“I promise.” His voice was intimate, husky with meaning.
Shelly pictured him on the other end of the line, probably playing with his dick as he fantasized about raping and killing her.
“Did you find my other present?” he asked.
“There’s more than the underwear?”
“Look under your pillow.”
Shelly’s eyes drifted to the bed. The right side was a bit rumpled, the bedspread not as neatly tucked in as she normally left it.
“Go on, look,” he urged in what sounded like suppressed excitement.
She couldn’t move. It could be a snake or a tarantula, something alive and deadly.
“I’m waiting.”
Shelly’s entire body shook uncontrollably as she glanced at the drawn curtains. Could he see her right now? What if he was still in the house?
Just look. Get him off the line. She kept her body a foot from the bed and grabbed an inch of the bedspread’s fabric and jerked. The pillow, encased in its crisp white linens, didn’t move. Shelly turned it over, jumping back before checking to see what lay beneath.
Against the white sheet lay something tiny and colorful. A doll, perhaps. Shelly edged to the side of the bed and peered closer. She picked it up, a three-inch plastic mold of a mermaid with long blond hair, a jeweled comb in her locks and a fish tail instead of human legs.
It was broken in half.
“Found it yet?” he asked.
He couldn’t see her. The knowledge took her fear down a notch. “Yes,” she whispered. “I see it.”
She gently replaced the phone on its base and sat on the edge of the bed. Her bed. He’d actually been here, touched her things, lain on her bed. She jumped off, stripped the pillowcase and wrapped up the severed mermaid figure inside the casing. That out of the way, Shelly jerked off the bedcover and sheets, trembling in fear and disgust, frantic to get rid of the contamination. She would wash them clean of the killer’s touch. Her stomach roiled and cramped, the taste of bile tainted her mouth.
After putting the soiled sheets in the washer, Shelly sat in the porch rocking chair, moving in syncopation with the gentle rise and fall of the tides. The moonbeams reflected on the ocean swells were liquid swirls before being swallowed by whitecaps—like a galaxy of fireflies in the swarming sea.
Her ancestors had been drawn to this bayou hundreds of years ago, following pirates as they landed their vessels in small coastal coves and hid their illegal booty. In the secretive, sheltering canopy of cypress and live oaks they’d slithered through tall salt marshes in pale moonlight and reclaimed the treasures as their own. What fell to the sea belonged to its own.
In the Deep South they found a place where humans minded their own business and were too busy eking out their own daily survival to delve into others’ shady backgrounds. In spite of moving inland to profit from the black market in maritime treasure, they remained at heart water gypsies who returned to the sea over and over during their lives.
Her mother had been born too late. Had fallen in love with a human long after the merfolk realized their mistake and interbreeding was banned.
I’m a mistake. A freak caught between earth and sea. Shelly stood with a sigh and climbed the stairs back to her bedroom.
But long after the sheets were changed, the killer’s presence lingered, a poisonous miasma that would cling until she’d dealt with him. Hard to believe that hours earlier she’d been so happy, so secure in Tillman’s arms. She pressed her fingers to her lips and remembered his hot kisses, a moment she’d been fantasizing for months. And he did not disappoint—in fact he surpassed her high expectations. This wasn’t how she’d imagined the night ending. She’d give anything to be held all night long in his strong arms, safe and warm. Shelly hugged a down pillow to her chest, but it was a poor substitute.
She impulsively picked up her cell phone off the nightstand and found the phone number Tillman had input on her contacts page. Dare she call him? She hesitated. How in the world could she explain why someone was stalking her and how she had possession of a knife used to kill at least two women? Not to mention, Jet and Lily would be furious at the secrecy breach. Humans were not to be trusted, and Tillman’s job as sheriff made him doubly risky as a confidant. She snapped the cell phone shut and tossed it back on the nightstand.
Shelly rubbed her forehead as she lay in the tainted bed and considered her other options.
