He could still feel the hot pulse of blood in her throat, hear her cries . . . remember the excitement of her futile struggles. But the killing was nothing more than a cheap thrill, without risk, lacking the slightest degree of finesse. Any common thug could have done the same.
Like shooting fish in a barrel.
Maybe if he’d strangled her with his bare hands instead of muffling his sense of touch with gloves . . . perhaps then he wouldn’t have such abject disgust for what should have been a memorable experience.
Now, disposing of her was a chore, with none of the rewards usually associated with his sport. Instead of spending a leisurely night watching The Professor shower or undress for bed, he was here, fending off mosquitoes and poling through salt marsh. He had to forgo the amusement of listening as sounds echoed through the old house, and the dog whined and bristled at each creak and footstep.
This pursuit of the professor had gone on longer than he’d planned. He’d known she would be a rare subject, but even he had not guessed how challenging the game would become. He wanted her . . . longed to taste her blood . . . to feel the grate of her bone against his teeth. What trophies she and the daughter would provide.
This was a milestone, a level of sport that few would ever know. When he was old and past his prime, he could revel in the memories of this hunt, sucking every drop of joy from these days of high adventure.
But he was human, not a god or an immortal.
A thinking man, even a genius, learned from his mistakes. He had acted rashly in taking the tramp, out of season, as it were. And he must pay the price, forgoing his fun for the night to “mop things up.”
The Game Master reached the cedar pilings and snugged the bow of his boat against the corner of the thick plank platform. It was low tide; in high tide, water covered the surface, washing away the residue. The boards were slippery, but he was used to keeping his balance when he butchered.
His actions became routine. First he stripped himself naked, removing every stitch, even his boots and socks. He deposited his clothing in a plastic garbage bag to keep them dry and clean, before lifting the carcass onto the five-by-six raised area. Next he unwrapped two filleting knives and a whet stone. If he struck bone, his knives lost their edge, and it was important to keep them sharp.
Dividing the remains into small enough sections to fit into crab traps was surprisingly simple. He was strong, experienced, and eager to dispose of the evidence. His strokes were quick and sure, dividing flesh and bone into neat sections. Even the buzzing mosquitoes didn’t bother him particularly. They rarely bit him. Perhaps his blood was too rich for the insects’ liking. Once he’d returned the baited traps to the boat, he used a bucket and sponge to wash down the platform, cleaned his knives, and put them back in the oilcloth case.
The Game Master dressed quickly. All that was left to do was to place the traps in the best spots. Actually, he could have caught a bushel of prime crabs here, but it seemed unsporting. No, his tried-and-true methods were best. He glanced up at the moon. If he hurried, there was still time to get his traps out, return home, and get a few hours’ sleep before dawn.
He removed a small nubbin of flesh and bone from between his lips, rolled it in plastic, and dropped it into his jeans pocket. The crabs wouldn’t miss one pinky toe with a tiny, polished nail, not with the feast he had for them tonight. And wouldn’t it add to his collection nicely?
Friday morning dawned bright without a cloud in the sky. Two of her classes met this morning, the first a freshman-level American History, and the second, her Heroines of the American Revolution, reserved for history majors.
To her relief, nothing unpleasant waited on her porch, in her back yard, or at her dock. She fed and walked Heidi, turned the dog loose in the house, and left for Somerville with a lighter heart than she’d had in weeks. She parked in her usual space in the lot, passed Cameron in the hall without speaking to him, and arrived fifteen minutes early for her first class.
Ava Johnson, a grad student who usually worked with one of the senior history professors, came in to assist. Since Liz had planned a slide show and presentation, the period was over in what seemed record time. H.A.R. was a favorite of Liz’s. Most of the students were interested in the material and well prepared. She wished them all well on their finals and was about to join Sydney for lunch when a tall, olive-skinned girl who worked in the office approached her in the hall.
“Professor Clarke? I have a message for you. Mrs. Ryder didn’t call because she was afraid of interrupting your lecture.”
