She remembered an afternoon in August hot enough to scorch the soles of her bare feet on the sandy Bowers Beach streets. She must have been seven, eight at the most. She and Crystal had been waiting outside of Casey’s for their dad when they’d heard yelling in the vacant lot behind the bar. Running to find the cause of the excitement, Liz had discovered Jack and a taller boy, Sonny Shahan, rolling on the ground locked in bloody combat.
Fists, knees, and curses flew. Hooting local kids egged the pair on, but they needed no encouragement. Both opponents were already bruised and bleeding. Liz had started backing away when her sister grabbed her shirt and yanked her sideways. “Look out, stupid!” Crystal had warned.
Startled, she’d stared down at what she’d nearly stepped on. In the flattened grass lay the crushed and mutilated remains of a nest of newly hatched mallard ducklings. Later, when older heads and harder hands had separated them, Jack and Sonny had each blamed the other for the atrocity, but she had been too ashamed to pay much attention to the outcome of the fight. In full view of the jeering onlookers, she’d crouched in the gravel beside the weathered building and vomited up the moon pie and the grape soft drink she’d had for lunch.
Liz still couldn’t abide the smell or taste of grape soda.
“Go ahead. Say it.”
Jack’s words jerked her back to the present. “What?” she asked.
“Say what you’re thinking.”
“I . . . wasn’t,” she stammered. “Not what you . . .”
“No?” His eyes narrowed. “You weren’t going to remind me that I just spent over three years in jail for assault and attempted murder? That I tried to kill Randy and Daryll Hurd and damn near succeeded?”
“No, I wasn’t going to say that,” she insisted. “You’ve got the Rafferty temper, but I don’t think you’re a murderer.” She shook her head. “But it wouldn’t be the first time you decided to take justice into your own hands.”
“Defender of stray pups and wronged women, that’s me.”
“Cut it out,” she said. “We’ve known each other too long to play games.”
“Have we? Games are what people do, aren’t they? At least, most men and women.”
“Take me home.”
“All right.”
Jack steered the boat in silence for a quarter of an hour before saying, “I heard Tracy’s funeral is Saturday. What time?”
“When did you start attending funerals?”
“Some things have changed in twenty-odd years. You were away a long time, Lizzy. I’d given up expecting you to come back.”
“Don’t call me that,” she said. “It’s Liz now. Or Elizabeth.”
“Or Doctor Clarke.”
“Don’t, Jack. We don’t need to fight.”
“We didn’t part on the best of terms.”
“That was a long time ago. I’m not the same person I was then,” she said. “I don’t want to be.”
“No more Donald Clarke’s girl?”
“Or Crystal Clarke’s sister. I’ve worked hard for what I have, for what I’ve made of myself. For the life I’ve made for my daughter.”
“And I haven’t?”
“I didn’t mean that.”
“Believe what you want. I had nothing to do with George’s business. He knew how I felt, and he made sure that . . .” Jack exhaled softly. “Hell. I’d be lying if I didn’t say I had my suspicions. But George is my brother, and Raffertys—”
“Stick together?” she offered. “Did your father know?”
“Pop?” He shook his head. “If George was running whiskey, Pop would have laughed and told tales about the old days. Not drugs. Pop’s old school. George was lucky that it was the Feds that caught him. Pop would have put a bullet through his head if he’d caught him running that shit on one of our boats.”
“You lost the boat, didn’t you?”
“The boat. Not the bank note. Pop had to sell off the Nellie IV to make up the difference while I was upstate. We’ve got seven boats left. Two crabbers, one still commercial fishing. Pop runs the Sea Sprite as a headboat, and the rest I manage as charters. We hire captains and crews for the other boats.”
“I know the fishing is much worse than it used to be. It’s not easy for a waterman to make a living today.”
“When was it? In your dad’s time?” He scoffed. “You’ll have to come see sometime. I live on the Dolphin III. It’s corporate office and home sweet home all wrapped up in one. We’ve gone high tech, state-of-the-art computers.”
