by EC Sheedy
Wayne Grover arrived home by seven-thirty. He tried to close the door quietly, but even the soft click of the lock was enough. Sandra immediately came to meet him, her face pale and tight. "You're late. Again. I told you dinner would be on the table at seven-fifteen."
He turned his back to her, hung up his coat, and stowed his briefcase in the closet. "Traffic," he said, not adding further explanation, knowing more words made a bigger net for her to catch him in.
She snorted. "Get in there, then. I don't want to be doing dishes all night because you don't know how to press down on the pedal."
She waited until he passed her. "You had some calls. One of them was a man named Cade Harding."
He turned to face her, his expression carefully blank. "Yes."
"Well?"
"Well, what?"
She pursed her lips, adding, "I don't know the name. You know I like to be apprised of all your colleagues."
He walked the few steps to the dining room, took his seat, and surveyed the perfectly placed cutlery. He thought about Linda Curl, her froth of unruly hair, her smart mouth, her plump, willing body. "He's not exactly a colleague, Sandra."
"What then?" she said, her tone sharpening.
"He's a man looking into a file of mine." Wayne sighed, rubbed his forehead. "Can we just eat? It's been a long day. I'm hungry." There was no food in evidence, but Wayne knew it was in the kitchen, each portion aligned perfectly on pure white plates, enough to feed at least a pair of robins, with no chance for seconds, because Sandra was watching his weight.
Thank God for lunch.
"What file?" she demanded.
He laced his fingers, placed his hands in front of him on the orderly table, knowing now there'd be no escaping her interrogation. "The Perkins file," he lied.
She frowned. "The Perkins file? I've never heard of it. You haven't told me."
"It's new. A missing girl. Harding's been hired by the family to find her. She was in the system for a few weeks. He came into the office today, thought I could help him find her. I told him I couldn't. He probably had a last minute question." He waited to see how the lie played.
"You're not telling me everything."
"No, I'm not. Because I don't know everything."
He realized too late his reply was edgy. He ignored the headache belching fire into his skull, and took her hand in his, stroked it in an effort to calm her. Unlike Linda's hand, Sandra's was narrow, and the bones made high ridges under her pale skin.
"You're lying, Wayne. You always lie."
"Sandra, please."
She yanked her hand from his. "Someone else called today," she said, her voice ominously low, her eyes hot and unblinking.
"Who?"
"Frank Bliss."
The name entered him like a blunt, jagged knife, and along with Sandra's vicious grin, twisted and jerked in his chest. He struggled to catch his next breath. Frank Bliss. Dear God. Seven years he'd been in prison, and the minute he was out, he was on Wayne's back like a voracious, creeping fungus, his promise never to call Sandra again lost in his bottomless greed.
"What did he say?" He kept his tone mild the way she liked it.
"Nothing. He asked for you, and when I said you weren't home, he hung up in my ear."
Wayne nodded, swallowed the clot of nerves in his throat, tried to think.
Sandra set her gaze on him. Leaning over him, her face so close to his he had to blink to bring it in focus, she said, "If you'd dealt with him, Wayne, when you should have, if you'd acted like a real man, he wouldn't be troubling us, would he?"
He didn't answer, couldn't deny her accusation.
"Answer me." She screamed and slapped the table. The cutlery on the table jumped—as did his heart.
He tightened the knot of his hands. "No, Sandra, he wouldn't. It's my fault. All my fault. I'll take care of it. I promise." If he only knew how. If only he had the power to make Bliss go away. Forever.
Her laugh was sharp, derisive. "'I'll take care of it, Sandra,'" she parroted, her voice rising. "That's what you said then, you stupid, stupid fool. We could have lost everything, your job, this house. But you did nothing. Nothing." Her voice turned shrill. "You're useless." The look she gave him was filled with disgust and loathing. "You were useless then, and you're useless now." Her expression shifted, darkened. "You deserve to be punished for your weakness."
"No, Sandra..."
She ignored him. "But you like that, don't you, Wayne, being punished. Because you're not a real man. If you were, you wouldn't like the things... you like. The things only I can give you."
