Don't Tell
Page 34
Leaning her forehead against the cool refrigerator, she closed her eyes and whispered, “I’m not running away.” Was she? Was that “whole bigamy thing” simply smoke and mirrors? Had she ever cared two figs for the North Carolina legal system? No. The answer to that question was definitely no. She looked around her kitchen, seeing bread crumbs on the counter, a knife in the sink, remnants of the last sandwich Tom had gulped before leaving on his camping trip. Her son was healthy, strong, well-fed. And safe. Dana was right. He was safe because she’d ignored the thought of the fraud involved in obtaining his birth certificate, his social security number. Everything else was inconsequential when compared to keeping her son safe. Including the law.
She was glad Tom hadn’t seen her this way even as she missed the comfort she knew he’d loyally provide. It made her feel guilty, her dependence on Tom, the weight she’d placed on his shoulders all these years. She sniffled, trying to clear the congestion in her head, to no avail. With a deep sigh, she made her way back to the bathroom, hoping a hot washrag would do the trick.
She pushed open the bathroom door and braced her hands on the sink, letting her head hang low. She’d hurt him. She’d cut Max to the soul. She’d seen it in his eyes. And Dana’s words began to penetrate her mind. Had she been trying to run away?
She turned on the hot water until steam rose from the faucet, then wet a washcloth and draped it over her face. It helped. The pain behind her eyes seemed to decrease a little, allowing her to think just a bit more clearly. She lowered the washcloth and stared at her reflection in the mirror. The woman that stared back was familiar to her although it had been years since they’d been well acquainted. The woman that stared back had cried often in the old days. In the days of burns and breaks and bruises. Before she’d run away.
She was still running away. Here in the quiet of her own apartment, she could admit it. She was running because she was afraid. Not of Max. Never of Max. But she was afraid just the same. And she had wounded the very man she claimed to love. Letting the sigh come she covered her face with the cloth. It was still warm. She sniffled. Her nose was opening just a little. Although her eyes still throbbed, they felt less like she’d gone five rounds with the champ. Or with Rob.
She took the washcloth off her face and breathed deeply. And her body ceased to move.
She smelled … him. Rob. That overpowering smell of his aftershave. She shook herself, stared at her red face in the mirror and grimaced, trying to force her irrational fears from her mind. Don’t be silly, she told her reflection. It’s just your mind playing tricks on you, she thought. Just that you’ve been reliving every horrible day with him since you found St. Joseph in pieces. Dana said he’s never coming back and she’s always right, fathead though she might be.
“Calm down,” she murmured aloud and ran the wash-cloth under the hot water once again. She pressed the hot cloth to her face, feeling throbbing behind her eyes reduce just a bit more.
St. Joseph in pieces. Something had been nagging at her since she’d found the broken statue the day before. Max said Bubba the cat had knocked the statue off the night-stand, but that was impossible. She’d let Bubba out before leaving with Max. Hadn’t she?
She breathed deeply again, willing her thundering heart to calm down.
And froze, the breath she’d drawn trapped in her lungs. She felt her stomach clench, felt every muscle in her body go painfully rigid.
Smoke.
Oh my God. Her stomach heaved and she choked the bile back down.
Cigarette smoke.
Slowly she lowered the cloth and stared.
Dana was wrong this time, she thought, her eyes locked on the reflection that now smiled back at her. He filled the width of the bathroom door, the top of his head not even visible in the mirror. He leaned against the doorjamb as if he’d lived in her apartment all his life. One large hand raised to his mouth, a cigarette between his fingers.
Paralyzed, she watched the smoke rise from the red tip of the cigarette, waft lazily to the ceiling. A memory flashed before her eyes. He’d use it on her. He had before. The red tip would hurt. The acrid smell of burning flesh would combine with the stale smell of the cigarette smoke. And it would hurt. Numb, she watched as the smoke continued to rise.
He dragged on the cigarette and blew the smoke so that it formed a cloud around her head. He smiled, his lips baring yellow teeth. She’d seen them in her nightmares, fangs dripping with blood.
