Aberration

by Lisa Regan

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  KASSIDY

  November 22nd

  Isaac was on his cell phone when I returned to the table. As he listened, he jotted something down on a napkin. “Got it,” he said. “No. No, I’ll go myself. Yeah. Thanks.” He flipped the phone closed.

  “Are you ready?” I asked.

  He motioned to the seat TK and Talia had just vacated. “Sit,” he said. “I ordered us breakfast.”

  I stared at him. My stomach growled loudly, and I covered it with one hand. “Breakfast?”

  Isaac smiled. He pointed over my shoulder to the booth directly behind us. “That lady back there—I know you’ve been eyeing up her french toast and bacon since we walked in here. Now sit.”

  Silently, I slid into the booth. My mouth had started watering the moment he said breakfast. Once the food arrived, we ate in silence. In less than five minutes, I was mopping the leftover maple syrup on my plate with the last piece of french toast. I felt so satisfied, it was akin to being high. Who knew food could be so enjoyable? I felt a little pang that I’d never get to share this with Jory. He’d wanted to be a part of this.

  “I want to know everything,” he’d whispered in our last private hours together, ensconced in the hotel bed. His breath had tickled my skin as he kissed my stomach and the top of my pubis softly. “I want to know about every sensation, every craving, every pain, every ache. I don’t care if it’s really bad gas—” at that we had both laughed—“I want to know about it. I want you to call me.”

  He had cupped my bottom and buried his face in me. The memory made my face feel hot.

  “Bishop?” Isaac said.

  I shook my head abruptly, willing Jory’s face and touch out of my head. I met Isaac’s eyes. My face burned hotter. I knew it was impossible, but I felt like my thoughts were prominently displayed across my forehead.

  “You okay?” Isaac asked.

  “Fine,” I said, clearing my throat. “What’s on the napkin?”

  In response, he handed it to me. He had scrawled a name and phone number on it. “Who’s Jacob Bentley?” I asked.

  “He called in. Says he thinks he saw something the night Deborah Bittler was killed.”

  “He called into the task force?”

  Isaac shook his head. “No, he called my guys. The local department. Apparently, he lives down the street from the Bittlers.”

  I handed the napkin back to him. “So when are we talking to him?”

  Isaac’s brows drew together, making a crease of consternation over the bridge of his nose. “We?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Yes. We. Don’t even try talking me out of it. I’m going stir crazy sitting at home doing nothing.”

  Isaac studied me for a moment. Then he gave me a half-smile. “Think you can go without eating long enough to talk to this guy?”

  “Screw you,” I snapped, tossing my fork at him.

  Snickering, he turned his body slightly so the fork bounced off his upper arm.

  I stood and walked off. “I’ll meet you at the car,” I said.

  “I’m not done,” he called after me.

  “I don’t give a rat’s ass,” I responded irritably, pushing through the double doors and stepping out of the diner.

  It had started raining while we were inside, the sky growing ever blacker with each moment. I stopped and waited beneath the overhang, scanning the parking lot. Goosebumps rose along my arms. I hugged myself and glanced back into the diner. Isaac was at the register, talking on his cell, the phone tucked between his ear and shoulder as he counted bills out of his wallet.

  I had the sensation of being watched. I had no idea if Blake Foster was nearby watching me or not, but I was spooked. I wondered how many times over the last God knew how many years he’d been watching me and I’d sensed nothing. Had I just grown used to it? Ever since Nico Sala broke in to my house I operated as if someone was watching me. I was constantly on edge. Before that night, I couldn’t remember if I had ever felt as though I was being watched.

  I thought about the mug shot of a fifteen-year-old Blake Foster TK and Talia had just shown me. He had been thin and lanky. In the photo, his hair was long and jet black. A shock of it fell across his forehead. It looked greasy and it nearly obscured his brown eyes. He stared at the camera unapologetically, his eyes communicating part deer in the headlights and part resignation. There was a smear of dried blood on his neck. He didn’t look frightened. He looked spent.

