yard, which went back sixty or so feet and had a sturdy red maple at its center. Rhonda had loved that tree, had planted it herself. Nothing.
She turned back to face the rear of the house and saw the busted basement window. Shards of glass still rested in the dirt. A way in, she thought.
She told herself it was madness even considering entering a crime scene—and in someone else’s jurisdiction, to boot! But a member of her family was dead, and who the hell was Rafferty to keep information from her? And that shit about keeping the body so his own doctor could examine it? They’d probably erect a statue to her for uncovering Rafferty’s schemes.
She made her decision: a quick look around and then get out.
She killed the light and hunkered low against the back of the house, peered into the yard next door. Nobody over there. A blue SUV was parked outside a three-car garage. In the distance, a car with a rude muffler chugged down the street.
She flattened herself against the ground and slid her legs through the window. Inching backward, her legs now dangled and bumped the basement walls. The frame dug into her belly and she winced. When she was back as far as she could go, she dropped to the ground. Her shirt rose up and she scraped her belly against the concrete blocks.
“Dammit,” she said.
She brushed off her shirt and popped the light back on. Let the investigation begin.
Dietrich lifted his head up from the toilet bowl and flushed.
The smell of half-digested grilled cheese wafted up from the toilet. He was sweating in places he didn’t know a man could sweat. Chills racked his body as he huddled in the corner next to the toilet. If he didn’t shoot up by morning, he might die, sure as shit.
He needed some smack, and in a hurry.
The last time he had needed a bag, he’d gone to toss a big house in the Dorchester area. Of course it had gone from a burglary to a murder in no time, thanks in part to his lack of self-control.
He had chosen Rhonda Barbieri’s house because the lights were off and there were no cars parked in the long asphalt driveway. Once inside, he found the house to be silent as a pharaoh’s tomb.
Dietrich had rummaged through the house, starting in the living room. He considered boosting the television, then decided against it because it was too heavy.
He remembered reaching the bedroom and finding silk sheets on the bed, a plasma screen television with a Bose surround sound system on the wall and a black marble Jacuzzi in the adjoining bath. These folks had bucks.
He came away with two gold chains and a ruby ring that he lifted from a jewelry box and was about to leave when he had heard the low rumble of a car engine in the driveway.
Creeping over to the window, he brushed the venetian blind aside and looked out to see the tail end of a big Audi pulling into the garage. In a matter of seconds, he decided to kill the driver.
The urge to kill washed over him. He stripped off his clothes, right in the bedroom. Kicking them under the bed, he willed himself to change into his other form. It was excruciatingly painful, so he bit his lower lip to quell a groan.
After transforming, he scampered to the basement to hide, waited in the utility room and killed the woman when she came into the basement. It had been a satisfying kill, for when she tried to escape, she had panicked like a trapped animal. She had given off heat like a radiator; he could almost see the fear rising off of her in waves.
Yes, that one had been good, especially since the woman in the warehouse had gotten away from him. As he fed, he vaguely remembered Rafferty’s warning about not killing before the Harvest, but it passed through his mind like a summer breeze through the treetops.
Rafferty didn’t scare him. At least, not at that moment.
Now, as he huddled in the bathroom he remembered that his clothes were probably still in the house over in Dorchester. Using the toilet for support, he got up.
Looking in the bathroom
mirror, he saw a pasty-faced skeleton looking back at him. His eyes were sunken and hollow, with purplish bags under them, like the black stuff ballplayers smeared on their cheeks.
It was a risk going back to that house, back to the scene of his crime, but he needed his drugs. And when he needed a fix, the Great Wall of China could not stand in his way.
He turned on the faucet and reddish-brown water dribbled out, turning clear after a moment. After splashing cold water on his face and changing out of his sweat-soaked T-shirt, Dietrich left his apartment and caught the number three Metro bus. The house was only two miles away, but in his state, he knew he would never make it if he had to walk.
In less than half an hour, he would have his fix.
CHAPTER 13
With one hand, Donna trained the flashlight beam on the workbench standing against the basement wall. She took out her piece with the other.