His smile widened into a grin, his eyes so calculatingly evil that she found herself mesmerized. Eyes of a cobra, she thought. Ready to strike.
“Honey, I’m home,” he sang cheerfully. “What’s for supper?”
Chicago
Sunday, March 18
Noon
Dana leaned her head against her apartment door, fatigue finally overtaking her body. The energy generated by anger only lasted a little while and her anger with Caroline had dissipated to mere frustration somewhere between the street in front of her apartment and the top of the third flight of stairs. By the time she’d gotten to the landing on the sixth floor, she just didn’t even care anymore. She shook her head, pivoting her forehead against the steel door. The memory of Max Hunter’s anguished eyes made her shoulders sag. Caroline was a fool. And selfish. And maybe just a little bit cruel. She’d always known Caroline was stubborn. She’d respected it, played on it, egged it on, for over the years it had been the tool to keep Caro going, reaching for her dreams.
But today … Dana shook her head again and fumbled with her keys. Today that stubbornness had ceased to be a tool and had become a weapon. She rested her hand on the doorknob as she slid her key into the first keyhole and frowned when the knob turned easily. A spurt of annoyance gave her the fuel to propel her body inside her apartment.
“Evie!” she shouted, hearing the edge in her voice and not giving a damn. “You forgot to lock the door—again!” Dana slammed the door shut and quickly applied the chain and twisted the three deadbolts, the succession of falling hammers providing her with a margin of safety. On her salary she couldn’t afford an apartment in any neighborhood resembling safe. Only the chain, three dead bolts, a good relationship with the local cops and the small revolver she kept under her mattress made her feel truly safe.
Evie hadn’t answered. Dana glanced at her watch. That girl would sleep past noon if nobody woke her up. Unbuttoning her coat as she walked, Dana made her way to the back bedroom.
“Dammit, Evie, wake up. You’ll sleep your life—”
The words dried up as Dana surveyed the wreckage in the room.
“—away,” she whispered. “Oh, no, oh, no. Oh, God, Evie.” She dropped to her knees beside the bed, one hand reaching for the girl’s throat, the other for the phone. The fingers of her right hand punched 911 as the fingers of her left desperately tried to detect a pulse under the twine wrapped around Evie’s neck.
Asheville
Sunday, March 18
12:30 P.M.
The bullpen was pretty quiet, comparatively. Quieter than a weekday. And definitely quieter than the group of scandal-hungry reporters that had gathered for the press conference in the auditorium of Asheville’s City Hall. Steven looked across the room to find Lambert intensely focused on typing at his computer, headphones covering his ears. When Steven approached, the headphones came off and Lambert looked up with a grimace.
“Transcribing the tap on Winters’s home phone,” he explained.
“Anything?”
Lambert shook his head and grabbed a cup of coffee from the corner of his impeccably ordered desk. He swallowed, then grimaced again and spit it back in the cup. “Ugh. God. The only way to make our coffee worse is to drink it cold. I’ve got a few calls, mostly telemarketers. Sue Ann did call her OBGYN, though. Made an appointment for a pre-natal visit.” Lambert dragged his fingertips down his face and stretched his back. He gestured to an empty chair. “I hate transcribing. Gives me a hell of a headache. Have you heard from Spinnelli?”
Lambert seemed to sag in his chair. “Toni says the ME is ninety-eight percent sure the hair from Winters’s boots belonged to the boy. I knew it would, y’know?”
“But you hoped it wouldn’t.”
“I really hoped it wouldn’t.” Lambert looked away, staring at the wall map. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to work with a man for fifteen years then find out he’s a monster?”
Steven considered it. He did, but not in the same way Lambert was facing. Not wanting to think about his own personal monster, he got up and poured two cups of coffee, then returned to Lambert’s desk and handed him one.
Lambert flashed a grateful smile. “Thanks.” He hesitated. “And thanks for encouraging Toni the other day. It’s what she needed to hear.”
Steven shrugged, a bit uncomfortable. “It was the truth.”