  Seeing it did not spark anything for me. The age progression hadn’t helped either. The eyes and the bone structure were the same, but the face had filled out, stretched and hardened into more manly features. They had Photoshopped his hair, giving him a short cut instead of the shoulder-length hair he’d had at fifteen. Still, it just looked like a guy my age with black hair and brown eyes. I could have run into him a hundred times in my adult life and not known it.

  A cold gust of wind blew a sheet of rain onto my legs. Shivering, I stopped myself from running back into the diner. I waited for Isaac to emerge. He paused, taking in the downpour. Then he said, “You wait here. I’ll bring the car around.”

  I didn’t want to get soaked. I was already cold, but I didn’t want to be left alone a second longer. It was getting dark. “Don’t bother,” I said curtly, stepping past him and into the rain. Isaac said nothing, but he jogged ahead of me to unlock his sedan.

  He turned the heat on full blast as we drove. In spite of the hot air blowing mercifully onto my legs, I was freezing.

  “I talked to this Jacob Bentley guy. He said he’s on his way home from work. He’ll meet us at his place,” Isaac said as he turned toward Michael Bittler’s neighborhood.

  “I thought the neighbors were canvassed,” I said.

  “Oh, they were,” Isaac said. “And they all got business cards in case they remembered something later.”

  “Your card?” I pressed.

  “No, but I told my detectives I’d do this interview myself.”

  Isaac squinted, peering out the windshield. The wipers slashed back and forth furiously, but visibility was still bad. The rain thundered down too fast. Coupled with the dark of evening, it was almost impossible to see where we were going. At least that’s what it looked like to me.

  “Pull over,” I said. “Wait for the rain to let up.”

  “We’re almost there,” Isaac said. He hunched over the wheel, slowing to a crawl as he turned down the Bittlers’ street. We passed the Bittler house, the yellow crime scene tape standing out in the darkness. I shuddered as we rolled past, trying to block the images that immediately came to mind—the lifeless specimens in jars and Michael Bittler’s naked body dancing its way out of the tub.

  “That place will go down as the worst crime scene ever,” Isaac muttered.

  I snorted. “I don’t know about the worst, but it was definitely the creepiest.”

  “I think it’s right up there,” Isaac said.

  “How can you see anything?” I asked. I gripped the edge of my seat. Even though the car was barely crawling, I wished Isaac would pull over until the rain slowed.

  Isaac’s cell phone rang. He fished it out of his pocket and flipped it open. He listened intently. Then he said, “Are you sure? We never interviewed a Jacob Bentley?” He met my eyes briefly. “Did you check all the lists? What about the address? He doesn’t live there? Who does? The Weidermans. I just talked to this guy. Do you have the phone number he gave us? Run it. Yeah, yeah. Call me back.”

  “I don’t like this,” I said, feeling suddenly edgy.

  “My detective says there’s no Jacob Bentley on the interview rolls and the address this guy gave us belongs to Mr. and Mrs. Weiderman who’ve lived there for forty years.” Isaac didn’t sound concerned, only inconvenienced, but I felt a full-blown panic attack comin
g on.

  “Turn around,” I said. “Now. We’re getting out of here right now.”

  Before Isaac could respond, I leaned forward and slapped the dash. “Stop! Look out.”

  Isaac braked hard, and I was snapped back into my seat by the strap of the seat belt. A figure, clothed in black lay crumpled on the ground in the middle of the street. Isaac frowned. He looked at the houses on either side of us, but no one was around. The rain kept people inside. He put the car in park. I gripped his forearm. My whole body felt tense and abuzz, panic making me dizzy. “Don’t go,” I said. “Just back the car up, and let’s get out of here.”

  He looked at my fingers digging into his sleeve and then at my face. “Bishop, I can’t leave this guy in the street. He was probably hit by a car. He could be dying. Just wait here.”

  Without waiting for a response, he opened his door and stepped into the downpour. I watched Isaac round the front of the car and approach the prone figure. Then my body sprang into motion, almost of its own volition—instinct keening in my ears.

