She kept going, but her footing was still uncertain, and by the time she reached the edge of the courtyard, Del and Brad had caught up to her.
“Where is he?” Del asked, a little breathless.
Darryl appeared in the open front door of the ranch house. “He went in here, but he may be cutting through to go out the back.”
Roubidoux, Barnett, and Sandy arrived. Darryl pointed behind him. “Hank’s inside.”
Barnett looked at Roubidoux. “Cover the rear, I’ll take the inside.”
“We’ll cover the rear,” Karen said.
“I’ll cover the rear,” Sandy said. “You go back to the reception.”
Karen glared at him.
“You three help Hank inside,” Darryl said, “and we’ll cover the rear. Hurry!”
“Come on,” Barnett said, ducking through the door into the house. Roubidoux followed. Sandy looked at Karen.
She gestured sarcastically with her hand—what are you waiting for?
Sandy followed Roubidoux into the house.
“Come on,” Karen said to her brothers, holding her gun at the high ready position. Leading the way along the side of the house, she edged up to a window, quick-peeked, saw nothing inside, and moved on. It occurred to her that her wedding gown was drenched, stained, and torn in back. Lane would be completely pissed off. She reached the corner of the house and raised a hand. Darryl, Del, and Brad stopped behind her.
She peeked around the corner of the house and saw the patio where she and Lane had enjoyed lunch yesterday. Beyond the patio was a long green lawn, meticulously groomed, and an in-ground swimming pool with white chairs, tables, yellow umbrellas, and an empty metal liquor cart.
She saw no movement. Nobody. No killer.
She spun around the corner, gun out in the Isosceles stance she favored, both arms fully extended, elbows locked. She moved forward slowly, heel and toe, heel and toe, the patio stones warm and wet through the soaked pantyhose covering her feet. The wedding gown, wet and heavy, made a swishing sound as she moved, but nothing could be done about it. Her hair and makeup were ruined. Lane would never speak to her again.
What the hell, folks. This is me. Karen Stainer. People can like it or fucking go fish.
Her eyes knifed around, searching, as the boys fanned out behind her, Brad toward the house on her right, Darryl and Del toward the swimming pool on her left.
The French doors burst open and the videographer, her assailant, the Rainy Day Killer, the son of a bitch, ran out onto the patio, arms pumping, mouth clenched, eyes darting back and forth. His hands were empty. True to form, he had no gun.
He passed Brad without seeing him, spotted Karen, and skidded to a stop as he realized her gun was aimed at his forehead. He knocked over a patio chair that clattered away from him and bowled over a potted plant. His feet went out from underneath him on the wet stone.
Down he went.
He rolled three times and stopped. When he looked up, he was staring into the muzzles of four semi-automatic pistols held by four grim-looking, barely-restrained, thoroughly pissed-off Stainers.
“Say your prayers,” Karen gritted.
“Wait for Barnett,” Darryl warned.
“I’m gonna grease him,” Karen growled. “Turn away.”
“Back off, Darryl,” Del said. “I’ll shoot off his balls, Kay, then you can double-tap him in the head.”
“What’s that leave me?” Brad complained.
“Shut up,” Karen said. “All of you.”
Hank burst through the French doors onto the patio. “Barnett! Preston! Out here!”
FBI Special Agent Hudson Barnett ran out, followed by Sheriff’s Deputy Steven Preston, who’d disobeyed orders to join in the pursuit. Suddenly all business, Preston leveled his gun at the prone fugitive.
“Gerald Mansfield, a.k.a. John Doe, you’re under arrest for assaulting this woman. Detective Stainer, please lower your weapon. You others, I want you to do the same. I’m taking this man into custody.”
Karen stared down into the watery brown eyes of the Rainy Day Killer. He was a small, inconsequential little creep who didn’t look very much like the damned composite drawing they’d papered half of the eastern seaboard with for the past month. Beside the fact he’d shaved his head, which was knobby and white, his nose was wider, his lips were thicker, and his ears were much larger than had been depicted on the poster.
He looked like a completely different guy.
So much for Esther Banks, their reliable eyewitness.
“Now I’m going to be famous,” he murmured, a supercilious little smile at the corners of his mouth. “Thank you, Detective.”
Karen growled, a low, throaty, animal-like sound.
She’d had the shot, and she hadn’t taken it.
She lowered her gun and curled her lip.
“When they put the needle into your arm, you son of a bitch, I’m going to be there watching. For Theresa and Liz and all the others.”
“They’ll never get that far. The book will be a bestseller, Kevin Spacey will play me in the movie, and I’ll still be around, haunting your dreams. You’ll see.”
She didn’t bother to reply. Turning her head, she spat on the patio stones and walked away.
50
Saturday, June 1: late evening
“So how does it feel?” Brad asked, putting his feet up on an empty chair.