* * *
In spite of the lined uniform jacket, Tillman shivered as he looked out the window of the utilitarian office and observed dozens of workers gutting fish at the seafood processing plant. Most of them were Laotian and Vietnamese women who eviscerated shrimp, crabs and fish with amazing speed and precision, despite the fourteen-hour days and the frigid temperature necessary to keep the sea harvest from spoiling. By far, the most undesirable job at the plant. The brief walk to the supervisor’s office had left him chilled to the bone.
The door slammed and a heavyset man in khakis and a flannel shirt shook his hand. His grasp was strong, probably from years of hard labor at Trident Processing and Packing before promotion to management.
“What can I do for ya, Sheriff?” He was direct but not unfriendly.
Tillman dug a photo out of the inside pocket of his jacket. “Take a look at this.” He slid it across the battered steel desk. “Are all employees issued these company baseball hats?”
“Anyone who wants one. Most do.” He handed the photo back. “What’s the deal?”
“It was found next to the latest victim’s body.”
The manager shrugged. “Hope you got more clues than that. We have hundreds of employees here.”
“That many? How many employees do you have now?”
“About three hundred. That’s counting the new waste facility. Luckily, we’ve been able to hire back most of the people laid off. The ones that wanted to come back, anyway.”
“I know it’s probably a long shot, but I need a list of all the employees at Trident so I can run their names in the computer and check for violent priors. Have you had any employees, current or old, that were fired for fighting at work or for any sexual misconduct on the job?”
The manager crossed his arms. “There’s plenty of men go at it from time to time. Nothing we ever had to call the law to break up. Jobs in this town are mighty hard to come by and they know it. Gives them incentive to behave.”
Tillman nodded. “Besides the names of current employees, I’d appreciate a list of all employees fired or laid off in the last nine months.”
“You got it. I’ve got a wife and a daughter scared to get out at night since the killings. Myrtle Hyer in HR can set you right up.” He picked up an old phone and pressed a number. “Myrtle? Grimes speaking. We’ve got the sheriff out here. He needs names of all current employees as well as recent fires and layoffs. I’m sending him over now.”
It took ten minutes to walk from the main processing area to the administrative offices.
Myrtle awaited, documents in hand.
“Impressive,” Tillman said, taking the thick manila envelope.
“No problem, Sheriff.” Myrtle wore dark-rimmed spectacles and bore a no-nonsense attitude. “We always cooperative with law enforcement.”
Tillman shook his head. His ears still rang from the clanging of large equipment in the plant. He opened the folder and skimmed its contents. The list of fires and layoffs consisted of nearly thirty names. Of that number, only five were outright fires.
“Any way I can find out why these folks were fired? I’d really appreciate any help.”
“Grimes didn’t say you needed that, too.” Her voice was laced with impatience and she pulled open a file drawer with a bit more force than necessary.
Tillman took out a pen. “Don’t mean to make you go to a lot of trouble. If you could just briefly tell me why for each one, that’s good enough.” Working in Personnel, Myrtle should be familiar with the former employees. He read aloud the first name on the list.
“Earl and Harold Dawes, also on the fire list, were terminated for fighting. It was their third offense.”
“Gary Bradshaw?”
“Failure to show up for work for three days without calling in. Automatic dismissal.”
“Lester Jones?”
“Drinking on the job. Also grounds for automatic dismissal.”
Tillman scribbled notes next to each name.
“And the last one. Melkie Pellerin?”
“Insubordination.”
Tillman looked up from the papers. “That’s a fireable offense? Sounds a bit harsh.”
Myrtle pursed her thin lips. “He objected to his new female boss, Kathy Albright. Called her names and refused to obey any orders she issued. Pellerin undermined her authority to the crew and hampered their ability to be productive.”
“What kind of names?”
Myrtle hesitated. Despite the pink flush that crept up from her neck she repeated the words: “Cunt, bitch, whore—whatever you can think of, he said it.”
Tillman stuffed the papers back in the envelope. “Thank you, ma’am.”