She looked at his scarred hands. “It’s hard to imagine you at a keyboard.”
“I told you I put in a couple of years at Del State, and they have quite a decent computer lab at the prison. Sorry if it damages my image as good old boy.”
“What next? Your own website?”
“www.fishcap’njack.com.”
Liz chuckled. “Things have changed a lot, haven’t they?”
Neither said much for the remainder of the return trip up the twisting creek and through the marsh to her landing. When they reached the dock, Liz tossed the looped bowline over a mooring post and eased the boat in.
“What was it like?” she asked him. “Prison.”
“Not open for discussion.”
“I can’t imagine—”
“No. You can’t. And you don’t want to.”
“Jack . . . I’m sorry if I—”
“It’s over.” He signaled for her to sit tight while he stepped up onto the wooden platform. Crouching down on the salt-treated planks, he offered her his hand and helped her up.
“Thanks,” she began. “I—”
He cut her words off as he pulled her against his chest and ground his mouth against hers.
Chapter Four
To hold Liz in his arms felt better than Jack’s wildest fantasies. She clung to him, wrapping her arms around his neck, seemingly as hot for him as he was for her. Her mouth never left his as they discarded a trail of clothing along the dock and up the bank into the yard. Although he had the best of intentions, it soon became clear that neither of them could wait until they reached the house.
Instead, he stripped off Liz’s jeans and lifted her onto the edge of an oak picnic table. Amid a haze of searing kisses, he managed to extract a condom from his wallet and fit it over his erection before completely discarding his cutoffs. Liz reached for him, wrapped her legs around him, and drew his rigid member deep inside. Her eager cries and the sensation of her nails digging into his bare back intensified his need to possess her completely. Groaning, he thrust harder.
From the trees a few hundred feet away, Cameron Whitaker watched the couple intently, conscious of his own stiffening cock. “Bitch,” he said. “Cold-hearted bitch.” The professor was getting it on, all right. His breathing quickened as he saw her partner nuzzle Liz’s naked breast, then draw the nipple deep into his mouth. “Yes,” he urged. “Yes, stick it to her. Hammer her!”
Cameron lowered the binoculars and wiped his mouth. Damn, he could almost taste her. Much more of this and . . . Hastily, he fumbled with his zipper, pulled himself free of his boxers, and began to jerk off.
When he trained the glasses on the pair again, he felt his hands slick with his own juices. Liz lay back on the tabletop with the bastard on top of her, and her lover was playing with a lock of her hair.
Cameron fine-tuned his Leicas. The binoculars were 10×50, state of the art, and they magnified every inch of Liz’s long legs and luscious ass. He could even make out one well-formed breast and the dark smudge of a nipple. “Roll over, you cocksucker,” he muttered. “Stop blocking the view.” He wanted to see her thatch.
Jack pushed himself up on one elbow. “Sweet heaven.” He groaned. “That takes twenty years off my life.”
Liz smiled at him. “Some things are worth waiting for.”
He leaned close and kissed her bruised mouth tenderly. She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. He remembered her doing just that a long time ago, and something dan
gerous stirred in the pit of his stomach. He sat up. “Brrr—getting a little damp out here, isn’t it?”
“I hadn’t noticed.” She looked at him with amusement. “Good thing I don’t have close neighbors.”
He motioned toward the house with his chin. “I could use a cup of coffee.”
“What? No cigarette? Winstons, wasn’t it?”
“Gave them up fifteen years and three months ago.”
“And you still want one?”
“Like a man in hell wants ice water.”
She laughed. “I’ve missed you, Jack.” Liz located her bra, slid down off the table, and found her jeans and what was left of her silk panties. “I’ll put in a claim for these,” she said, holding up the torn garment. “$14.99. Victoria’s Secret.”
“You sure? They look like Wal-Mart’s 99¢ special to me.” He grinned at her, exposing even white teeth and a dimple in one stubbly cheek. “I’ll buy you a dozen pairs, if you want.”
