After talking with her, she finally agreed to give up all the cats except three. They would be spayed and neutered back at the shelter then returned once they checked out. If they could let her keep those three, it would help her from hoarding again. It was a case he’d continue to monitor, make sure she wasn’t reverting to old habits.
By the time he walked into his apartment, he wanted nothing more than to burn what he was wearing. He threw the clothes in the wash with an extra scoop of detergent. Sometimes the heavily scented detergent would get the smell out. Grayson sniffed his skin, smelled ammonia, and grimaced. He scrubbed and scrubbed to get the smell out of his skin until the water ran cold.
Tacos for dinner on the way to the hospital weren’t the healthiest dinner, but Grayson didn’t have time for anything else. Remembering the last green smoothie Hope made him, he made a face. A little boy coming down the corridor with his dad grabbed his father’s hand. Nice. Now he was scaring children.
“Jackson. Surprised to see you here. Everyone okay?”
Hope’s boyfriend looked like he hadn’t slept in a while. “My aunt was admitted last night. A heart attack. She’s out of surgery and will be okay if she changes her ways.”
“Sorry to hear it.”
“Mother’s flipping out about her age. She’s two years older than Aunt Deborah.” He frowned. “Hope’s bad enough with the green smoothies. My mother called her for recipes. Now it will be kale for everyone.” He laughed halfheartedly. “Why are you here?”
“I stopped in to see Fred. Another officer. He’s finally getting to go home.” Seeing Jackson’s look, Grayson elaborated: “He was shot in the line of duty. Lucky to be alive. It really did a number on him. He’s moving to California to live with his brother.”
“Man. You never know, do you? I’m all for hunting and protection, but there’s got to be more we could be doing to keep guns out of criminals’ hands.”
“It’s a losing battle.”
They talked about work for a while and then Grayson yawned. “It’s been a long day.”
“Come on over for a late dinner and movie. But I have to warn you: it’s Hope’s turn to pick, so who knows what kind of chick flick we might have to suffer through.”
“I grabbed a taco on the way over.”
“That’s not enough to eat.”
Grayson agreed. His stomach did too. “You sure she won’t mind?”
“The more the merrier. Nothing fancy; we’re ordering in pizza.”
Jackson’s phone buzzed, and Grayson thought it must be good news by the grin.
“What?”
“I think the pod people have taken Hope and replaced her with someone else. She wants to binge-watch the first season of Power. Have you seen it?”
“Haven’t had the chance, but I heard it’s really good.”
“Well, hurry up. See you in a few.”
Hope had changed. Become harder. Not as easy to smile. She always looked like something was weighing her down. From what Jackson had said, she always picked a romantic comedy or one of those cry-your-eyes-out flicks. But lately she’d been into actions flicks and darker stuff. Influence of the new guy?
He jogged up the stairs to the third floor and stopped in front of her door. Kevin was interested in someone named Hope. But he’d never heard her express an interest in shooting. And this Hope was an excellent shot. Was she cheating on Jackson with Kevin?
The door opened and Jackson stepped back. “Left my wallet in the car. What are you waiting for? Come on in.”
The guy was dressed in a pair of shorts and a knit shirt, but there was a way he wore the clothes that said he’d grown up rich. The way he spoke and moved, it was old money.
“Let me grab some beers and then I’ll be in.” Grayson turned and went into his place down the hall.
They were taking a break after watching the third episode when Hope asked about his day. He told them about the emu and the hoarding.
Hope shook her head. “It’s really sad. Makes you understand how someone could lose themselves in grief and keep taking animals in. She probably thought she was loving the unloved cats no one else wanted. It doesn’t take a shrink to figure it out.”
Jackson looked up from his phone. “Will she get the help she needs? I’ll talk to Mother, see what they’re doing to help.”
Grayson knew Jackson’s mother chaired some kind of event that put a ball on every year. One of her many causes.