Tillman got in his patrol car and called Carl for two addresses. He’d start with Earl Johnson and Harold Dawes.
Chapter 6
Inside the heart of Happy Hollows
Resides the bleakness of the gallows
Broken houses with broken dreams
Rotted by sighs and tears and screams.
Shelly held a stiletto knife in the palm of each hand—one used, the other new. Jet was right, this type of knife was common. She’d raced to the nearest sporting goods store in Mobile, bought a new knife and worked to manually age the new knife well enough to fool her enemy. Satisfied with her initial efforts, Shelly turned her attention to the finer details. She slipped on latex gloves, withdrew the original knife and studied where its handle was irregularly grooved with nicks and bumps. With the precision of a surgeon, she used the fine tip of a Swiss Army knife to carve similar markings on the new stiletto. Satisfied at last with the effect, Shelly again used the fine-grained sandpaper, dulling the sharp edge of the new knife.
She surveyed her handiwork. Would it be good enough to trick the killer? Her body broke out in chill bumps. She had to do this, scared or not.
An enraged scream rang through the upstairs hallway. “My rings! Someone stole my rings!”
Jet’s door opened across the hall. “What’s going on?”
Shelly stepped out of her bedroom. Lily’s face was flushed with anger, ocean-blue eyes flashed in outrage. In her hands was an open jewelry box empty of all its contents. “They’re gone. My diamonds, the fire opal, a ruby, the aquamarine, the citrine from my father, the pearls from our mama, and the—”
“Son of a bitch!” Jet dashed down the stairs. “What else is missing?”
Lily’s eyes filled with salty tears. “They’re all gone. All my treasures.” She looked like a lost child, broken. Shelly had never seen her so upset.
“Oh, honey, I’m so sorry.” Shelly put her arms around her cousin. Guilt stabbed through her. She had brought this on her family, had exposed them to the killer. If only she hadn’t broken surface with that dead body.
“Who?” Lily’s gaze penetrated Shelly’s. “Who’s been in our house?”
“The killer.” Shelly’s throat closed up, felt raw.
From below came the sound of objects falling, furniture scraping against the hardwood floor and Jet’s muttered cursing.
“How can you be sure it’s him?” Lily asked.
“He left me a message.” Shelly led Lily to her bedroom and showed her the broken mermaid figurine and the bagged-up panties.
Jet’s footsteps hammered up the stairs before she barged in. “I think the robber got some coins from the den, but I can’t be sure.” She stopped at the sight of the baggie. “What’s that?”
“A present from the robber. Who also happens to be the killer,” Lily said.
“Yep. Evidence.” Shelly squared her shoulders. “I’m going to take care of this. I’m giving this—” she held up the bag “—to Tillman. He might be able to get fingerprints.”
“He’ll want to file a police report on the robbery.” Jet sighed, hands on hips. “Not a good idea. They’ll probably send officers over here to scour the place. We don’t want that.”
“We need to file some kind of report. Otherwise, when they’re recovered we can’t claim them. I’ll speak with Tillman about it and show him what the killer left.”
“Did he steal anything of yours?” Lily asked.
“I don’t have a lot of value other than Mom’s emerald, which I always wear, and the black pearl necklace.” Remembering her loss, Shelly felt a searing anger replace the fear. If the killer wasn’t caught soon, he might pawn their treasures. More jewelry could always be scavenged undersea or bought with their enormous stash of wealth, but the memories attached to each piece were irreplaceable.
A few hours later, Shelly drove down the shady bayou roads, past tangles of saw palmettos and moss-laden live oaks with branches so long they spanned across the road and met in the middle. At last she saw the Happy Hollows welcome sign. Not much longer now. She checked her mileage—another 5.3 miles to go. Slowing the car, Shelly furtively looked down every dusty road she passed. Was he watching her now? Perhaps parked behind a grove of thick foliage? She tried to sustain the anger she’d felt earlier, but the fear was back with a vengeance.