“Still. Thanks.” Another uncomfortable moment of silence stretched between them, then Lambert straightened in his chair and ran his hand through his golden hair. Mussing it. Steven bit back a smile. Even mussed the man could pose for GQ, but somehow that no longer made him less of a cop. “Did Spinnelli have a policewoman call Caroline Stewart?” Lambert asked abruptly.
“I don’t know,” Steven answered, kicking himself for not thinking of this already. “Assuming she is Mary Grace, a male cop might be intimidating, considering everything she went through with Winters. If she’s home, she might not even open the door. Also, if Spinnelli hasn’t been specific about why he wants her to call him, she might not return a phone call from the Chicago PD.”
“Have Toni call,” Lambert suggested, then grinned. “She can talk sweet when she wants to.”
“When she wants to what?” Toni asked from behind them and Steven turned to find her dressed in a conservative black suit. It was showtime for the press.
“When the press conference is done, I’d like you to call Caroline Stewart’s apartment,” Steven said. “She may respond to you when she’d run from a male cop.”
“I will. For now we have a meeting with a pack of hungry piranha.” She looked over at Lambert and one corner of her mouth tilted up. “Comb your hair, Jonathan. It’s time to face the music.” She glanced up at Steven as Lambert pulled a comb from his desk drawer. “Thanks for coming, Steven. This press conference is about the assault on the boy, but Mary Grace will likely come up.”
Steven patted her shoulder gamely. He hated press conferences almost as much as blind dates. “I couldn’t let you have all the glory, Toni. That just wouldn’t be a gentlemanly thing to do.”
Chicago
Sunday, March 18
1:45 P.M.
He was strolling back and forth, king of his castle. Caroline had seen him do it before, many times, usually from behind swollen eyelids. Today was no different. A dull throb pounded at her temples, at the base of her skull, making concentration difficult. She tested her upper right eyetooth with her tongue. It was the slightest bit loose. She rocked her jaw back and forth, as surreptitiously as possible. It wasn’t broken. Yet.
Rob walked the length of her tiny living room, a gun in one hand. He would do this with some regularity way back then. He’d take his revolver, the one his father had left him, put it to her head and click, pull the trigger. It was never loaded, he’d laugh later. But she was never sure.
Today was a little different, however. Today his gun had a long silencer, as if he was prepared to fire it in an enclosed place. Like her apartment.
Rob stopped pacing and smiled at her.
From her seat on the old sofa, her blood ran cold. She briefly considered running, but her eyes focused on the gun in his hand. He might not shoot her, but she’d never make it to the door. She knew that much for a given fact.
“I’m surprised at you, Mary Grace,” he said, the smile easing into his voice. “You’ve managed to lead me on a long chase. Someday you’ll have to tell me how you managed it all.” His eyes went brittle. “I’d like to personally thank all those people who’ve helped you along the way. All those people who lied for you.” His smile changed from brittle to mere baring of yellow teeth. “All those doctors who said you were crippled, that you would never walk again.” He looked her up and down. “You had me on that one. How many of them did you have to sleep with to get them to lie for you?” He lifted his brows. “We’ll cover that one later. I promise. For now let’s get back to the main question at hand.” He took a step forward. “Where is Robbie?”
She stared up at him, willing her eyelids to blink, her throat to swallow. And said nothing.
He took another step, until his feet were inches from hers. “You look different,” he commented. “Your hair’s too dark.” He reached out and grabbed a handful and yanked her to her feet. “I’d wager it’s still that same blond at the roots. Maybe we’ll find out.” He wound the handful of hair around his wrist until she stood on her toes, her eyes tearing. “Where is my son?”
He’d asked it before. How many times? A dozen? More? She’d withdrawn so deep she’d lost track. Each time he demanded to know where she’d hidden Robbie she’d said nothing, earning the brunt of his fury, feeling the blinding pain as he pummeled and pounded. She’d survived it before. She could do it again.
Caroline closed her eyes, forcing her mind to calm, forcing herself to think of something else. Anything else. Anything to keep the truth from her mind so that she didn’t mindlessly blurt it out. The cold barrel of the silencer ground into her temple and she flinched.