“Thank you, LaShondra.” Liz opened the note. There was a number, a man’s name, and the word insurance. Insurance was underlined twice.
“Mrs. Ryder said that it sounded important and that Mr. Klinger would be at his desk all afternoon,” LaShondra said. “Just give his receptionist your name. She’s expecting your call.”
Liz returned to the empty auditorium and took her cell out of her briefcase. In less than a minute, Philip Klinger was apologizing for disturbing her at the college.
“Ordinarily, I would have called you at home, Ms. Clarke. I’ve sent out a letter, but I wanted your verbal okay on this policy.”
“What policy?” Liz asked. “And it’s Dr. Clarke.”
“Yes, of course. Dr. Clarke. Something came across my desk that . . .” He went on to explain that the policy was written by one of his junior employees, an eager young man who’d recently received his license to sell life insurance. Apparently, that agent, whose name Mr. Klinger omitted, had recently sold a substantial life policy to a Mr. Russell Montgomery.
“I don’t understand what this has to do with me,” Liz said. “Russell and I have been divorced for years.”
“Yes, but—”
“There’s a current Mrs. Montgomery, Danielle. She’s probably who you want to speak to.”
“No, Dr. Clarke, it’s definitely you.”
“What is the value of this policy?”
“One million dollars, with a double indemnity for accidental death.”
“Three million if the insured is killed by a stray asteroid or a rampaging elephant?”
“Yes.”
“I still don’t see what this has to do with me,” Liz said. “The policy is on Russell, isn’t it?”
“No, actually, it isn’t, Dr. Clarke.”
“Then who? Our daughter, Katie?”
“On you.”
“Me? A million dollars? Without my consent? Is that legal?”
“I’m looking at a signature on the policy. Am I to assume that you didn’t sign this?”
“Who is the beneficiary?”
“Russell Montgomery.”
“Son of a bitch!” Anger flared within her.
“Excuse me?”
“Cancel it,” Liz said. “Immediately.”
“It would be better if you could examine the signature, make certain that you didn’t—”
“I think I’d know if I’d given my irresponsible ex-husband consent to take out a million-dollar insurance policy on my life.”
“You definitely believe that this is a mistake?” Klinger asked.
“A mistake? Not likely.” Was Russell hoping to profit from her death? Liz sank onto a bench by the door. How far would he go to get his hands on that kind of money? “My ex-husband is a gambler,” she said as calmly as she could. “I have reason to think he may be in debt to some unsavory characters.”
“Oh, I see.” Philip Klinger cleared his throat. “Naturally, we’ll cancel this immediately.”
“See that you do,” she said. “And I’d like a copy of the cancellation letter.” She gave him her home address and was concluding the conversation when Sydney opened the door to the corridor.
“Liz? Oh, sorry, I didn’t know you were on the phone,” Sydney said.
“No, I’m finished.” Liz thanked Philip Klinger for contacting her and closed her cell. “I would have come looking for you,” she said to Sydney. “I can’t meet you for lunch.”
“Why not?”
“I have a date with my ex,” Liz replied. “And it’s not going to be pretty.”
Chapter Twelve
Russell’s receptionist reluctantly ended her personal phone conversation and wiggled the fingers on her left hand in the air in an attempt to dry her nail polish. “Let me check to see if he’s in the office, Dr. Clarke,” she said in a patronizing tone.
Liz had dealt with Lorraine before and wasn’t impressed with her office skills. Russell claimed she was an excellent employee, and from past experience with her ex-husband’s secretaries and receptionists, Liz supposed that the young woman must have other attributes that only a man could appreciate.
Lorraine’s flowing mane of hair was dyed a garish plum, but her perky 38D breasts, tiny waist, and long legs were stunning, nearly as impressive as the silver tongue stud that garbled her South Philadelphia accent. “On second thought, I think you just missed him. Mr. Montgomery had an important lunch meeting,” which—due to the wad of chewing gum or the stud—came out as “Un sekka tat, eye tinka youse yust mist’m. Litha Montgummy hatta porta heet’n.”
