Winter Song (Seasons Pass Book 1)

by Susan C. Muller

  Conner’s voice brought him back to the present. “He wouldn’t have parked in front of your house. We should check for a couple of blocks around.”

  “True, but we’ll wait till Monday. I don’t want to warn him we’re coming.”

  After he hung up with Conner, Noah heated a can of tomato soup and drank it from a cup while standing at the back door. The setting sun gave the sky and any remaining patches of ice a rosy pink glow, which contrasted uncomfortably with his black thoughts.

  Keeping his partner out of the way while he tracked down this killer would be tricky, but he’d made his decision. It couldn’t be handled any other way. He refused to risk having any dirt blow-back on Conner. Not with Jeannie and a baby to take care of. At the very least, he had to know he was safe in his own home.

  His bedroom was a mess, so he went into the guest room and stretched out on top of the covers. He set the alarm for eleven-thirty. That would give him almost five hours. Sleep came immediately.

  When the alarm rang, he was ready. He set his bedroom just as it had been: with the bathroom light on, but the door closed. He pulled the curtain on the back wall tight, leaving the room slightly darker. In the garage, he opened the attic and reconnected the hose.

  Crawling into the attic was more difficult this time because he already knew how tight the space was. He pushed the box of unused Christmas decorations ahead of him as he crawled to a far corner and stretched out. The box wouldn’t stop a gun shot, but it might hide him.

  He was perfectly positioned over the garage. He would hear if anyone came in. He could see both the attic opening and the vent into his room. If the light was switched on or the bathroom door opened, he would know immediately. His Glock dug into his hip and he pulled it out and sighted it where a head might pop up at the top of the attic stairs.

  The slats in the air vent were narrow, so he reached over and pried them apart. He tested the opening with his gun barrel. A perfect fit. The shot would be tricky, but doable.

  No need to waste time identifying myself or to shout a warning. Anyone creeping around my house this time of night is up to no good. Just line up and shoot, then worry about the consequences later.

  The driver had fantasized about that unrecognizable scar on the cop’s chest all afternoon. He’d managed to jerk-off a couple times that night, but it wasn’t as satisfying as it should have been. He needed to know. Had someone else tried to kill the cop? Had he succeeded where a lesser man failed? And where was that person now; in jail or dead?

  Ooh, that was a thought. Had the cop actually killed anyone? Did they have that in common? He lay in bed, wondering, while he tried to coax some life back into his tired dick. Watching the cop die should have been good for three pops at least.

  Nope, wasn’t happening again tonight, not even with the heated K-Y jelly. Neither was sleep. He stood and paced the room, visions of a thin line just out of reach.

  Fuck this. He threw on a jacket and some shoes and headed toward the parking lot. His car started on the first try. Must be a good omen.

  No point in waiting for the heat to kick in, he’d be halfway there by the time it started working. His glasses fogged over and he cleaned them before he buckled his seatbelt. He drove with care, as he always did. Tickets left a paper trail.

  Twenty-five minutes later, he was circling his old neighborhood. His house was dark and he’d swear he could hear his father snoring inside. He had a key. He should slip in the back door and help himself to half the contents on his mother’s wallet. She’d think his father did it, and never say a word. Not this time, but it might be fun sometime in the future.

  Maybe he should snag one of his father’s beers. That would drive the old man crazy. He chuckled as he circled again.

  Nothing stirred at the cop’s house. No lights, no sign of any activity. There had been no mention of his death on the news, but that was to be expected. He lived alone. It was possible no one had missed him yet.

  He came to the spot where he’d parked before and pulled to the curb. It would be easy to slip inside, see what the mark on his shoulder was. Maybe take another memento.

  Noah did a series of push-ups every half hour to keep limber. The night was much warmer than the previous one, but after two hours in the attic, the cold began to seep into his bones. Why didn’t I take the time to put on socks?

  He had thought to bring a water bottle, and he took an occasional sip. But mostly he remained still and remembered. He thought back over every hour, every minute, of his three years with Betsy. He’d always known it wouldn’t last. That’s why he’d rushed into the marriage.