Liz shook her head. “Don’t waste your charm on me. No strings.”
“I didn’t think—”
Her eyes narrowed. “You said it yourself. We only go around once. Enjoy it while you can.”
“You have changed.”
“I’m not seventeen anymore.”
“Lizzy, about what happened with your sister—”
“That’s over. It happened a long time ago.”
“I’m sorry. I never wanted to—”
She held up her hands, palms out. “We’re not going to have this conversation. You did me a favor. Subject closed.” Her features brightened. “But you’re welcome to come in for that coffee—better yet, a beer. And I still make a mean grilled cheese and tomato sandwich.”
“Hmm. Tomato soup go with the offer?” How many afternoons had they spent alone in her house? Her dad didn’t always pay his light or phone bill, but he kept the cupboards stocked with canned goods. One thing about Donald Clarke—no matter how drunk he got, he never let his girls go hungry.
She chuckled. “Tomato soup and oyster crackers.”
“It’s a deal.” Jack stepped into his jeans and zipped them up. “You’re a hell of a woman, Lizzy Clarke. Kent County just hasn’t been the same without you.”
On Saturday afternoon, the Game Master went to the sophomore’s funeral. It was a rare treat, one he didn’t usually allow himself. It was such a false cliché—the serial murderer always attends services for the dead. The fools. What did the authorities know of him and his kind?
He saw them in the crowd, some in uniform, others poorly disguised as grieving friends or merely curious onlookers. A few faces he recognized, but he didn’t have to know them by name to label them—like they would pin labels on him, if they could catch him.
The thought was amusing, and he almost made the mistake of smiling. That wouldn’t do, wouldn’t do at all. He must look properly sorrowful, living the lie that this school of poor fish was enacting—pretending that the dead thing in the box was worth shedding tears over.
It was nothing now, worse than nothing. The sophomore had provided a little amusement, a brief relief from monotony. The Game Master could still taste her blood on his tongue.
He glanced at his watch, wondering how long this farce would go on. He had business to attend to, files to update. A sense of uncertainty loomed. This was always a dangerous period. Flushed with the excitement of victory, he had to set up the board for the next match. He couldn’t make the same moves twice, and he needed to take great care not to frighten the professor so badly that she ran away.
She had to die. Twice before, he’d selected women and then changed his mind, letting them live without their ever knowing of his interest. The professor would have no such luck. She was already too deeply into the game to survive. She was his, and she was special. Smart. Tough. The greatest prize yet. He’d waited so long for her, and his reward would be all the sweeter when he added her to his collection.
He closed his eyes, taking advantage of the strains of funeral music that echoed through the church. For an instant, the hitchhiker came to mind. So long ago, and he could remember her face as if it were yesterday.
It had been raining that night, and he was driving down from Delaware City along Route 9. It was late, close to two in the morning, and he hadn’t seen a car on the road for the last ten minutes. He was driving fast. He liked speed, the sight of wet blacktop flashing past, the rhythmic swish of the wipers, and the exhilarating gusts of wind and rain hitting the car.
Occasionally, he’d catch glimpses of the bay on his left. There was a riptide. Nothing beat being on the water on a night like that. The waves would be building to ten feet, and the powerful gale would drop an atheist to his knees and make him pray for mercy.
Waves of pleasure engulfed him as the memories of that night flooded back.
He’d nearly missed seeing the hitchhiker on the narrow bridge. The girl had worn dark clothing, and every scrap had been plastered to her skin by the pounding rain. She’d thrown up a hand to shield her face from the glare of his lights, and then waved frantically to try to stop him.
He’d braked a few hundred feet later, considering whether or not she was worth the risk. She was only his third premeditated victim, and he was still cautious, feeling his way in the game. But he hadn’t been able to resist. He’d pulled into an abandoned farm lane and turned the car around. She stepped farther onto the roadway as he drove back. Her thin face was chalk white against the black of her hair, her eyes wide with distress. She couldn’t have been more than sixteen.