  Everything happened at once. I came at the two of them from the other side of the car, pulling my Glock out of its holster, racking a round into the chamber and aiming it as I walked. Rain fell in sheets, big fat drops of it rolling down my face. My hair was soaked in seconds, heavy strands plastering themselves to my face and neck. My clothes were heavy and cold. Beads of water dripped from the barrel of my gun. I took a shooter’s stance. As I leveled the gun at the figure lying in the street, Isaac saw me.

  “Are you out of your fucking mind?” he said.

  The use of profanity, which was unusual for him, distracted me, drawing my gaze to his rain-soaked face. As he spoke, the figure rose up to a crouch and pulled Isaac to the ground. For a split second, the figure was atop Isaac, punching at Isaac’s head. His face was obscured by a ski mask. Then Isaac bucked him. He reached for his own gun as the man rolled away and climbed to his feet.

  “Freeze!” I yelled.

  “Stop!” Isaac shouted simultaneously.

  But the man was already running from us. He cut through a driveway on his right, and we lost sight of him. Isaac scrambled to his feet and took off in a dead run, both hands on his pistol, the barrel pointed at the ground.

  I ran to the driver’s side of the car, my shoes squishing loudly. I got in and threw the car into reverse. I could barely hear the rain against the roof over the pounding of my heart. I backed all the way up the street, laying rubber. The car careened wildly from side to side, fishtailing from the shitty visibility and my unsteady hand at the steering wheel. I prayed that I wouldn’t hit any of the parked cars lining both sides of the street and thanked God that there were no cars behind me.

  I screeched to a halt at the cross street and screamed at the top of my lungs when a figure thudded against the driver’s side door. The scream was still going as the figure tried the door handle.

  Then Isaac’s face appeared on the other side of the glass. He slapped a palm against the window. “Open up,” he shouted.

  My fingers shook so badly it took three tries to flip the auto unlock.

  “Move over,” he commanded, pushing me over to the passenger’s side as he got in, water flying off him like a dog doing a whole body shake. He sped off into the wet, black night, scanning both sides of the street like a hawk hunting its prey. His phone rang, and he answered with a gruff, “Yeah,” and an angry account of what had just transpired.

  “No, I didn’t see what he looked like. He was wearing a fucking ski mask. It was dark, and in case you hadn’t noticed, it’s fucking pouring.” Isaac turned to me, his blue eyes aglow with irritation. “Bishop, you see what he looked like?”

  “No,” I said. “It happened too fast.”

  “No,” Isaac reported back. Then resignation tempered his voice. “Yeah, all right. Get some units out here, but I don’t think we’re gonna find this guy. Did you get anything on the phone? A throwaway? What, a prepaid cell phone? Yeah, yeah. All right.”

  He flipped his phone shut and put it back in his pocket. He glanced at me. “You okay?”

  “Are you okay?” I countered.

  He laughed, a short dry bark. “I’m fine. My pride is a little bruised, but I’m okay.” He kept driving, panning the streets, looking for a man clothed in black from head to toe.

  “That was him,” I said. “That was Blake Foster.”

  Isaac pursed his lips. “Looks that way,” he said.

  “I should have shot him. I had a clear shot before he even got up,” I said. My teeth chattered despite the car’s heater whirring at full blast.

  “We both know you couldn’t have taken a shot at an unarmed man lying on the ground. If you had, I’d be arresting you right now and you know it.”

  I winced, hugging myself to slow the shivering. “Yeah,” I conceded. “It wasn’t a good shot.”

  “That could have been a random pedestrian who’d been hit by a car lying there dying. How were we supposed to know it was a psycho killer waiting for us?” Isaac reassured me.

  I slapped my palms on my thighs, making a loud, wet thwack. “I knew it was a trap. I just felt it.”

  Isaac snorted. “Hey, I feel like shooting someone every day, but I don’t do it. You can’t go around shooting people because of a feeling. Even though this guy has clearly lost whatever control he had.”

  “He’s taking huge risks right now,” I said. “He’s decompensating fast.”