  Sooner or later, she would have seen through him. Seen the blackness in his soul. But while he’d been with her, she’d washed him clean. If angels walked the earth, she was his.

  When he stepped in the door at night, she kissed him and all the ugliness of the day flew away. He became like any other husband; laughing, eating dinner, watching TV. Making love.

  Without her, he was afraid the blackness would take over again. So far, memories of her had kept it at bay, but his decision to take out this guy–no trial, no jury–showed he was slipping.

  Finally, his mind took him where he had refused to allow it to go even once over the past months. The place he thought he’d sealed off permanently. To that last morning, the last minutes of the Before in his life.

  Betsy had read that the first pee of the day was the most accurate. She sat in the bathroom, giggling, while he paced nervously in front of the door.

  “Would you stop that? You’re giving me a case of bashful bladder. I can’t always do this on demand you know.” She turned on the faucet, either to help get things flowing, or to camouflage the sound. He never knew which.

  Then they sat together, on the edge of the bed, watching the white plastic stick, as the pale blue plus sign appeared in the little window. His breath caught in his throat. God had forgiven him for the sins of his past. He had allowed Noah to give Betsy the one thing she wanted most in the world.

  Betsy squealed, “We did it, we did it, we did it,” and threw her arms around him. Noah fell back on the bed, pulling her with him. Soon, he was lost in her softness, her warmth.

  She laughed again and tugged on his hand that had somehow managed to slide under her gown. “Not now, honey. I have to be at work in thirty minutes.”

  He had teased her nipple slightly. Just the way she liked it. “You don’t have an exact time today. It’s an in-service day. The kids don’t even start until next week. You can slip in the side door and old Mrs. Clemmons will never know what time you got there.”

  He felt a shiver run down Betsy’s spine and knew he had her. He pulled the gown over her head and began trailing kisses down her neck and across her throat until he reached that spot where he could feel her pulse racing, the spot that seemed made to fit his lips. Soon neither one of them could have stopped if Mrs. Clemmons had been standing in the room, watching.

  And that was it. The last time he saw her, the last time he kissed her, the last time he would make love. Ever. The last moments of the Before. And it was his own fault. He’d caused her to be late. If she’d left on time, she would have been safely parked at school when that sleepy son-of-a-bitch speeding down the freeway had lost control of his car. But no, he’d been selfish and horny and she’d paid the price.

  Now he lived in the After. At least he didn’t have to worry about being horny. That part of him was as dead as his soul. No little tingles at the sight of a sexy woman, no early morning wake-up calls from dreams he couldn’t remember. As if it didn’t exist. And that was fine with him.

  Until the day Laurel Bledsoe took his hand and held it while she checked his bites for signs of infection. Whoa, where did that come from? He tried to push the thought aside, but he could still feel the softness of her hand on his and the tingle it sent straight up his arm and then on down south.

  He didn’t have time to wonder what that meant before a sound snapped him back to reality. He
closed his eyes and strained to hear.

  A car drove slowly past and he checked his watch. Two-fifteen. He filed the sound away. Older car, loose muffler, needs a tune up. Ten minutes later, the same car drove past again.

  He did three quick push-ups, flexed his fingers, and held his Glock steady.

  The driver’s foot had just hit the pavement when a light flicked on across the street. He jerked back and slammed the car door. Probably an old fart taking a piss, but using the same spot was foolish. Best to move to another street.

  The ignition dragged and groaned and didn’t turn over on the first try. His second try was more successful but by then his heart hammered and his hands shook.

  How could he have been so reckless? He’d let his emotions override his intellect. The one thing he had sworn never to do. He needed to remember this moment, how frightened he was. Nothing like a near miss to teach an unforgettable lesson.

  The cop was gone. The dog was gone. That thought made him smile. Soon the witness and the client would be gone. A few more jobs and he’d get rid of the shooter. No links, no chain. Start over with a more dependable partner or work alone.