Wayne's pulse quickened, a mixture of fear and arousal. "Don't, please," he pleaded. "This time I'll do it. I'll take care of Bliss. He won't bother us again. Let's just have dinner. Please, Sandra."
"Oh, yes, Wayne, you'll take care of it, all right, because I'll make sure you do."
Her hand came suddenly, as if from nowhere, slapped his cheek, palm open, taut, and mean with intent. Again. Then again. His head snapped and swiveled under each blow.
"Get up, you dumb, ignorant beast." She hissed, putting her mouth to his ear, filling it with heat and spit. "Go to bed. There's no dinner for you tonight."
Wayne took in a breath, drowning in his shame. Shame for his lies, his failures, his growing erection. More than anything, shame for his sinful abiding rage. He thought longingly of his office, his files, the work he could bury himself in. He should leave, walk out the door, and never come back.
He should run...
"I said get up." she ordered, her voice shrill, feral.
He stood, which put him eye-to-eye with the dark-haired woman whose brilliant, burning gaze poured into his worthless soul like boiling tar, whose mouth frothed with fury—and whose hand now curled, knuckles white, around a steak knife.
She put the knife to his chin and prodded; blood trickled down his neck. "Did that feel good, lover?"
He did what she expected—what he'd always done—and nodded obediently, his mouth slack, his eyes wide and dry.
She dropped the knife in disgust. "Go upstairs, you piece of filth. I know what you like, what you want, and I'm happy to oblige. You know what to do. Wait for me."
He lowered his gaze, placed his napkin on the table, and walked out of the room, his impotent rage no match for the depravity that ruled his rotting soul.
He was an evil man, the devil's own tool.
Grover went up to the bedroom, removed his clothes, dropped to his knees, and said the same prayer he'd intoned for years, tonight more desperately than ever, his need grown terrifyingly critical as if his brain were fissured, threatening to fragment into a million jagged, violent pieces.
Any time now.
Any moment.
His mind a fog of pain and blinding fear, a blizzard of despair, he prayed again and again...
"Dear God, I beg you to make me strong. Give me peace. And, please, please stop me from killing my wife."
* * *
Addy stooped, picked up an empty cola can, and walked to the back of the house to put it in the garbage bin. Lord, people were messy. Most days, she accepted litter pickup as part of the job, but since Beauty's call her nerves were so fierce and jangled every task seemed like a mile-long broad jump.
One part of her longed to see her friend again, another part dreaded it. Her being here would raise the dead, force an unwanted trip down mortuary lane. But damn that "big bad wolf" comment of hers. Irritated and confused, Addy took a deep breath, looked up at the bright sky, and reminded herself calmly how Beauty always did have a flair for the dramatic, and she shouldn't put too much store in it. She'd get to the bottom of things soon enough when Beauty got here. Until then, the smart thing to do was forget about it and go to work.
She spotted another can as Toby, coming out of the office, spotted her.
"Hey, pretty lady, I was looking for you." He gave the cola can in her hand a broad disapproving look. "Weren't you made for better things than picking up garbage?"
She straightened. "That's what I keep telling myself, but our litter-challenged guests don't see it that way." She managed a smile. Her troubles weren't Toby's, and she didn't intend them to be. "How are you doing with the books?" She grimaced, waiting for his answer. He was probably hating every minute he spent with them and was past ready to dump them back on her.
"I'm doing good. Pretty much got them whipped into shape." He rubbed at his chin, gave her a quizzical look. "I'm thinking you and I should get ourselves a computer."
"A computer? You and I?" she echoed.
Toby laughed. "I didn't ask you to marry me, sweetums, just spring for a box and some accounting software."
"Now what would I do with a computer?" Even the idea of a computer gave her hives. All those telephone-book-sized manuals. Ugh.
"You? Nothing. Me? I'll make the baby dance."
"And after you've gone?"
He tugged his earlobe and looked oddly nervous. "Well, now that's it, isn't it? I was thinking I'd stay on, kind of permanent, part-time. Help out around here." His gaze narrowed. "But only in the office, mind. The physical stuff is all yours. I'm too old to be hefting paving stones or pushing a wheelbarrow."