“Tell me, Mary Grace,” he crooned silkily. “I know you’ve poisoned him against me. I know you’ve made him hate me. You’ve made him hate his own father. Now, Mary Grace, that’s just plain wrong. You’ll tell me where he is.” He yanked her hair and she swallowed the yelp. “I know he’s camping. I just want to know where.” He pushed the silencer harder. “Tell me where.”
Caroline kept her eyes closed, her lips closed. Her mind closed. He would have to kill her first. She inwardly blanched, unable to dismiss the mental picture of Tom finding her body here on the sofa. He’d find her, dead. He’d remember her that way forever.
“No,” she murmured, more to herself than to Rob. Tom would remember her as she’d been. Dana would help him through the rest. Whatever else happened, Rob would never get his hands on her son. She drew in a sharp breath as Rob yanked her hair harder.
“You will. You’ll tell me soon enough.” He brought her hard against him and ran his lips along the curve of her jaw. She shuddered. She couldn’t help it. The cold barrel of the gun followed the wet trail his lips had left behind. “I have ways of making you tell me what I want to know, Mary Grace. You may think you know them all, but you’re wrong. I’ve spent the last seven years … honing my craft.”
The phone rang at that moment and Rob paused, his hand still tangled in her hair, her head still bent back. Her throat still exposed. Keep your eyes closed, she told herself. The phone continued ringing. As long as you don’t see him, you can pretend you’re anywhere else in the world but here. It had been her only salvation seven years ago. She prayed she still had the mental will to block him out. She was so tired already. Finally the machine picked up. “Please leave a message.” It was Eli’s voice. He’d recorded it for her years before, simple and sweet, so that no one would guess she was a woman living alone. The tone beeped.
“It’s probably your sugar daddy again,” Rob commented, sliding the barrel of the silencer down her throat. Max. He knew about Max. Caroline stiffened and Rob laughed. “He called twice already while I was waiting for you. ‘Please call me, Caroline. I’m so sorry, Caroline,’” he mimicked cruelly. “I hear y’all had a pretty big fight there this morning.”
Caroline’s mind went to Max, remembering the anguish in his eyes, knowing this might be th
e last time she ever heard his voice.
“Caroline, pick up the damn phone.”
Caroline’s eyes flew open. It was Dana’s voice and she was crying.
“Oh for God’s sake, Caroline, grow up and pick up the phone. I need you here. Evie’s hurt. The paramedics just took her to Rush. Somebody attacked her, here in my apartment. Dammit, Caroline, just meet me at the emergency room. She’s unconscious and they don’t know if she’ll make it.” Click.
Caroline turned her gaze on Rob’s face, watching as his eyes flickered, as all trace of his mocking disappeared. He became angry and Caroline felt her gut go liquid. Then quickly Rob smiled, tightening his grip on her hair, yanking her still higher on her toes.
“Dammit,” he said, almost conversationally. “I thought I’d finished that job. That girl’s just too damn tenacious for her own good.”
“You,” Caroline heard herself whisper.
He nodded, his expression growing dark. “Yes, me.” He looked at her, and Caroline’s skin crawled. “I put my hands around her neck and squeezed until she begged me to stop. So I did. I tied her hands and feet with sharp twine. Tight.” He yanked her hair. “It cut her and she bled.” His lips curved and he ran the tip of his silencer down her throat, between her breasts, caressing the underside of one breast with the cold metal. “Do you want to know if I raped her? I didn’t need to. She’d given it away for free all weekend.” He grinned, wolfish and smug. “But I did anyway. Did it hurt her? Oh, yes, Mary Grace. It hurt her a lot. Did she scream? She would have, if I hadn’t covered her mouth with duct tape. Stupid bitch. Then I took some of that sharp twine and twisted it around that pretty neck of hers until she stopped breathing. Too bad I was in such a hurry to get over here to you. I got sloppy.”
Oh, God. Evie. Grief rose up and with it the need to cry aloud.