  He followed all traffic laws back to his room.

  Noah squinted at the luminescent dial of his watch. Four-forty. The killer wouldn’t come this late. The neighborhood would be waking up soon. He untied the hose and nailed the air vent in place.

  Crawling slowly out of the attic, his knee caps became a circle of pain with each move. The cold air and hard, cramped position had left his body so stiff he had trouble navigating the stairs.

  One good yank brought the orange hose tumbling down. He didn’t bother disconnecting it from the yellow one, but dragged them over the damp grass to the trash pile. I might still need hoses, but not these two. In fact, he didn’t want them sitting there staring at him, reminding him of the decision he’d be making next October. If he prepared now, it meant he’d already decided.

  Twenty minutes in a shower so hot his skin pickled and the room fogged over, loosened his muscles and warmed his bones. He gathered the soiled bedspread and dropped it by the dry cleaner’s before stopping at Denny’s.

  The moment he pushed the restaurant door open, the smell of bacon and coffee enveloped him. His stomach immediately sent him a message. “Feed me, feed me,” it cried.

  A short stack of pancakes, two eggs over easy, bacon and sausage with wheat toast revived him. He wiped the plate with the last corner of toast and sat back. How long had it been since he’d enjoyed a meal? Even tasted what he ate?

  Driving through rush-hour traffic into downtown, Noah realized that the swelling had gone down in his hand. Gripping the steering wheel caused only a slight twinge of discomfort. Good, he might need that hand soon. Depending on what he learned today, some SOB might be enjoying his last few breaths. He smiled and took the stairs six floors to his office.

  He’d settled in his chair by seven and had already finished off his first cup of vending machine coffee when Conner arrived at seven-twenty, carrying two Starbucks cups and a manila folder.

  “I stopped by and picked up the reports from the techno geeks. They gave us five possibles on the dark car from the night of the murder, and three on the white car from the week before.” He plopped the folder and one coffee in front of Noah, then snagged his chair and rolled it next to him.

  Noah drummed a pen on his desk. “Eight cars in eight different parts of town that aren’t going to be at that address when we get there.” He pulled the Starbucks closer in hopes the aroma would help erase the vile taste of the vending machine brew.

  “This guy is seventy-six years old.” Conner tapped a finger next to one name. “Although he might have a son or grandson driving around shooting people, let’s put him at the end of the list. Same with this lady. She’s sixty-eight. Possible, but not likely. These three live close together. We can knock them off in no time. Other than that, well, we might as well just get to it.”

  Noah dropped the pen into his drawer and pushed his chair back. Time to find that housebreaking scum. Twelve years experience. All he needed to do was look the suspects in the eyes and the hairs on the back of his neck would tell him when he’d found the right guy. If Conner pinged on the same one, fine. If not, Conner was on his own. This was personal.

  Checking out a pool car and driving across town ate up an hour of the morning. No one responded for several minutes at the first house. Noah rang the bell again and knocked harder until a voice answered from somewhere in the back. When the owner opened the door, Noah could smell the booze before he introduced himself.

  The woman was obviously still drunk from the night before. Her hands shook so violently, he had to help her light her cigarette. She was tall, but cadaverously thin. Did she drink her meals? Matted hair hung to her shoulders and her clothes had probably been slept in–more than once.

  She led them unsteadily through her house. Noah had seen pigsties that looked and smelled better.

  She claimed not to have left the house in several days. One look at her car and he believed her. A thin layer of grime coated every surface, and leaves obscured the windshield. No sticker decorated her back window and no residue indicated one had been removed.

  Conner shook his head. “Her hands haven’t been steady enough to fire a gun since the Bush administration. And I don’t mean Junior.”

  “There’s a liquor store half a block from her house. I hope like hell she walks there. I wouldn’t want her on the road under any conditions.”

  The second house contained a frazzled mother with two toddlers and an infant. The older kid stuck his tongue out at Noah and poured juice in his sister’s hair. The infant wailed until Noah’s ears rang, then she threw up on her mother’s shoulder, traces of the vomit splashing on his shoe.