When she didn't say anything—because she couldn't think what it would be—he coughed, went on, "Thing is, I like it here. No real need for me to go back to Seattle. Except maybe to pick up some stuff and give some notice to my fleabag landlord. And I figure with my pension and a nice cut on my cabin rate, things should work out just fine."
"You're serious."
"Damn right." He looked nervous again, as if he weren't sure what to expect.
She saw him straighten his bent shoulders as he waited for her answer. God, he expected her to say no. Did he think she was crazy? "Toby. That would be great," she said, relief drowning her worries. You can do all the paperwork. Take care of the bills, the mail. And I'll be free to finish the cabins.
"We got ourselves a deal then?"
"Deal." She put out her hand. Toby took it and pulled her into a bear hug. She pulled back as soon as she could, uneasy, as always, with physical contact. In that respect, she and the remote, sober Lund were soul mates. "I think you being around all year will be terrific," she added, smiling broadly to mask her awkwardness.
"Good. Now, about that computer..." he added and stuck his chin out.
"What do you know about computers anyway?"
"Enough to get started," the old man said, aligning his seventy-year-old shoulders. "And what I don't know, I'll learn. There isn't anything a person can't learn if he puts his mind to it."
Addy wished she had half his confidence—even though she didn't believe what he said was true. "Okay, but all those bits and bytes will be your business. I want no part of it."
"Like I said, you take care of the buildings. I'll take care of the books. Never was one for having a woman look over my shoulder anyway." He started to walk away, then turned back, his wrinkled face beaming a smile. "Be nice to work with you, sweetums. You're a damn clever girl, and you've done wonders for this place." He shook his head. "Lund Baylor was my friend, but he never did appreciate you, no sir. But you and me? We'll make this old motel a real going concern. Yes, we will."
She watched him go, caught off guard by a wash of tears filling her eyes. She brushed them away, wondered why she always cried when she was happy and never when she was sad. Toby was wrong about her being clever, but she wished with all her heart he wasn't wrong about the future success of the motel.
Star Lake was her home, her safe place—or so she'd thought until she'd heard Beauty's voice again. The miserable, tight hand of worry grabbed at her chest again.
If someone had found them...
The thought of leaving, of running again, weakened her knees, made her heart weep in her chest.
Then don't run this time, Addy. No matter what, don't run.
A brave vow, but in a couple of months she'd turn twenty-nine—make that a hundred if you counted the street years—and if she knew one thing, it was that there were times when running was the only option, the only way to survive.
For now, she had to believe this wasn't one of them; that whatever their problem was, it could be fixed with some smart thinking and a good idea.
She bent to pick up an empty potato chip bag, tucked it into the trash, and looked across the lake. Her lake.
Positive thoughts aside, she couldn't shake the dreary sense her time was up, that maybe that special Someone Upstairs had looked down on Star Lake and decided Addilene Wartenski had been safe long enough—that it was past time she pay for what she had done.
Or hadn't done.
* * *
Frank was pleased with himself, and with Beauty. At first, when he'd seen her load her suitcase into that fancy Lexus convertible of hers, he'd been mad as hell. Then he'd thought on it a bit, decided on a wait-and-see attitude.
Chances were good she was sneaking off to see the Wart—maybe even Vanelleto.
The thought of Vanelleto made his guts churn and his mouth go hate dry. That vicious bastard deserved to die, one bullet at a time.
Bliss slid his hand under the newspaper on the passenger side of the car, stroked the cold steel of his newly acquired Glock. If he got lucky, and Beauty headed where he thought she was heading, he'd get his chance to provide those bullets.
For now, he'd wait, play it cool.
Revenge was good, but it didn't pay shit.
His mouth twisted into a thin smile. Wouldn't it be sweet, Vanelleto, Beauty, and the Wart all under one convenient roof?
Three chickens to pluck, two to fuck, and one to kill.
