Sarah Woods Mystery Series (Volume 3)

by Jennifer L. Jennings

  She shook her head. “He forced himself on me. I didn’t want that.”

  “Did you go to the police?” I asked. “Did they perform a rape kit?”

  She closed her eyes and shook her head, this time more forcefully. “I don't want to talk about this anymore.”

  My heart clenched at her tormented expression. What right did I have to drudge up a past that she desperately wanted to forget? I wondered if the ten thousand dollars she'd received would ever come close to rectifying the constant nightmares she must endure. Too bad she hadn't taken that money to further her education, and instead, working for peanuts at a waffle house.

  “I'm really sorry,” I said. “I shouldn't have bothered you with this. Perhaps your friend, Dana Clark, would be willing to speak to me. She was listed as a witness in the lawsuit.”

  She stood up from the picnic table and peered down at me one last time. “Why does it matter anymore? Nobody cared back then. Why should anyone care now?”

  “I care,” I said. “You can tell me what happened. You can trust me.”

  She paced back in forth, cigarette between her bony fingers. “I don’t trust anyone.”

  “I understand,” I said. “Just one more question, if I may. Were you upset with Bob when he kicked you off the soccer team?”

  She glared at me with a mixture of surprise and alarm. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  At that moment, I heard the sound of a loud muffler chugging up the street, and a rusty-looking motorcycle pulled up to the curb. The driver wasn't wearing a helmet. He was young, probably early twenties like Bridget. He had a long, crooked nose and beady eyes. His dark hair was cut short like a marine. He wore a tight, grease-stained t-shirt.

  “Jesus, Bridge, let's go,” the guy yelled out with an exaggerated hand gesture. “I told you to be ready when I got here.”

  Bridget grabbed her purse, rushed over to the bike, and hopped on.

  “Excuse me,” I said to the guy when I approached his bike. “Please don't be upset with Bridget. I asked her if she'd give me a few minutes.”

  He gave me a slightly annoyed glance. “Sure, whatever.” He revved the engine, just to show me how inconvenienced he was. The engine made a loud sputtering noise and backfired.

  I handed Bridget one of my cards with my name and number on it. “Please call me if you ever want to talk. I'm a good listener.”

  She slipped the card into her purse and gave me a tight-lipped smile. “Look, I appreciate your kindness,” she said in a hollow voice, “but I already told you everything I can. You don’t want me to get in trouble, do you?”

  “No, of course not,” I said.

  “Then just pretend you never talked to me, okay? Please, just leave me alone.”

  I backed away from the bike and stood there at the side of the road. “Okay, Bridget. But you have my number in case you change your mind.”

  She didn’t respond to my parting words, and as they sped away from the curb, I figured I’d probably never hear from her.

  Chapter 16

  After my visit with Bridget, I went home and spent the next hour typing the report for Kathy Woodward.

  As for Dick McKenzie, I simply stated in the report that he appeared to have some fetishes with sex toys and women’s clothing. Kathy could make up her own mind as to whether those compulsions were a deal breaker or not.

  Travis Miller was easy. His money issues seemed pretty serious, but nothing that couldn’t be rectified by getting a decent job in the near future.

  But Bob Owens was a tough one. What would I say about him? Should I mention the rape allegations? Wasn’t I obligated to?

  Maybe, if I had just one more day, I could go back and attempt another chat with Bob’s ex-wife.

  Was there anyone else I could find who’d be willing to talk to me? An employee from the sporting goods store? Another coach from the high school?

  In the end, I decided to stick only with the facts as I knew them. Bob was accused of molesting an eighteen-year-old girl but was never arrested or found guilty by a jury. In a civil suit, he settled out of court by paying the girl ten thousand dollars to keep quiet. Maybe Carter was right. If Bob paid the girl, he’s probably guilty of something.

  When I finished the report, I printed out the three pages and stuffed them into an envelope. I only wished I could have felt a little more satisfaction at the end of this job. But at least it was done.

