Sam, 2015
(Late Sunday Afternoon; Sam’s House, Murray, Virginia)
I AM IN THAT strange stage of drinking where I know I’m drunk, but there is still plenty of denial over the level of inebriation I’m at.
Alicia made stuffed shells and she spilled tomato sauce on her blouse. She has taken it off and she’s scrubbing it in the sink. She’s standing across from me in her black lace brassiere.
“Your blouse was such a nice color on you,” I tell her. “I’m sure it looks nice even with the stain. Whatever shade of orange it was—not the tomato, the tomato was more of a tomato red…does that make sense? But the blouse was more of an orange cream color but not like an orange Creamsicle, and maybe you’d look good in orange Creamsicle, too, but I’m not entirely sure I’ve ever seen you in that color—”
“Sam,” she interrupts. “Stop rambling. You do this every time you’re drunk.”
“I’m not drunk,” I grumble. I definitely am.
My phone rings. I grab it off the kitchen island and answer it.
“Hellooo?”
“Sam?”
“Who is this?” I ask, looking at the screen. Oh. John Seoh. My buddy. “John!”
“Hey, Sam…are you drunk? Is this how early people without kids get drunk?”
“Oh, God, I think I am drunk,” I say. “Grace is really mad at me. But not because I'm drunk, for other reasons which are reasons that I don't understand and I don’t think I ever will…and Alicia is here. I think Alicia's trying to get me back. And I want to get married. Yeah. Really bad.”
“Married?” he asks.
"Married,” I repeat. “With the church and the wedding and the living together in matrimony forever. All of it.”
“To Alicia?” he asks.
“No, to Grace, you idiot. But now I realize I’m willing to wait until she’s ready—” I hear something slam against the counter, I look over to see Alicia glaring at me with her blouse clenched in her fist. I ask her, “What?”
“Seriously? She storms out on you and she doesn’t care that you’re trying to keep her safe and you want to marry her?”
“Yeah,” I say, alcohol dulling my ability to think rationally. Fortunately, John is sober.
“Sam,” he hisses. “Get out of there. She is about to flip out.”
As if I were watching a scene in slow motion, I watch Alicia grab the wooden spoon off the stove. The first blow hits me across the face. I drop the phone and it slides across the kitchen tiles. The second blow hits against my ear.
“You are a bastard, Sam Meadows!” she shrieks, continuing to beat me with the spoon. “I was with you for nearly four years and you never even tried to commit to me. You never tried to love me! I can’t believe I ever loved you! You’re an asshole!”
I manage to grab her arm, stopping her attack.
Her right leg swings up and hits me straight in the nuts.
I crumple onto the floor. She storms out of the kitchen and I hear the front door slam shut. I should go out and apologize for something, but it's just more comfortable to lie on the cool tile floor in a semi-fetal position.
“Sam?” I hear.
“John?” I call out, in the general direction of where my phone went.
“Sam?”
I spot my phone. I inch closer to it.
“John,” I say, when the phone is closer. “You were right.”
“That is music to my ears. What was she hitting you with? It sounded brutal.”
“A wooden spoon,” I say. “And then she attacked the family jewels.”
“That sounds like Alicia,” he says. “It sounds like you’re going to need some help, especially if she comes back wanting to take out more of her frustration on you…and you probably need some ice. I’ll come bail you out once we get home from the zoo. Try not to get yourself killed in the next couple of hours, okay?"
“The zoo?” I ask. “Do you have animal patients now?
"Lexi's going to do something with Photoshop that violates the laws of nature."
"Dad!" I hear in the background.
"Or maybe just physics.” He laughs.
“Thanks,” I tell him. “I’ll be here. On the kitchen floor. The door is unlocked. Just walk in because I’m not sure I’m going to be able to move anytime soon.”
“I’ll get there as fast as possible,” he says. “But that’s not saying much because nobody skips the big cat exhibits at the zoo.”