Maybe she should just keep driving, all the way to Mississippi and beyond. Nothing held her forever to Bayou La Siryna. She and Lily and Jet had enough money to go anywhere in the world.
Tillman’s image arose before her. His tall, strong frame, the warm gray eyes that darkened to smoke when he kissed her, the musky woodsy scent of him clouding her senses until she ached to be closer, ever closer.
If only he was with her now.
But as much as she wanted his protection, if she told him about the killer she could be placing her family and other mermaids in jeopardy. After all, she’d seen Melkie’s face, could identify him in a criminal lineup, and her cousins had dragged China’s body to shore. By not coming forward immediately, they were all, at the very least, obstructing justice. Tillman wouldn’t be likely to overlook the deception if she told the truth now. And any hope she had of exploring a relationship with Tillman would be over before it got started. No one wanted a grotesque mutant that transformed into a half fish, half human woman at a drop of seawater.
It wasn’t fair. It was as if the fates were conspiring against her just when she’d found someone that truly excited her for the first time in years.
Shelly’s fingers gripped the steering wheel so tightly the muscles of her arms and shoulders knotted with tension. He wasn’t here and she had to do this alone. Shelly made an abrupt U-turn and headed back to the drop-off spot. For the hundredth time, she patted the gun on the seat beside her, the cool metal comforting. If the killer was there waiting to get her, she would take him out if she had no other choice.
At 6:55 a.m. Shelly did a second U-turn, coming to a halt on the side of the road, only six feet from the marked oak. Her eyes scanned the ground and found the empty plastic container set only a foot away from a large shrub. It had an orange powdery residue inside, probably an old Cheetos container. She tried to peer between the green leaves and branches for a human form crouching in wait but couldn’t make out anyone. But the man could be anywhere, watching her every move.
Shelly gripped the door handle with her left hand while the other held the gun, safety off.
Now or never.
She opened the door, pocketed the keys, hesitating, waiting to see if the madman would come roaring through a hidden ambush. At the silence, Shelly left the shelter of the car and emerged onto the road, quickly circling in all directions, keeping the gun up high, fingers on its trigger, letting him know she was armed.
What if he’s brought an accomplice? The unwelcome question almost sent her
back in the car and speeding all the way to California. But she was committed this far, and it would be over in less than a minute.
Shelly ran to the tree and prepared to scoop up the container before running back to the car. But as she bent over, hands reaching for the container, she came eye level with a clump of brown fur nestled amongst pine needles, sweet gum balls and oak leaves, only two feet away. Flies buzzed around the slit carcass of a squirrel, a pool of blood and gray matter staining the sandy soil around it. The squirrel’s eyes were missing.
Her screams rent the morning air as she scrambled backward, sure that at any moment now the killer would attack. Quickly, Shelly grabbed the container and ran back to the car, locking herself in. Her hands shook so bad, it took three attempts before she could unscrew the plastic lid and drop the counterfeit knife inside. Once done, she slid down the passenger-side window, tossed the container back under the tree and hit the gas pedal before it had even touched the ground.
Two miles down the road, Shelly finally took a deep breath and tried to calm her nerves. Remember your plan. Go back and try to get a picture of him. Nail that bastard.
The car screeched loudly as Shelly spun it around, back to the place she’d just left.
It was 7:04 a.m. The deadline had come and gone. Would he be there? Shelly pulled her digital camera with its 200-millimeter telescopic lens out from under the car seat and unrolled the passenger-side window. At the dip in the road, she slowed in case there was an opportunity to catch him retrieving the knife. This time, she wanted him to be there, wanted to capture his face on the camera or at least the make and model of his vehicle so it would be easier to find out his identity. This would give her something to work with, maybe even to show it to Tillman—if she could ever trust him enough to confess what she’d witnessed. He could take it from there.
Shelly squinted. She couldn’t find the tree with the red string, even though she was in the right place. She slowed the car and eased over to the opposite side of the road.
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