  * * *

  Later that afternoon when I walked into Kathy Woodward's office, she was sitting at her desk, barking orders at someone on her phone. I waited patiently, pretending to admire her wall of fame – dozens of degrees and accolades. Most lawyers were egomaniacs, but they were good to have around when you needed them.

  When Kathy hung up the phone, she beckoned me to take a seat. “Sarah, thanks for coming by. Can I have Rita get you something to drink? Have a seat.”

  “No thanks, I'm fine.” I didn’t take the chair. I didn’t want to get comfortable. Maybe it was just nerves, but I felt like standing.

  “So?” She eyed the file in my hand. “Is that your report?”

  “Yes. All my notes and observations on the three men, plus an itemized bill for the hours Carter and I worked. Have a look.”

  Kathy smiled and tossed the envelope on her desk. “How much do I owe you, Sarah?”

  “Don't you want to read the report first?”

  “Not particularly. I've got too much work right now. Maybe you could give me a brief synopsis.” She glanced up at me and raised her eyebrows. “Have you found good reasons for me not to see any of these men again?”

  “Well,” I said, “that's for you to judge. Each of them has his strengths and weaknesses … ”

  She put a hand up to stop me. “Never mind, I get it. What you're basically telling me is that these guys are a waste of my time.”

  I shook my head. “Not exactly. When you read my report, you'll have to decide for yourself.”

  She tapped the manila envelope with her pen. “It's not that I don't appreciate your efforts. In fact, I'm happy to pay you for all your hard work, but I'm getting the feeling that you really don't approve of any of these guys. Am I right?”

  “My approval shouldn't matter. I'm not the one who’s dating them.”

  Kathy chuckled at that. “Well, it looks like I won’t be dating any of them either. I just found out this morning that my firm might be re-locating to Virginia. It’s not a done deal yet, but if it happens, the move will take place next month, and there’s too much work to be done until then. There’s no point in starting a relationship if I’m moving, right?”

  I was too stunned to say anything.

  “What do I owe you, Ms. Woods? I'll have my secretary write you a check.”

  “You don't owe me anything,” I said after an uncomfortable pause. “The two grand you paid up front covers everything.”

  “Well, then.” Kathy stood up with a pleasant smile and held out her hand. “Thank you. It was a pleasure doing business with you.”

  * * *

  When I got back to my car, I called Carter.

  “You'll never believe it,” I told him. “The client isn't going to bother reading the report. She just found out that her firm is moving out of state. All the work we did was for nothing.”

  “Who cares,” Carter replied. “We got paid.”

  He had a good point. “I'm relieved, actually. I thought she was going to be disappointed.”

  “Well, it's over now,” he said. “On to better things, right?”

  I paused. “It's not over for me, Carter.”

  “What do you mean?” he asked.

  “This business with Bob Owens. If Bridget was raped, there are probably other girls who are too afraid to speak out. Maybe Bob isn't coaching girls’ soccer anymore, but he has young girls working for him at the store. He could still be doing it.”

  “It's none of our business anymore,” Carter said resolutely.

  “But don't you t
hink we have a responsibility? We have nothing else going on at the moment.”

  Carter sighed. “What exactly are you planning to do?”

  “I want to get in touch with Dana Clark, the witness listed in the lawsuit. And maybe talk to one of Bob’s employees at the store.”

  “Listen, Sarah,” Carter said in a slow, calm voice. “Don’t go back to the store. If Bob sees you, the gig is up. Let me go and see what I can find out, okay?”

  “Fine. But promise me we'll get together tomorrow and figure out a plan.”

  Chapter 17

  When I got home around six, Jackie met me at the door dressed in her pink nursing scrubs and white patent leather clogs.

  “I have a huge favor to ask,” she said with a hopeful expression. “Would you mind if I borrowed your car for work tonight? My Subaru is going into the shop tomorrow, but I'm afraid to drive it. The brakes are dangerous. I'll be home by seven in the morning, I promise.”