“Oh, Russell’s in. I saw his car parked in the side lot.” Years of being the first Mrs. Montgomery had taught Liz a few of Russell’s tricks. No doubt, the silver Mercedes convertible was leased in the current Mrs. Montgomery’s name. But if Liz knew Russell, he was at least two months’ payments behind, thus the necessity of keeping the car’s location less than obvious.
The receptionist rose and attempted to block Liz’s path. The young woman was quick, but her four-inch open-toed sandals slowed her just enough for Liz to brush by.
“Mr. Montgomery might be on the phone.”
Liz flung open her ex-husband’s door. “Hi, Russell.”
The small, windowless room smelled of Chinese take-out and mountain pine air freshener. Liz glanced around, taking in the peeling paint on the walls and the cheap, rented furniture showing signs of wear. Two cardboard containers marked Jade Palace stood on the desk amid a folded newspaper, crumpled napkins, a racing schedule, and piles of manila folders.
“I tried to stop her,” Lorraine said. “She—”
“It’s all right.” Russell rose so quickly that he knocked over a nearly empty cup of latte. “Liz, it’s good to see you again.” He stabbed plastic chopsticks into an open carton of rice and mopped the coffee spill with a napkin.
“Better me than the police,” she answered. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” When his face paled and he began to stammer, she raised her hand. “No, you be quiet and listen to me.”
Lorraine fled the office.
Russell pushed the door shut behind her. His complexion had gone from ashen to puce. “Sit down, Liz.” It was more of an order than a request. “There’s no need to make a scene.”
“Oh, there’s need. You’re lucky you’re not being arrested for fraud. Of all the sneaky, underhanded tricks! I expect deceit out of you, but how dare you take out a million-dollar policy on my life without my consent?”
“Ah . . . you’re overreacting. It’s not what it appears,” Russell said, obviously stalling while he concocted an excuse. His gaze darted around the room, almost as if he were expecting a SWAT team to burst through the skylight.
Something was very wrong. She’d expected lies, but not hostility. Or was it desperation?
“You’re a bastard,” she said. “A deceitful, conniving lowlife. But I never thought . . . Were you planning on killing me for the insurance?” She folded her arms over her chest as impossible thoughts clouded her reason. “You wouldn’t have the guts to try it yourself,” she said. “Did you hire someone to do your dirty work?”
“I wanted to protect Katie.”
“From what?”
“A girl was murdered in your office. It could have been you. And then where would Katie be?”
“You expect me to believe that? Stop lying to me. I want the truth, Russell.”
“Don’t go to the police.”
“Why shouldn’t I?”
Moisture glistened in Russell’s eyes. “I came to you for help. I begged you, but you wouldn’t listen. I’m in trouble, Liz; big trouble.”
“Maybe you should be the one going to the police. You’re in debt because of your gambling, aren’t you? Admit it.”
“You have no idea what the last few weeks have been like for me. I’ve been threatened.”
“Does Danielle know?”
“Don’t drag her into this.” His voice thickened. “I didn’t know what to do.”
“So you decided to kill me to get the money?”
“I wasn’t thinking straight. I panicked. But I never could have gone through with it. You’re the mother of my oldest child. I’m not a violent person. Whatever you think—”
“Did you have anything to do with Tracy Fleming’s death?”
He shook his head. Tears coursed down his cheeks. “What do you think I am?”
“I think you’re a pitiful excuse for a man. Stay away from me. And from Katie.”
“Liz. For God’s sake . . .”
“Leave Him out of this.”
“What am I supposed to do?”
“Find a rock and crawl under it. Or go to the authorities and ask for protection. You have to do something. Danielle isn’t to blame. And she has young children.”
“If you’d just sign for the loan, I can—”
“Go to hell, Russell.” She opened the door and glared back at him. “If you come near me or Katie, if you try to involve us in your schemes, you’ll wish that all you had to worry about were loan sharks.”