Karen sat with her back against the wall, legs across Sandy’s lap. “How does what feel?”
“To be a married woman. Plural, as opposed to singular.”
“Feels great,” Karen said.
“That’s just the midazolam talking,” Sandy said, rubbing her foot.
“It is not. I only got a tiny little bit of it.”
“The vodka, then.”
“Well, that.” She ran a hand along the leg of her getaway jeans, into which Lane had allowed her to change before dinner, given that her wedding gown was a mess. “Anyway, I’ve been plural for a while. Sandy and me. Us. We.”
“Now it’s official,” Darryl said, taking out a cigarette and rolling it between his thumb and index finger.
“Since when did you start smoking again?” Karen asked.
“Since about an hour ago.” Darryl looked at Sandy. “It’s your father’s fault. He gave me a pack. Took pity on me.”
“Where’s Rebecca?” Karen asked.
“Dancing with your new captain.” Darryl waved a hand at the dance floor, where a crowd was swinging around as the Steve Eakin Band belted out a lively version of “Bring It On Down To My House Honey.” He stood up. “Anybody care to join me for some fresh air? The rain’s stopped.”
“Later,” Brad said.
Darryl walked around and kissed Karen on the top of the head. “She’s very proud of you, in her way.”
“I know.”
“Try to forgive her.”
“I will.”
Darryl patted Sandy on the shoulder and slipped off into the crowd.
Forgive her for being weak. Forgive her for being crazy, for having broken genes that she’d passed on to her only daughter, for going away, for leaving her without a mother, for forcing her to grow up before she was ready to, for forcing her to be stronger and tougher and meaner than anyone else. To be who and what she was today.
Karen closed her eyes, rubbing the lids. She was satisfied with who and what she was today, thanks. It was all good.
People could like who she was or fucking go fish.
When you looked at it that way, it was easy to forgive poor, crazy Mary Beth.
Poor Mary Beth.
Poor Mom.
She opened her eyes as Del and Beatrice spun off the dance floor and sat down at the table with them.
“Feeling okay?” Del asked.
“Yeah, I’m fine. Thanks.” Karen shrugged it off. “A little whacked, but still ready to go.”
Del reached over and handed Sandy a set of keys. “Darryl forgot to give you these. Can’t make your get
away if you can’t start the car, can you?”
“Thanks, Del,” Sandy said. “We really appreciate it. It’s a beautiful car.”
“You’re welcome.” Del looked at Karen. “I hear Hank got a promotion. What’s that all about?”
“It’s not official yet. They’ll post the list next week.”
After Preston, Barnett, and Roubidoux had left the ranch with their prisoner, Hank had called Martinez to give her a situation report. When he was done, Martinez asked to speak to Karen. They were in Bill Alexander’s study at the time, just Hank and Karen. The paramedics had been and gone. She’d checked out fine, Karen told Martinez, and didn’t need to go to the hospital. There was a small burn on her neck from the stun gun and a small wound on her calf from the syringe. The paramedic had treated and dressed them, and that was it. Her head had cleared up and she was fine, thanks. A little weak, but getting better.
She accepted Martinez’s well done and passed the phone back to Hank.
She tuned out at that point, brooding about Lane, wondering what she’d have to do to mend fences. The reception was going ahead as planned, if slightly delayed, and hopefully Lane would have a few wine spritzers and get over it.
When Hank put away his phone, he had an odd look on his face.
“What?” Karen said, sitting up. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“It’s not nothing. You look like you just fell down a well. What’s wrong?”
“Ann told me they called her to let her know the results of the board.”
“The captains’ board? Don’t tell me we’re stuck with Cassion. Fuck me. Jesus fucking Christ. Hank, I can’t stand that woman.”
Hank shook his head. “Not Cassion. She’s on the list, but at the bottom.”
“So what’s wrong, then?”
“The name at the top of the list.”
“I give up, Hank. It’s been a long day. Who’s at the top of the list?”
“I am. The chief’s going to offer me Major Crimes after they publish it next week.”
She flew out of the chair and gave him the longest, hardest hug she’d ever given him.
“He’ll be responsible for homicide, robbery, arson, and family-related,” she told Del. “He deserves it. He’s the smartest guy in the department, bar none.”
“Will you still work for him?”
Karen nodded. “They’ll bring in another lieutenant to replace him but yeah, he’ll be my captain.”
“What about the killer?” Beatrice asked. “What happens to him?”
“Ask the feds,” Karen said, digging her heel into Sandy’s thigh.
“Ow.” Sandy moved her legs away and lowered them to the floor. “It’s a county bust at the moment, because they’re charging him with assault on Our Little Package of Sugar, but that’s just for starters, to hold him over until we can fast-track a DNA test and match him up with the John Doe warrant. Then the negotiations will start.”