“She will. Hopefully she’ll be able to move past all this.”
He told them about another of his cases. The man who’d stabbed a family’s pet cow and pig.
It was the look on Hope’s face after he’d told them the story that made him pause.
“I’d like to stab him, see how much he likes it.” The vehemence in her tone took him aback. And he wondered again what was going on with her. Jackson had confided she’d been on edge. Said work was stressful and about to go through layoffs. It would explain the shift in behavior.
CHAPTER 33
SITTING IN ANOTHER ENDLESS MEETING, I look around the room. A few people are surreptitiously checking their phones under the table, a handful look interested in what the presenter is saying, and the rest are doodling or making lists—who knows? No one has anything important to add. It’s an annual meeting to plan out process improvement projects for the next year. Yawn, yawn.
When it’s my turn, I flip to my notes and share my list, along with thoughts on how to gain even more efficiency. Cut through some of the bureaucratic nonsense.
A stakeholder from one of the business groups speaks up, narrowing her eyes.
“I’m sorry, Hope. But you don’t know what you’re talking about. We know our business and we don’t need any improvement in our processes. Procedures and gatekeepers are in place for a reason. You can’t just cut through the approval process.”
The woman doesn’t have a clue what she’s talking about. Dark red smoke pours through me, and I fire back without thinking.
The room goes quiet, everyone’s eyes big as we spar back and forth. Then my wuss of a boss speaks up.
“Great discussion. Let’s table it for now and come back to it at the end.” He laughs nervously.
As I stare at the woman who argued with me, I want nothing more than to punch her in the face, tell her how easily I could end her where she sits.
What is wrong with people? All their petty problems don’t matter. Aren’t important. I feel dissociated from everyone at work. How do people work for organizations or support causes and not despise anyone who doesn’t share their focus?
This place is making me crazy. I cancel a conference call and leave for an early lunch.
Opening the door to the gun range, I inhale the smell of guns and spent bullets. I’ve been thinking there might be times the messenger bag won’t work. Online I found a holster you can clip inside your waistband. It might come in handy.
“You’re back. How’s practice going?”
“Kevin, right? It’s good to see you. Practice is going well. Maybe you can help me with what I’m looking for.”
The rack in front of me holds a bunch of holsters, but nothing looks like what I saw. “I’m going on a camping trip to the mountains with a couple of girlfriends, and you never know nowadays. There are so many weirdoes out there. One of my coworkers recently found out she had a peeping tom. It was horrible. She ended up moving back to Wisconsin. I’m looking for one of those little holsters you can clip on to the waistband of your skirt or shorts.”
“The guy in me applauds you for being safe. But as a cop I’d say, why don’t you think about getting a concealed carry permit?”
I wave a hand around. “I’m planning to get one, haven’t had time. In the meantime, with the trip coming up, I think safety trumps a silly ole piece of paper, wouldn’t you agree, officer?”
He smiles in that lazy way men do when they find you attractive.
“I won’t tell if you won’t. What you want is over here.” He
points to the right. I follow him over to a discreet display in the corner.
“This is what you want.” He hands me a small black holster. When I hold it up to my skirt he reaches over, his hand covering mine.
“Here, let me.”
He takes it off the cardboard and hooks it to the waistband, the warmth of his fingertips brushing against my stomach.
“It goes great with the flowered skirt.” Our eyes meet and hold before I step back. “This is perfect. Really appreciate your help.”
“Anytime. You going to shoot today?”
This is dangerous. I know better. “No, I have to get back to work. Maybe I’ll see you again?”
“I’d like that. Or we could grab a drink sometime?”
Sad and wistful is the look I go for. “I wish I could…at the moment I’m seeing someone.”
“I should have guessed. If anything changes, you know where to find me.”
As he leaves, he turns and looks at me. If I give him any indication I’m interested, he’ll be right back. Instead I give a little half wave, noting the disappointed look. It wouldn’t do at all to have a cop hanging around.