  I gave her the car key. “No problem. I'm not going anywhere tonight. Do you need me to check on Clifford while you're gone?”

  “Oh, that would be awesome if it's not too much trouble.”

  “Not at all. In fact, I'll go up after dinner and hang out with him. Maybe we'll watch a movie together.”

  “Thanks,” she said, giving me a bear hug. “I owe you big time.”

  I spent the next few hours checking e-mails and doing laundry. It was nine o'clock by the time I went up to Jackie's apartment.

  Clifford was lounging on the sofa, his tail thumping softly on the cushions as he observed me with mild interest.

  “Hello handsome,” I said to him. “I can tell you're ecstatic to see me.”

  The sarcasm was lost on him. He tucked his snout between his paws and went back to sleep within a few minutes.

  I flipped through the channels and found an old movie with Will Ferrell. I'd seen it a dozen times already with my son. It brought back memories of the days before Brian got his driver's license, when he still wanted to spend time with me. I decided to watch the movie again for old times’ sake, but it reminded me how much I missed Brian and the simple things we used to do together. It also reminded me that he hadn't called in a few weeks. He was only fifty miles away in Boston, but he might as well have been halfway around the world. Perhaps I’d call him tomorrow and make sure he’s not partying too much.

  My eyelids grew heavy after about ten minutes, and I nodded off.

  I had no idea how much time had passed when I awoke. The movie was over. The clock on the cable box said 10:45 pm.

  I yawned and stretched, then scratched Clifford's fuzzy head. “Do you need to go out, buddy?”

  He didn't move a muscle and just blinked at me as if to say, does it look like I need to pee?

  “Okay,” I said. “But if your mommy comes home to find a puddle on her wood floor, I'm not taking the blame.”

  No comment.

  I gathered my things and headed downstairs to my apartment.

  I unlocked the door and walked inside, not bothering to turn on any lights because I was heading straight for bed. I flung my purse on a chair and, as I walked through the room, I sensed something wasn't right. A chilly breeze whooshed by me. I turned to my left and squinted in the dark. Funny, I didn't remember opening a window earlier. In fact, I was usually quite obsessive about locking my place up tightly whenever I left, even if I was only going to Jackie's for a quick visit.

  A warning signal went off in my brain and my body tensed. I felt another rush of a breeze, but this time it wasn't from the opened window. Out of the corner of my eye, a shadow whisked past me, and I realized someone was inside my apartment.

  “Who's there?” I called out, trying to keep my voice calm. I still wasn't sure if I was seeing things.

  I waited for a response, but none came. I stood very still, my eyes adjusting to the dark. Even though my heart was hammering away in my chest, I had to keep a level head. A hundred different ideas came to me at once, but nothing made sense as I looked around searching for the intruder. Maybe there was nobody, just my mind playing tricks on me.

  I went to close the window. A cracking noise came from my right. I turned my head in the direction of the sound.

  A large, black mass of a person hurtled toward me. I tried to move out of the way, but he crashed into my shoulder like a bomb. An explosion of pain erupted throughout my body as I smashed against the wall and collapsed onto the floor in a heap.

  All I could think was – what the hell?

  I told myself to get back on my feet, but I couldn't even move, let alone stand up. I tried to scream, but the wind had been knocked out of me. I gasped for air, clutching at my chest.

  I rolled over onto hands and knees while searching the room in the darkness, but I couldn't make him out. Where did he go? I struggled to stand up.

  The next blow came to my chest. Blinded by the pain, my body collapsed onto the floor again.

  With mounting despair, I knew a few broken ribs would be the least of my problems. This was not just some burglar trying to get away. He meant to hurt me. This bastard was trying to send a very strong message. I wish he would just tell me what it was.

  The shadow advanced again and, when I managed to look up, I saw him. He was wearing a black ski mask, black gloves, black sweatshirt and black jeans.

  My purse was on the chair, about five feet away. If only I could get the pepper spray, I'd have a fighting chance. But, with a sinking heart, I knew I'd never get there. The man in black was too fast and too strong. And I was out of breath.