Warmed by the thought, he settled back into the seat of his rented Chrysler and watched the expensive red car switch deftly into the fast lane—but stick carefully to the speed limit.
He nearly laughed aloud. That's what made his plan so damn perfect: the woman driving the car had no more interest in attracting a cop's attention than he did.
Which made him and his Glock safe as babes in a stroller.
* * *
Cade mentally gave the DSHS, and Wayne Grover specifically, an A+ for record keeping. There was much more to go on in his files than the police report he'd borrowed from the SPD, Seattle's finest. Being a one-time criminalistics prof had its perks.
He shoved the Vanelleto and Lintz files aside and again opened Wartenski's.
It was thicker than the other two, more detailed, and he'd already committed most of it to memory. The child that was Addilene Wartenski now filled his mind and poked at his imagination. There were two pictures in the file, one of the girl at age seven or eight locked in the embrace of her mother, the other a stark portrait taken when she was eleven, the year she went permanently under the state's wing.
Cade wondered about the family photo. It was unusual to find a happy picture of a mother and daughter in the cold confines of an overworked caseworker's file. There was a sticky note on the back—in Grover's handwriting—return to Addilene at Belle's.
Obviously, he'd forgotten to do so, or the murders and her running away precluded it.
There was no record anywhere of the father, and her birth certificate, like Dianna's, stated "father unknown." But even that scant information was more than there was for Vanelleto. There was zero documentation on his background, his birth, or his school time. Nothing. How he'd managed to stay in the cracks as long as he did was astounding, and it made profiling him impossible—and the worst place to start.
Addilene had at least attended school, albeit intermittently, until she hit the streets, although her grades were brutal and her attendance even worse.
According to her file, her mother, Marylee Wartenski, died when the child was nine, and Addilene was taken in by Marylee's sister, Gloria. Neither Marylee nor Gloria had married, and according to Grover's files, there were no other relatives. At least none he ever found. And from what Cade could see, the man had knocked himself out trying to find some.
He picked up the
case photo and studied the likeness. The girl looked pale, glum, and plain. Blue eyes, long dark hair, apparently uncombed when the photo was taken, and lips that were either knife thin or tightly compressed. Hard to tell.
There were no birthmarks listed in the description, but it was noted she had a thin scar under her chin—probably invisible by now—acquired as a toddler when she fell from her tricycle.
While there was considerably more about Addilene's background than either Dianna or Vanelleto's, when it came to the murder of Belle Bliss, her name carried the least weight in both the police reports and in Grover's file.
Because of her age, Cade guessed. She would have been thirteen when the murder occurred and the youngest of the three. She'd been in the system for only two years and on the streets for most of that, after running away from Aunt Gloria for the third time.
With no home, no real family, no roots, Addilene would have been sweet pickings for a hustler like Vanelleto. Cade could easily imagine it, a smile, a few smooth promises...
Acquiring a virginal twelve-year-old would have been a gold mine for a guy like that. A guy who, according to Grover's notes, was in the process of earning his stripes in the girl-selling business. At seventeen, two other girls had already named him as their pimp and crack dealer. But before anything came of their charges, they disappeared, the case along with them.
Cade wasn't surprised.
Life on the streets had the stability of jelly in the sun. One day you had a witness, the next day you had a missing person. And so it went.
Cade tossed the photo on the file and pushed away from his desk. When he stood, Redge stood with him, eyes alert, tail waving hopefully. "Good idea, boy. Let's walk. It'll clear my head. Force it to focus." At the door, he snapped the leash onto the dog's collar.
In minutes they were outside the building, and while Cade drew in some of the early evening air, Redge lacquered the nearest parking meter.
They headed for the small park around the corner, Redge's brain dedicated to cataloging the neighborhood smells, Cade's preoccupied with Addilene. A murder. A missing child.
Dana wanted a child so badly... her child.
He killed that thought. Suddenly weary, all he wanted to do was walk away from the whole damn mess, disappear into the fictional world of Zero. A world where he could make everything turn out right. Where no one died unless they deserved to die, and he was judge, jury, and executioner.