“It’s fine. I don’t think she’s coming back…though she might have gone to burn down my office.”
“I’ll drive by and check. Stay strong, Sam.”
“Thanks, John. You’re a good friend.”
“Don’t say that so soon. I’m going to tell this story to everybody,” he jokes.
“Dad!” I hear Lexi in the background again. “Look! It’s peacocks!”
“I gotta go, Sam. It’ll be an hour or two. Try to stand up at some point and get some ice.”
“Thanks again, John. See you later.”
“Bye.”
The phone beeps as the call ends. I curl up into a tighter ball, thinking about how I should start wearing a cup in case I see Alicia in the future.
The Jaws theme song begins to play. What if the county police department is trying to call me? I suppose I should get up to see what they want, but if it’s another dead body, then I don’t want to know.
I inch closer to my phone and grab it. It’s not from the county police and it’s not a phone call. It’s the regional forensics lab in Manassas. I should really change my ringtone to something different for them. Maybe the theme song for The X-Files.
I stumble to my feet and shuffle over to my laptop in the corner of my kitchen, my privates still feeling like they’re on fire. I sit down and click enter. My screensaver disappears and my desktop—filled completely with icons—flashes on. I click on the e-mail icon and all of my messages appear. I click on the newest one.
Sam,
So, I looked into any other recent homicides that were similar to this one, but I didn’t find any, even when I expanded the search to nearby states. BUT when I looked into recent deaths that occurred while the victim was in their vehicle (since part of the killer’s MO seems to be getting rid of evidence using a vehicle), I found one that may be connected. It happened Friday in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania. It wasn’t ruled a homicide because the car exploded after it landed in a ditch and the investigation team assumed that something had malfunctioned or broken in the car. It could be nothing. There isn’t any evidence of foul play. I tried to get the homicide police there to investigate it, but they seemed reluctant. After some prodding, including threatening them by telling them I would call the FBI to intervene, I got them to check it out. It turns out that the couple who died had two children—a son and daughter. The daughter is thirteen years old and was at ballet practice when her parents died. Their son—who was known to have arguments with his parents and there had been a rift between them recently—hasn’t been seen in town for a while, but the neighbors say that he and his parents had an explosive argument before he left. He seems like a good suspect. He kills his parents in revenge and kills a car thief so he has a getaway car. I’ve attached his driver’s license.
Respectfully,
Dr. Bridget Carter
So, it’s not Francis Tate. I sigh in relief. It feels like concrete that had filled in my lungs evaporated. It’s just some kid, angry at his parents. But how does a kid become so angry to bash in some stranger’s face? Was there more to the story?
I click on the e-mail’s attachment.
Pennsylvania
Driver’s License
Ballentine
Bryce, C.
1499 Country Road
Bethlehem, PA, 18015
DOB: 10-08-96
Sex: M Eyes: Br Ht: 5-09
I know that name, but I don’t recognize the kid’s face. Where do I know his name?
I hear footsteps. My heart skips a beat. But it can’t
be Alicia. Those aren’t high heel stilettos. I turn my head.
A muscular man in his mid twenties looks down at me. He has short, dark hair and eyes that seem void of anything.
“Who are you?” I ask.
“You know me as Bryce Ballentine,” he says. “But your girlfriend knows me as Francis Tate.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Grace, 2015
(Late Sunday Afternoon; The Guardian Inn and Connor's House, Murray, Virginia)
THE EASIEST CLASS to teach and grade is math. Everything is simple in math. There is one answer—at least until you get to proofs and everything becomes complicated after that—to every question. There’s no answer that’s mostly right, partly right, halfway right…it’s correct or it’s incorrect.
I wish life were like that.
When I was a substitute the questions were, “Solve for X: 2x=10” and the answer was “x=5.” Now I have questions like “In To Kill a Mockingbird, how does Scout change throughout the novel? Are there ways in which she remains the same?” and the answer is five pages long.