  “What ... do you want?” I managed to say again, and this time, I didn't care if he knew how scared I was. “Who are you?”

  The asshole refused to speak a word. He just stood there, panting, probably wondering where to kick me next.

  If only I had a gun, or something to defend myself. Why hadn't I grabbed the pepper spray when I first noticed the window was open? Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  I searched the floor around me for something I could use as a weapon. There was nothing within my grasp. The coffee table was about four feet away. A candlestick or a letter opener would do the trick, if only I could get there. If only I had the strength.

  I summoned my energy and lunged for the coffee table to claim my weapon.

  I didn't make it. He pounced on me again, and this time, wrangled me to the floor. Flat on my back, he pinned down my legs with the weight of his body. His gloved hands wrapped around my neck. I tried to punch him with my flailing arms, but I couldn't reach his head. I kicked with all my might, but his body was so heavy I could barely move.

  The feeling of helplessness was like nothing I'd ever experienced. I couldn't even scream for help. I could barely breathe. My lungs burned as a growing dread filled my heart. I kept thinking, please, don't let this be the way I go.

  Somehow, in my delirious state of near death, I got one leg free and kicked him in the groin with my knee. There wasn't much force behind it, but it was enough to make him flinch, and he loosened his grip around my throat. Without thinking, I lifted my head and bit him on the shoulder with such ferocity that he howled out in pain. I knew I had bitten through the sweatshirt, because I could taste his blood on my lips. I clenched down as hard as I could, biting into flesh and muscle and tendon until finally, he punched me in the face and I fell back.

  I couldn't see anything for a second but, as my arms flailed around me, I knocked something off the coffee table. I grasped for the object and realized it was the letter opener. Thank God!

  Drenched with perspiration, the letter opener nearly slipped out of my clammy hands. When he lunged for me again, I was more determined than ever to stop him for good. I drove the tip of the blade into his chest.

  It didn't go in very far, or at least, not as far as I'd hoped. But it was enough to freak him out. He backed away, stumbling, and with both hands, he pulled the instrument out.

  A little blood spurted out from the wound, but I could tell it wasn’t a fatal injur
y. In fact, it only seemed to piss him off more. He punched me in the face again and down I went.

  * * *

  When I finally came to, my head hurt so badly I thought I might throw up. At first, I didn't know why I was lying on the floor. I slowly sat up and looked around the dark room. Then it all came back to me. The man in black. Where was he? Still in my apartment somewhere?

  I crawled on all fours across the room, grabbed my purse and dumped the contents on the floor. I found my pepper spray, clutched it in my hand and dialed 911 on my cell phone. After explaining my situation to a dispatcher, she calmly assured me that police and ambulance were on their way.

  With much effort, I got to my feet, but everything hurt – my head, my back, my throat, and my ribcage. Even my teeth hurt. Why did my teeth hurt so badly? I brushed the back of my hand across my chin. Was I missing a tooth?

  I lumbered to the bathroom and turned on the light. At first, I thought I'd seen a vampire when I caught sight of my reflection in the mirror. Or a zombie who'd just devoured a human limb. There was blood all over my mouth, neck and even my chest. Maybe I was a zombie. Maybe I was dead, after all.

  Disoriented, I sat down on the toilet seat and tried to catch my breath as I wiped my face with a towel.

  The ambulance arrived first, followed by a team of police officers. The first paramedic took one look at me and grabbed my arm. “We're taking you to the hospital, ma'am. Let's get you on the stretcher right away.”

  Chapter 18

  “No broken bones, Ms. Woods,” the doctor said, standing by the edge of the hospital bed with a clipboard in his hand, “but you have a slight concussion. Probably nothing to worry about. Just keep in mind, if you suddenly feel dizzy or feverish, or start throwing up, you need to come back to the hospital immediately.”

  My headache had subsided, although the ringing in my ears hadn't. “Okay,” I said. “I think I'm fine.”