“I heard he may have killed the real video guy,” Del said.
“Gerald Mansfield.” Sandy nodded. “They’re searching for him now. There were signs of foul play in his studio in Roanoke.”
“So they think this guy killed him so he could come here posing as the videographer? Because no one here had ever met the real one?”
“Looks like. If that’s the case, there’ll be some arguing back and forth, but the Mansfield killing probably won’t carry the death penalty, as the Olsen and Baskett homicides will in Maryland. Hopefully he’ll end up back with us.”
Beatrice picked up an empty glass on the table and looked at it meaningfully. Brad took the hint and went to the bar after taking orders from everyone else except Sandy, who would be driving later tonight when they made their getaway.
“Thank God I’m not the youngest,” Karen said.
“You’d have the night off even if you were,” Del said.
“So who is this guy, really?” Beatrice asked. “Do they know?”
“Ed Griffin thinks his real name’s William Schenker,” Sandy said. “Originally from St. Louis, where the first Rainy Day Killer murders took place. Apparently local police actually questioned him at one point, early in their investigation, but let him go.”
“You’re kidding.”
“You have to understand,” Sandy said, “they talk to a lot of people in these cases. Ed asked our St. Louis office a couple weeks ago to have St. Louis PD go back through all the files looking for someone named William something, and they came up with four. Only one was still in the city. They’d just started running down the others, but Ed thinks Schenker’s the guy. He was an insurance claims rep, apparently, which is how they think he got close to his early victims before he started the Rainy Day Killer homicides.”
The band suddenly launched into an up-tempo cover of one of Karen’s favorite Hank Williams songs. She stood up and swatted Sandy on the shoulder. “Come on, good lookin’, enough chit-chat. Let’s go have our getaway dance.”
He grinned at her and bounced to his feet.
Del stood up and kissed her. “Have fun, Kay. I love you very much.”
“I know. I love you too.”
She embraced Beatrice, grabbed Sandy by the hand, and pulled him out onto the dance floor.
Acknowledgments
I’m grateful to the authors of three reference sources: John E. Douglas, Ann W. Burgess, Allen G. Burgess and Robert K. Ressler, Crime Classification Manual: A Standard System for Investigating and Classifying Violent Crimes (San Francisco: Jossey-Bass Inc., 1992); Robert K. Ressler, Ann W. Burgess and John E. Douglas, Sexual Homicide: Patterns and Motives (New York: The Free Press, 1992); and Frederick A. Jaffe, A Guide to Pathological Evidence (Toronto: Carswell, 1976). Any misstatements, errors, or incorrect interpretations of their work are entirely my responsibility.
Once again, I’m deeply indebted to editorial reader Margaret Leroux for her superb work with the manuscript. Thanks as well to Gwenda Lemoine, my “Clive Cussler” reader. If there are any sections in this novel that you, the reader, skipped through because they were boring, it’s not because Gwenda didn’t point them out to me first.
Thanks go out to the real Stuy Porter and Charlene Tennant-Pecaskie for the loan of their names. Stuy, I hope you didn’t mind that Karen called your counterpart a dope. Charlene, perhaps managing a mall would be an improvement on the SRS!
Finally, thanks go out to my wife, Lynn Clark, to whom this book is dedicated. Lynn has once again spent many hours as my editor, taking on not only developmental editing of the first draft but also the copy editing and proofreading of the revised manuscript and the final proofs. Thanks to her, as well, for the lyrics to the song “End of the Day,” attributed in the novel to Liz Baskett. In addition to her work on this manuscript, she has also labored tirelessly as publicity and distribution manager for our imprint, The Plaid Raccoon Press—for which the raccoon is, believe me, eternally grateful (contact information available at www.theplaidraccoonpress.com).
For everything you’ve done, and for all your patience, love, and affection, this book is lovingly dedicated to you, Lynn.
About the Author
Michael J. McCann lives and writes in Oxford Station, Ontario, Canada. A graduate of Trent University in Peterborough, ON, and Queen’s University in Kingston, ON, he worked for Carswell Legal Publications (Western) as Production Editor of Criminal Reports (Third Series) before spending fifteen years with the Canada Border Services Agency as a training specialist, project officer, and program manager at national headquarters in Ottawa. He’s married and has one son.
He’s the author of the Donaghue and Stainer Crime Novel series, including Blood Passage, Marcie’s Murder, and The Fregoli Delusion, as well as The Ghost Man, a supernatural thriller.
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Hank Donaghue is on vacation when he’s jailed on suspicion of murder. Can Karen Stainer get him released and help him find the real killer before it’s too late?
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The only witness to the sensational murder of a Glendale billionaire suffers from a rare disorder that renders his testimony useless. Is Karen Stainer wrong to believe that he’s telling the truth?
The Rainy Day Killer Page 29