I also used to be happy in my solitude—or at least content—but now I spend an inordinate amount of time thinking about my relationship with Sam and missing him so much that it feels worse than being stabbed. At least when Francis attacked me, my body numbed itself to deal with the pain. Why doesn’t it do the same with emotional distress?
My phone rings. I lunge for it, thinking it must be Sam.
“Hello?” I blurt.
“Grace?”
I try to match the woman’s voice to a person, but I can’t figure out who it is. Have I become that unattached from reality?
“Yes?”
“It’s Rayna,” she says. Oh. My real estate agent.
“Rayna, it’s not a good time—”
“Grace, something happened at the house,” she says. “I was going to take the Akimotos to take another look at it, but now I can't get in the house because the police are there. The house is cordoned off with yellow tape and there are literally police everywhere. Nobody will tell me what is going on. They’re acting like it’s something big though.”
I close my eyes. “Rayna, I should have called you. I found out a couple hours ago that Zach Schneider may have been killed.”
“What? Oh, my God.”
“Do you see Sam there?” I ask. “I need to talk to him.”
“Um, I haven’t seen him yet,” she says. “Let me ask around.”
I hear the buzz of people talking as Rayna is probably walking around, interspersed with her asking people if they have “seen Dr. Sam Meadows, the medical examiner.”
After a few minutes, when I’m about to hang up and just call his cell phone, I hear a woman’s voice say, “You’re looking for Dr. Meadows?”
“Well, not me,” Rayna says. “His girlfriend, Grace, who is also Connor's sister, who has power of attorney over the residence, wants to talk to him.”
I hear a rustling sound, as if the phone is being passed between hands.
“Hello,” the woman’s voice says. “My name is Dr. Carter. I am acting as the medical examiner since Sam can’t work the case.”
“Why can’t he work the case?”
“He didn’t tell you?” she asks. “He has a conflict of interest in the case since you’re his fiancée.”
"He's my fiancé?"
"He's your fiancé. Or…" The hesitation in her voice is palpable. “Maybe not. He has mentioned wanting to marry you, so I thought…I guess I was mistaken.”
“I guess,” I repeat, but I realize I want to marry Sam. Now. I want other people to call me his fiancée and all of our other issues seem minuscule in comparison to the fact that I want to spend a lifetime with him. I want to wake up every morning and thank God that I get to see his face right beside me. I don’t want to lose him. “We’re…we’re working on it. We’re trying to figure everything out.”
"I see."
"What's going on?" I ask. “Have you decided if it was murder or suicide?
“We found impact marks on the closet frame that suggests there may have been a struggle. Some hair traces…Could you tell all of this to Sam? He may not be officially able to work on the case, but I know he would want to know.”
“Of course,” I say. “Can you get DNA from the hair traces?"
"We can, and have. It's out for a CODIS match now. We're checking Ohio agencies first. Want to let me in on the secret as to why Sam's really interested in Ohio records?" she asks.
I close my eyes. “I used to live in Ohio. I was attacked by one of my former students there—”
"Ooooh. I remember that. It was on CNN,” she says. I manage to not groan.
"His name is Francis Tate. He cut a deal with a prosecutor and he’s out of prison,” I say.
"And do you think he still holds a grudge against you?"
"Yes."
"Enough that he'd start killing people you knew and cared about one by one just to get to you? Or to make sure you were alone?"
"Yes. Likely…and Sam's not wanted me to be alone—God, he really does think Francis Tate's come here, hasn't—I need to call him. No. I should go apologize. Excuse me."
I hang up. Sam was just trying to protect me, in his own, silent way. Francis Tate may have killed both Sam’s John Doe and Zach Schneider. My legs shake as I stand up. Life is complicated, but right now, there is only one answer.
Find Sam, apologize, and then deal with Francis Tate.
Chapter Forty
Francis, 2015
(Early Sunday Evening; Sam’s House, Murray, Virginia)
THE PROBLEM WITH ATTACKING a man is that there is a chance that he’s stronger than you.