  “Well, he is watching you,” Isaac said. “He came after me today. He’s pissed. He must have noticed we’ve been spending a lot of time together.”

  A new wave of shivers overtook me, these having nothing to do with the cold. “Holy shit,” I said. Then, “I’m sorry, McCaffrey.”

  Isaac shrugged. A moment passed. Without looking at me, he turned the car around abruptly, making a wide U turn across two lanes of traffic. “You’re freezing,” he said. “I’m taking you home with me.”

  “What?” I said.

  “I’m not comfortable leaving you at home alone with this guy running around like a loose cannon,” he explained. “Besides, I’m two blocks away.”

  I opened my mouth to protest but clamped it shut as a cascade of disturbing images flooded my mind—the six crime scenes and the black figure rising up out of the rain-washed street to attack Isaac. I didn’t want to go home.

  I rubbed my cold, wet baby bump. “I’ll call Dale and ask him to let my dogs out,” I said.

  I pulled out my cell phone and dialed, getting him on the second ring. It sounded as though he was in his car. After several assurances that I was okay and not under any duress, Dale agreed to take care of my brood until the next day.

  When I hung up, Isaac was pulling into the driveway of a small ranch-style house with dark red shutters. “I think you should get out of town,” he said. “Maybe you could take that trip to Sunderlin with TK. Spend Thanksgiving with your folks.”

  I nodded, clutching my purse to my body. Isaac turned the car off. The rain hadn’t let up at all. With no windshield wipers, the view of his front door was smeared and distorted.

  “I’ll race you to the door,” he said.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  KASSIDY

  November 22nd

  Before we hit his living room, we were peeling our wet clothes off. They dropped to the floor with muted thuds, making a trail from the foyer to the center of the living room. My fingertips were hard and numb with cold. It took three tries to unfasten my skirt. A few feet away Isaac stood bare chested, fumbling with his belt. Without looking at me, he said, “The heat. I’ll turn up the heat.”

  He tugged at one of his boots as he hopped from the room, the muscles over his ribs rippling jerkily. I pulled my Glock and holster from the waistband of my skirt and dropped it into my purse. I let my skirt drop to the
floor and pulled my nylons off. My skin was pale with a bluish tint. I stood next to his couch in my slip, my only meager cover for my bra and panties. My arms were covered in goosebumps, every fine hair on end. My hair hung in a wet sheaf down the center of my back. I hugged myself, rubbing my arms and marching in place to warm up. My teeth chattered anyway.

  I looked around the room. It had the feel of a log cabin, cedar-paneled walls and hardwood floors. An oval-shaped area rug took up the center of the room. The room was sparingly decorated. A nine-foot couch sat across from a large television. The TV was recessed into a small, black entertainment center. I saw a DVD player but no movies. On the wall above the couch was a painting of a lonely snow-covered forest. There was one end table boasting a lamp which had a couple of ceramic grizzly bears fishing as its base. There were no photographs, nothing personal, only a universal remote.

  “McCaffrey?” I called.

  His voice came back to me from somewhere in the house. “Just a sec.”

  He returned wearing only a clean pair of boxer shorts. He handed me a large men’s sweatshirt with matching sweat pants and a comforter. “I’ll dry your clothes,” he said as I pulled my slip over my head. I tossed it aside and pulled the sweatshirt on, my frame trembling. When I glanced at him he was staring at my belly.

  I watched him as I pulled on the sweatpants. “Leering doesn’t become you,” I said.

  His Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat. Finally, his gaze meandered upward to meet mine. “Sorry,” he said. “I wondered how far along you were—you never talk about it.”

  I wasn’t about to start. I snatched up the comforter, pulling it over my shoulders.

  Isaac cleared his throat. “I’ll get you some socks,” he said.

  He was gone only seconds this time. He returned with a large pair of men’s socks. “Sit,” he commanded. I sat on his couch and let him slip the socks onto my feet.

  When he was finished, he pulled the comforter tighter around me, covering my feet and wrapping me up with the tenderness of a lover.