There was a vise clamp screwed to the tabletop and a sheet of pegboard fixed to the wall that held an assortment of pliers, wrenches, screwdrivers, and hammers. Donna also noticed the cordless Makita drill she had bought Bob for his thirtieth birthday. It still looked brand new, never used.
She smelled gasoline and noticed a gas can and greasy rags on the floor, along with a box of Ohio Blue Tip matches. There were three taper candles on the bench, perhaps emergency lighting in case of a blackout. Donna shook her head at her brother’s lack of fire safety. That was an accident waiting to happen.
Stepping away from the tool bench, she shined the beam on the floor. A cluster of brownish stains dotted the floor. She scanned the walls with the light, finding them spotted with dried blood. Rhonda’s blood. What kind of monster did something like this? Rafferty had lied through his teeth. No evidence, my ass.
She turned her attention to the storage room. Brushing a cobweb out of her face, she opened the door; the smell forced her to jerk her head back. What the hell could cause such an odor?
An old yellow dresser stood against one wall, and some paint cans with crusty white paint on their sides were stacked in the middle of the room. Moving the beam back and forth, she looked around but came up with nothing except a mousetrap baited with peanut butter.
The smell in the room had become more tolerable and she inhaled deeply as if to ingrain the smell in her mind, trying to connect it with something. She couldn’t place the odor, but sulfur kept springing to mind.
The killer had hidden here and waited for Rhonda. She didn’t know how she had reached that conclusion, for there was no physical evidence to support it. She just knew the killer had been in this room.
Could it be that the killer worked in a chemical plant where they used sulfur? The nearest chemical plant was OxyChem in Niagara Falls. She made a mental note to call OxyChem.
Donna left the utility room and started up the stairs, which led directly into the kitchen. She shone the beam on the counter and illuminated a can of Diet Coke. Probably part of Rhonda’s dinner or late-night snack the day she was murdered, she mused.
After probing the kitchen, the living room and the dining room, she went upstairs to the house’s five bedrooms.
There was a weight bench and rack of chrome barbells in the first room and she thought of how her brother Bob had always been obsessed with his physique. The next room down the narrow hallway was Rhonda’s office, complete with a huge cherrywood desk and leather office chair.
The next two rooms were filled with boxes of assorted junk; there was nothing special about them.
There was one more room left at the end of the hallway, Bob and Rhonda’s bedroom. Donna pointed her beam at the door, turned the handle and entered the room.
“How’s your face feeling?” Jill asked.
“Throbbing.”
“You want to go back?” She touched his arm, concerned he might have a concussion, or that he might be in worse shape than he said.
“I’m enjoying the company too much to go home now.”
She smiled at him. “Likewise. You sure you’re all right?”
“Positive,” Matt said.
They were sitting on a bench at the corner of Delevan and Thorpe. St. Mark’s Catholic Church loomed behind them like a medieval fortress, its stained-glass windows darkened. Their bench was next to a streetlamp, and a cluster of moths dipped and zigzagged around the light.
Matt had taken her hand as they walked from Mo-rotto’s to the bench. She liked the feel of his hand around hers, strong and firm.
She had told him about the breakup with Jerry over dinner at Morotto’s, and her mother’s desire for her to study medicine at Duke or Harvard. The topic of her mother resisting Jill’s nursing career also came up in their conversation.
Suddenly she found herself liking him very much. She put her finger on his cheek, turned his head toward her and kissed him lightly on the lips. “Thank you, Matt.”
“For what?”
“For putting me at ease.”
“You can thank me again if you want.”
“Maybe later. Let’s go.”
They stood up and walked back to the truck, hand in hand.
They drove back toward Jill’s, rolling down Delevan Street with the windows open. The air ruffled her hair and the sound of the wheels hummed on the asphalt. The air should have felt refreshing, but it served only to chill her. She rolled up the window a bit and said, “What’s going on here, Matt? I mean in Lincoln. The police chief’s a psycho, I almost get killed in a warehouse, the people smell weird, and according to you, there’s monsters underneath everyone’s skin.”