She was smiling with relief as he slowed the vehicle. He’d waited, savoring the moment, before stomping the accelerator. The thud of steel colliding with flesh and bone is unique, thrilling on a basic level. He remembered how her slight body soared like a seagull, up and over the railing, into the black water below.
Quick but efficient, he thought. And far too easy.
The Game Master swallowed. Ah, for the innocence of his early days of experimentation. There was satisfaction in primitive emotion, but he was long past such simple pleasures. There were rules to follow for one on his level, and paramount was the preliminary preparation of his new object, the lady-in-waiting, as it were. He covered his mouth with a hand to conceal his smile.
It was time to begin the daughter’s harvest.
Liz, Amelia, and Sydney attended Tracy’s funeral together. Most of the Somerville staff was present at the Methodist church, including Cameron Whitaker, Ernie Baker, and two other security guards from the school. The small frame house of worship was filled to overflowing, and a crowd of mourners gathered by the entrance. Tracy’s Aunt Charlene, garbed all in black, hung weeping on the arm of a red-faced and ponytailed man with a bad complexion and a protruding beer belly.
After the service, Liz, Amelia, and Sydney waited until Charlotte’s escort led her out of the church before rising to continue on to the interment. They were nearing the door when Liz noticed Michael’s wheelchair in the back of the church. He waved, and she whispered to Amelia that she’d meet them at the cemetery.
“It’s a big turnout,” Liz said when she reached Michael’s side.
He nodded. “Some come out of respect. Others out of ghoulish curiosity.”
Liz had never seen Michael in a suit and tie before, and he looked positively handsome. He’d polished his black shoes to a glass finish, and the creases in his steel-gray trousers were impeccable.
“I’m surprised that the funeral wasn’t delayed,” he said. “What with the murder investigation, an autopsy usually takes longer.”
“The dean is a personal friend of the governor,” Liz said. “At least that’s what Sydney heard. For the sake of the family and for the school, they wanted the funeral to take place as soon as possible. Bad publicity for Somerville.”
“Figures. It’s not what you know, it’s who you know.” Michael glanced at a couple near the rear door. The man, who appeared to be in his thirties, held a fussy toddler in his arms. “Do you know
them?” Michael asked.
“No,” Liz replied.
“The woman is Tracy’s cousin, the baby’s Tracy’s.”
A wave of compassion washed through Liz. “Oh. I didn’t know she had a child,” she murmured with a catch in her voice. “Is the father—”
“Wayne Boyd. At least she claimed he was the father. A buddy of mine on the force told me that she was suing Boyd for child support.”
“And now the baby’s orphaned. How tragic.”
“The cousin’s applied for custody. Been married five years, no kids of their own. She drives a school bus. Her husband works for the City of Dover.”
“It’s good there are relatives willing to take the child.”
“Better than going into a foster home or being adopted out. The state’s supposed to weed out the crazies, but they’re no better at that than keeping drunks off the road,” Michael said. “Lots of kids are worse off in state care than they were to begin with.”
Liz nodded. Michael had told her that he’d spent most of his childhood in foster homes. He’d never elaborated, but she had gotten the impression that his memories were unhappy ones.
“You heard about Boyd’s truck?”
“Yes.” She didn’t tell him that she’d seen the rescue squad pulling the vehicle out of the Murderkill River. If she did that, she’d have to tell Michael whom she’d been with, and she knew he wouldn’t approve.
“No body yet, but if it washed out into the bay, they may never find it. Lot of water out there.”
“You think Wayne murdered Tracy and then committed suicide?”
“Maybe. Or maybe he’s on the run and wants police to think he drowned.” He glanced around to see that no one was close enough to hear. “A warrant’s been issued for his arrest. Forensics is still examining the oyster knife for fingerprints.”
He took hold of her hand and squeezed it. “I’m making crab cakes for supper if you’d like to stop by about six. I caught a few decent-sized jimmies at the end of my dock.”
“I may take you up on that. Can I bring dessert?”
At Risk Page 6