This problem disappears when you’ve spent two years locked in a prison cell and all you can do is workout.
I take my bowie knife out of my pocket and charge at Sam. He tries to stumble onto his feet, but I slam into him before he can and thrust the knife into his chest. The knife doesn’t get far—the breastbone stops it—but Sam screams and that’s satisfying enough for me. I hold the knife against his throat.
“Shut up,” I snarl. “Shut up or I’ll leave your blood all over this house for your girlfriend to find. Then, I’ll kill her, too, and everyone will know this house as the place where a double homicide was committed by the infamous Francis Tate.”
“Don’t hurt her,” he says. “She never did anything wrong.”
“She sent me to prison.” I growl, pressing the knife harder against his throat, so a thin line of blood appears. “She led me on and then refused to love me.”
I pull out the cable ties I grabbed from Steve Rolf’s truck. “Roll onto your stomach. If you try anything to get away or hurt me, I swear to God…I will call Grace here and you’ll get to see her die.”
He rolls onto his stomach as his body slumps in defeat. Good. I press my knee into the center of his back, so he can’t flip back over. I grab his wrists and tie them together with two cable ties.
“Tell me something,” I say. “What makes you so special? Why is she with you?”
“I don’t know,” he says. I flip him over onto his back.
“How can you not know?” I demand.
“I don’t,” he says. “Trust me. I’m as amazed that she wants to be with me as anyone is.”
I press the tip of the knife in the center of his clavicle. I cut into his skin. His whole body tenses, but he doesn’t make a sound. I keep cutting, making a trail down to his navel.
“Is it because you saved her life?” I ask. “Is that really how high her standards are? Should I…shove her in front of a train and pull her away in the nick of time?”
“No,” he says. “You should leave her alone. Respect the fact that she isn’t in love with you.”
“She should have respected me first,” I say. “I was listening to you. I’ve been outside your house for hours. You want to marry Grace. Isn’t that so…sweet?”
“I haven’t proposed,” he says.
&nbs
p; “But you want to.” I jerk his hands out from under him and pull his ring finger away from the rest of his hand. I press the knife against it. “Maybe we should make sure you can’t wear a wedding ring.”
“Please,” he says. “If you’re going to kill me, just kill me. But leave Grace alone.”
I lay his hand flat and stab the knife through his palm. His scream sounds like it could split the house in two. I’m not worried. His neighbors are too far away to hear anything, but I suppose I should take a precaution.
“I’m not going to just kill you,” I tell him. “We’re just starting to have fun. Let me just get something to gag you and then we’ll really see how much the body can take. You’re a cardiologist and a medical examiner, right? So you should know how much blood you could lose before you die. How much is that?”
“It depends on body size,” he mumbles.
I laugh. Doctors always feel the need to give a noncommittal answer. “Okay, so how much for you?”
“About four pints,” he says, his voice sounding exhausted.
I look around the kitchen. “I guess we need to find a measuring cup, don’t we?”
The adrenaline rush of playing God fills me. This will be better than the time I attacked Grace. This time, I am in complete control and the devil inside me knows exactly what he’s doing.
Chapter Forty-One
Grace, 2015
(Sunday Evening; Sam’s House, Murray, Virginia)
WHEN I PULL MY CAR into Sam’s driveway, something feels wrong. It’s as if the trees have shifted, casting a larger and darker shadow over the house. It’s as if the trees are shielding the moon and the stars from seeing what is happening inside the house.
I step out of car and the air is colder than it’s been in recent weeks. It has the same chill as when winter is approaching quickly and no has had time to prepare for the storm.
I knock on Sam’s door, my paranoia reaching a climax. I wait. For a moment, I think I hear something inside, but nobody comes to the door. I knock again.
Disturbed Mind (A Grace Ellery Romantic Suspense Series Book 2) Page 13