  How could such a little kid smell that sour? His nieces had always smelled sweet, like powder or something.

  The woman’s husband worked on an oil rig in the Gulf and hadn’t been home in two weeks. The car sat in the driveway. A row of baby seats filled the back. An aged, pealing bumper sticker, located on the wrong side of the back window, proclaimed a firm belief in The Rapture.

  Noah tripped on a toy, hidden in deep weeds, on the way back to the car.

  “Hell, I’d cruise the freeways shooting people too, if I was cooped up in that house with those little hellions.” Noah pinched the bridge of his nose.

  “I don’t know about shooting people, but I’d pray for The Rapture to take me first.” Conner stopped abruptly and hung his head. “Oh Lord, is that what I have to look forward to?”

  Noah grinned at him from across the top of the car. “If so, I’ll have pity on you and take you out for a beer occasionally. Now get moving. We have five more upstanding citizens to check out and one low-life murdering scum.

  The third house was empty. A neighbor said that the family had moved back to Tulsa six weeks ago.

  Conner drove to the end of the street and stopped. “What’s the verdict? Lunch, or on to house number four?”

  “Let’s take one more before lunch. I couldn’t eat a thing after smelling that little kid. Her diaper must have been on overload.”

  Another day wasted while the guy who killed Crystal Hudson, and probably tried to kill him and Sweet Pea, got further away.

  Monday was the driver’s least favorite day. He had an early lab, then nothing till after lunch. Surely the Powers That Be could have arranged a better schedule. One with less wasted time.

  The TV hadn’t mentioned anything about the cop’s death when he turned it on at seven, but he hadn’t really expected anything that early. Now, with nothing to do for almost three hours, he decided to go back to his room and Google the cop’s background. Maybe he could find out how he got that scar. Had he been shot or knifed? Would news of that be in the paper? If he’d killed anyone, there would definitely be a record. He felt the edges of his lips curl up. That information should supply hours of pleasure tonight. His eyes flitted under the bed. Yep
, plenty of K-Y at the ready.

  He settled himself in his desk chair and glanced at the clock. He could work for two hours and still have time for lunch.

  Most of the information he found was mundane, but one item held a surprise. At seventeen, while still in high school, Daugherty had spent two weeks in China with a city-wide choir. Then he’d gone to Juilliard. But wait a minute, he’d graduated from the University of Houston.

  He probably discovered the competition at Juilliard was a lot stiffer than he’d expected. That made him a quitter. A helpful piece of information.

  A short bio showed that both his parents were gone, but he had a little sister. Someone to keep in mind if things got too dicey. He should have found out these things first. He was slipping, not doing the research he usually did. He’d let his emotions override his good judgment. A lesson to remember in the future.

  The driver glanced up. Only thirty minutes had passed. Good. He still had plenty of time.

  Going back several years, an article on violence in the downtown area reported that the cop’s father, a concert violinist with the Houston Symphony, had been killed in a mugging outside Jones Hall. A valuable violin had been stolen and never recovered. His mother apparently died a year later. The paper listed her as having ‘been with’ the Houston Grand Opera. What did that mean, a ticket taker, seamstress? Her obituary didn’t say how she died, but requested donations to the American Cancer Society.

  So that was why he left New York and came home to Houston. Was he so soft he sacrificed his own dreams to take care of his mother and sister? A definite weakling, but was he not willing to do what was necessary to achieve his full potential, or had he used that as an easy out when he discovered he wasn’t up to New York standards?

  The desk chair felt hard, and his back was tight from sitting in one position for too long. His stomach growled and he knew time was getting short.

  He moved to the next Google listing, and that’s when he saw it. Just what he’d been searching for. An Officer Involved Shooting. The cop had shot a teenager. Boy, the shit had hit the fan over that one. Eventually Internal Affairs cleared him of all wrong-doing, but it had gotten dirty for a while.