What is it with killers who keep trophies? Turning off the TV, I cringe. It was only a movie, but I’ve done a lot of reading lately. Reading up on cases where they found all kinds of gruesome discoveries. In my opinion, killers that keep trophies want to get caught on some deep level. No way can I afford to get caught or make a mistake. And no way I can handle living in a box on someone else’s schedule and rules. Not to mention the food. That would be the end of my delicious green smoothies.
Elise Bolton. Talk about a horrible human being. The woman murdered cats. Stuck their bodies in plastic grocery bags and hung them in the branches of trees around her secluded property. Others she took their skulls and placed them on top of those big plastic storage totes, arranged in patterns like something out of the Paris catacombs.
The police surmised she believed in magic. Thought she was communing with evil spirits she could make do her bidding. Personally, I think she’s a whack job.
When police and animal control arrived on the scene, many of the skulls still had flesh and bits of fur clinging to them. All in all, the police found over fifty skulls and bodies of cats. Neighbors in the surrounding neighborhoods had flyers posted of missing beloved pets. Knowing how it feels to lose your friend to a murderer makes me seriously consider doing to the woman what she did to the cats. It may be possible to drug her…
The article calls the property a torture farm. Elise spent sixty days in jail and can’t own animals for two years, and what did she do? Once she was back home, she got three cats off Craigslist. I know; I was watching her house when she got home one night and unloaded them. Heard her tell someone on the phone she had new conduits to the underworld. Like I said, seriously screwed in the head. And back to her old tricks.
What did killers do before social media? It’s easy enough to find Elise online. Thanks to the news article, I have her name and location. She’s almost as bad as Barry, posting everything from her morning coffee to what she bought at the grocery store. Today she posted she was planning to start her weekend off right with a walk on one of the trails in Clayton tomorrow morning. Turn over a new leaf.
A snicker escapes. More like she’ll become compost if I have anything to do with it.
The Clayton River Walk is a four-mile trail running parallel to the Neuse River. Part of the Mountains-to-Sea Trail that stretches from the mountains to the coast. And how nice: the town has recently completed a brand-new parking lot and access ramp at the intersection of Covered Bridge Road and the Neuse River.
I’ve never been to the trail, so I go after work to look for an appropriate spot that will suit my needs. A brisk walk will do me good. Earbuds in, music cranked, a bottle of water in hand, and I’m off. There are people out walking their dogs, joggers, and a few folks on bikes. The weatherman has called for scattered thunderstorms over the weekend, so I hope the threat will keep people away.
I’ve about given up on finding a spot when I walk through the trees and around a bend in the trail. It’s quiet and secluded. But with the terrain, there is no easy way for me to escape after. This stretch of the path gives me a decent view in front and behind. Afterward, I’ll be a scared jogger running away with everyone else. Of course, I have no way of knowing if Elise will walk this far. All I can do is follow her, and if the opportunity presents itself, take it. Plan B will be to follow her home and take her as she gets out of her car. Most people are creatures of routine. Very few vary those habits, whether it’s the way they drive to work or the nights they run errands.
Back at my place I have time before Jackson picks me up for the play tonight. The alarm on my phone goes off and I stand and stretch, my neck and back protesting from sitting so long. Time to get a shower and put on my happy girlfriend face.
The next morning I wake early. It’s 5:30. Has she posted she’s going? Sure enough, Elise has posted a picture of her cereal and running shoes. Says she wants to get an early start before the rain comes. That suits me just fine.
Dressed in my “work” uniform, I turn back and forth. The blond wig is long and curly. I have it in a ponytail and it doesn’t look too bad. The t-shirt is two sizes too big to help hide the bulge of the holster on the waistband of my shorts. The pink gun is cleaned and ready.
It will work. I look like another woman out for a run. Though I can’t very well run with gloves on. I can’t touch anything while I’m on the trail. The bullets are clean, and I’ll make sure to always wear gloves when I load the revolver.