“I think you just answered your own question.”
“I still don’t know about these things you’re describing. I mean, I know something terrible happened to you and I sympathize, but monsters?”
They drove in silence for a moment until Matt spoke.
“Let’s go to my aunt’s. I want to show you some things. Maybe it’ll sway you or maybe it won’t. What do you say?”
She thought about it for a moment, a little curious, wondering what he could possibly want to show her. “Why not?”
He pulled the truck into the parking lot of Lincoln Lock and Key, did a quick U-turn and pulled back onto Delevan in the opposite direction.
Five minutes later, they pulled into his aunt’s driveway. As Jill climbed out of the truck, she had to smile. She noticed the gentleman Mr. Crowe sneaking a peek at her legs.
They entered the house through the side door.
“You’ve got to meet my Aunt Bernie. She’ll love you.”
They climbed three steps and entered the kitchen, Jill noticing the wonderful smells of onion, garlic, and Parmesan cheese lingering in the air. It was a cook’s kitchen, with a huge wooden spice rack on one wall, a block of expensive-looking knives on the counter and a gleaming copper pot in the sink. A stainless steel mixer and bowl sat next to the knives.
“Your aunt likes to cook, doesn’t she?”
“She could give Wolfgang Puck a run for his money,” Matt said.
“The kitchen smells great.”
“Smells like she made her world-famous pork chops. Aunt Bernie?”
“In here!”
They entered the living room where Aunt Bernie sat in a forest-green recliner. An All in the Family rerun was on the tube and Arch was singing to Meathead. His aunt stood up and came over to Jill. She wrapped her arms around Jill and gave a squeeze. Jill inhaled the scents of cinnamon and brown sugar.
Aunt Bernie put her hands on Jill’s shoulders and took a step back, as if to admire her. “Matthew, you’re right. She is a beauty. Don’t let go of this one!”
Jill thanked her for the compliment and they made small talk, Jill and Matt telling her about dinner. Jill also told her she was a nurse, about her apartment and how long she had been living in Lincoln.
“Would you two like some peach pie?”
They both said no thanks, that they were stuffed from dinner. Jill found herself instantly liking Bernie’s warmth and friendliness, a welcome
trait in any person, but especially meaningful to Jill because her own mother was such a piranha.
Matt told her that they were going out to the loft over the garage to check out some pictures.
“You two behave out there. No hanky-panky.” Aunt Bernie pretended to be stern, wagging her finger at them. Her sleeve rode up, revealing a brown bruise on her upper arm.
Jill looked at Matt, checking for a reaction. A frown creased his brow, then disappeared.
“I’ll be a gentleman. I promise.”
Matt wished his aunt good night and he and Jill walked out to the garage and entered through the small door. They climbed a set of wooden stairs that ended at a trapdoor in the ceiling.
Matt flipped on the light switch, revealing a single bed, nightstand, a small fridge and a table with two kitchen chairs. The powder blue carpet looked plush and new. It was livable, if plain.
“Not bad. Could use a woman’s touch, though,” she said.
Matt rummaged under his bed and pulled out his suitcase, a big brown leather job.
“Did you notice the bruise on my aunt’s arm?” he said.
“Yeah, I did.”
“I’d put money on in being there courtesy of my Uncle Rex.”
“He beats her?”
“I’ve never actually seen him do it, but I’m pretty sure he does. He smacked me around when I was living here. He’s a pretty lousy drunk.”
“Mean?”
“As a junkyard dog.”
“Why did he hit you?”
Matt flopped the suitcase on to the bed. “I broke my curfew by fifteen minutes or so. After that I left. I’d had it with him. He liked to refer to me as dickhead or shithead or something equally flattering.”
“Sounds like a real sweetheart.”
“I’m keeping an eye on things. If he hurts my aunt, he’ll deal with me this time.”
This time Jill didn’t discourage his macho talk. Any man who beat a woman deserved whatever punishment came to him. It was one thing for Matt to talk about killing the town’s chief law enforcement officer, but another to defend a ninety-pound woman from an abusive husband.