Liz’s phone was ringing when she unlocked the farmhouse door and entered the kitchen. She snatched up the receiver.
“Moms? Moms, this is me.” Katie’s voice was high, bordering on hysterical.
“Katie? What’s wrong?”
“Dad’s in terrible trouble. You’ve got to help him. He says his life’s in danger.”
“I know. I just left him. Did he call you?”
“Yes, about half an hour ago. I’m scared, Moms. Can I come home?”
“No. You stay where you are.”
“You’ve got to help him. He said he begged you, but you wouldn’t—”
“You know how he is, Katie. You know that he’s addicted to gambling. I can’t fix that.”
“I can get a flight home tonight.”
“Don’t even think about it. I’m serious. Stay there and finish out the term.”
“But Daddy—”
“I can’t help him, Katie. This time he has to solve his own problems.”
“You’re still blaming him. It’s a sickness. He can’t help it. All he needs is a little help to—”
“I can’t. We can’t. Your father got himself into this mess, and he—”
“You think more about money than Dad’s life? How can you be so spiteful? Just because he’s happy with Danielle and the—”
“Is that what he told you?”
“He never wanted the divorce. It was you who wanted out. You who wanted a career instead of—”
“We aren’t having this conversation,” Liz said. “He’s your father, and you love him. That’s all he is to me, Katie—your father. He’s cost me too much over the years. I won’t put up another penny to—”
“I’ll never forgive you if something happens to him.”
“Katie, don’t—”
“You’re right, we’re not having this conversation. I can’t talk to you when you get like this. Good-bye, Mother.”
Liz heard the loud click of the receiver being slammed down and then silence. She stared at the phone, wondering if she should call back, and then decided against it. Katie’s temper was too much like her own. It would take a day or two before her daughter would be willing to listen to reason.
Heidi nosed against Liz’s ankle. “What’s wrong, girl?” Liz asked. She dropped to her knees and embraced the dog. “What else could go wrong?”
The G
erman shepherd wiggled free and regarded Liz with a hopeful expression. Liz nodded, stood, and went to the cookie jar on top of the refrigerator where she kept a supply of dog biscuits. “Is this what you want?” she asked. “Treat?”
Heidi’s dark eyes lit with anticipation.
“Sit,” Liz told her. When the dog obeyed, Liz offered the snack. Heidi took it gently from her fingers. “Good girl,” Liz said. “Good dog.” She patted the animal’s head. “You miss Michael and Otto, don’t you?” Maybe she should return the dog. With Wayne dead and Russell’s double-dealings exposed, there wasn’t really any reason to keep Heidi any longer.
She wondered if Russell had been trying to frighten her. He knew about Buck Juney; at least, he knew that the hermit had disturbed her dreams for years. And Russell certainly was familiar with the house. Could he still have a key to the front door? She’d changed all the other locks but that one. But, if it was Russell, what reason would he have for wanting to frighten her?
Of course, Russell wasn’t the only person who knew about Buck Juney. Jack knew, and she’d told Michael. She nibbled at her lower lip. Until today, she’d been certain that Cameron was stalking her—that he’d been the one who’d left the boat at her dock and tracked mud through her kitchen. But what if he wasn’t? What if it was Jack? Had great sex made her blind to his faults? She’d known him once, or thought she had. But how much did she really know about Jack now? And what was she going to do about Russell? Should she bring charges against him?
She picked up the phone and tried Katie’s apartment. No answer. Either she had gone out or she didn’t want to talk to her again. Katie’s response hurt, but they would come to an understanding in a few days. Katie was still young enough to believe that her mother was usually wrong. And Russell, the absent father with the silver tongue, remained the misunderstood victim.
For now, Liz’s biggest worry was Russell. Maybe she should report his attempt to take out the policy on her life to the police. She didn’t really want to see Russell go to jail, but neither did she want to see some bookie break his legs. Should she call the detective investigating Tracy’s murder?
“My dealings with the long arm of the law have not exactly been successful,” Liz said to Heidi.
At Risk Page 18