People see what they want to see. If anyone notices a bulge at my waist, they’ll think it’s my phone. I’ll clip it on right next to the holster.
This early in the morning there are only a few cars parked in the lot. There is a corner spot close to the trail. I park the Jeep facing out so I can leave quickly and no one will notice the tag. My keys are in my pocket, I have my water bottle, and on goes Nina Simone.
In the picture Elise posted, she has on rainbow leggings and a fitted purple tank top. Poor Elise. She thinks she’s starting off her weekend on a healthy note. Let’s hope she appreciates the moody gray sky and beautiful landscape of the trail. It will be the last things she ever sees.
Over the past few months I’ve come to realize we live in a society where people are completely self-absorbed. No one wants to get involved. There are lots of hunters in North Carolina, which is good, because when people hear a gunshot, unless they live in certain bad areas, they’re more likely to dismiss the sound, thinking someone is out hunting, illegally or legally. Or they chalk it up to a car backfiring or fireworks. The sound is rarely called in.
Putting on the “uniform” and handling the gun signals a shift within me. It’s that place inside where we go quiet. Like a dry erase board and the smell of the markers signaled it was time to improve processes. Once your mind is set, there isn’t any doubt regarding your ability to follow through.
CHAPTER 34
AS I JOG, I COUNT the number of people I pass. Matching them to the cars in the lot. Two men, jogging and oblivious to everything but their stride. There’s a man and a woman pushing a stroller with a dog. I’ll be sure to keep an eye on them. And then Elise. I found her thanks to spotting the landmark from the picture she posted. A selfie in front of a blue bench with a water fountain nearby.
Elise wears headphones as she jogs. The pop music is faint but audible. She’s completely oblivious to her surroundings. I used to be that way. Never paying attention as I went to and from work, walked to lunch, and went shopping. But you never know who’s watching. Never know who meant you harm. Now I notice everything.
I’ve been alternating between my guns. Hoping to buy myself time before the police come knocking on my door. For I know it’s simply a matter of time until they find me. No one gets away with what they do forever. I can be as careful as possible, but in the end, doesn’t justice prevail?
&nbs
p; Our society is based on the belief of right and wrong, light versus dark, good versus evil. So if they don’t find me…don’t bring me to justice…then I’ve been right all along. There is no justice other than what I’m willing to mete out.
I know where the curve in the path is going, right by the spot I picked. As I round the bend, the walkway is raised with wooden slats, and on each side it falls away into brush and ferns. Forest undergrowth.
It’s quiet, the forest holding its breath, waiting for me to restore balance. There’s no one behind me and, now that the jogger has gone past, no one ahead. It’s going to rain any minute. I won’t get another chance. I’ve never tried to hit a moving target before.
One more look behind me and up ahead to make sure no one’s coming, then I pull out the gun, take aim, and squeeze the trigger. The shot goes wide. Instead of running, she freezes, giving me just enough time to aim again. The bullet hits her in the lower back, and she stumbles, falling off the walkway into the underbrush. The noise cracks and echoes through the air. I only have moments.
She’s trying to get up, gets to her knees as I line up the sights on the gun. This time my shot hits her in the head. Elise wobbles for a moment before gently falling back, the ferns cushioning her fall. I guess it’s true what they say…practice does make perfect.
The sound of voices makes my heart pound faster. It’s the man and woman with the child in a stroller. They’re standing in the path, arguing.
“… I know that was a gunshot. I thought hunting season was over?”
The man uses a tone I recognize. One Jackson uses with me when he doesn’t want an argument in public. It’s placating and it immediately makes me angry.
“Turkey season is over, but maybe someone didn’t know. I thought it sounded like fireworks.”
“It doesn’t matter. They shouldn’t be hunting off the walking trails. They could have hit our son. Or the dog. We need to call the police.”
There Was a Little Girl Page 14
