The Dollmaker (Forgotten Files Book 2)

by Mary Burton

  Neither his mother, Benson, nor Sharp could really accept that Kara had died of an overdose. It simply didn’t fit the girl they’d loved so much. The devastating news had driven his mother to sedatives. Roger began harassing the police chief for any answer to explain why his only daughter was dead. And feeling helpless, Sharp had returned to Iraq.

  His mother died a year after her daughter, and Roger grew more adamant about finding a reasonable explanation for why Kara was dead. No answers were ever unearthed, and the old man became more withdrawn and eccentric. When Sharp’s contract with the marines ended, he’d wanted to protect his home turf, not a far-off desert, so he joined the Virginia State Police. After eight years as a trooper, he was promoted to agent two years ago.

  Rain droplets leaked from thickening clouds as the priest read from the Book of Common Prayer, “I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord.”

  When the service ended, the priest made the sign of the cross, then picked up a handful of dirt, which he gently tossed on the casket. Sharp followed suit, scooping up some soil and letting it drop from his fist.

  The priest said a final prayer, and Sharp turned toward the two headstones next to the empty grave soon to be Roger’s final resting place.

  He muscled off the heavy grief resettling on his shoulders as he stared at the stone-etched names of his mother and sister and the dates encapsulating their lives. Flexing his fingers, he suddenly realized he’d not brought flowers. Shit. It was a small failure but another in an endless succession.

  His attention settled on Kara’s headstone, and most specifically, on the day she died. The actual date was a guess. She had been missing five days before her body was found propped against a tree by a country road, so October 21 represented the medical examiner’s best estimate. Her birthday was tomorrow. She’d have been thirty.

  “Dakota Sharp.”

  Sharp braced and turned to see the old man in the gray suit approach. He walked with a slight limp and had bloodshot eyes. He’d been drinking.

  “You’re Dakota Sharp,” the old man said.

  A chill clung to the moist air and burrowed into his bones. “That’s right. Chief Knox, correct?”

  “I’ve not been chief for over ten years.” His red tie, stained with a grease spot, was twisted in a large careless knot. “I became a private investigator after I left law enforcement. I worked for your father.”

  “Stepfather.”

  Knox reached in his pocket and pulled out a pack of gum. He offered a stick to Sharp, who declined. “Right. RB told me you two didn’t get along.”

  At forty-one, Sharp could acknowledge he’d not been the easiest teen to rear. Roger, in his own way, had tried to be kind. “Your point?”

  “Roger and I were friends for years. He knew I became a private investigator after I left the department, and he hired me to find out what happened to Kara.”

  “She died of an overdose.”

  “He never believed that.”

  Death and murder were a part of Sharp’s job as an investigative agent for the state police. He’d dealt with families like his own who couldn’t accept devastating loss.

  Knox folded the gum wrapper in half and then into a triangle. “When did you see RB last?”

  “We met for drinks in early summer.”

  They’d met in a run-down bar on Richmond’s north side. Tense and feeling awkward, Sharp had nursed a beer as Roger drank gin and tonic and recalled how lovely Kara had been when she’d left for college. The old man’s hand had trembled slightly when he summoned the waiter and ordered a second drink. “She had an artist’s eye, like me,” he’d said.

  Sharp had let his stepfather reminisce until the conversation circled back to the same unanswered questions about Kara’s last days. By the time Sharp had paid the tab and put the old man into a cab, he’d felt only pity.

  “Roger never mentioned you two worked together,” Sharp said.

  Knox sharpened the folded edge of the wrapper with a yellowed thumbnail. “He talked about you a lot. He was proud of you.”

  Fat raindrops fell. Within minutes the skies would open, and they’d both be soaked. “What can I do for you, Mr. Knox?”

  “Roger called me a couple of days ago. He said you’d be at his funeral.”

  “He died of a heart attack. How did he know there’d be a funeral?”

  “I can’t say for sure, but my guess is he sensed the end was close. RB said you were loyal to a fault. Best way for me to talk to you face-to-face was to wait for him to die. He knew you’d be here.”

  Unsettling to think the old man had pegged him. “You could have called me.”

  “Better to have this conversation in person.”

  “Why?”

  “Roger wanted you to have all my files on Kara’s case.” The weary-looking old man shook his head. “I talked to so many people. There was a time or two when I thought I might have something, but none of my leads ever panned out.”

  “Why give me the files?”

  “RB said you’re one of the best at what you do. He said if anyone could find a hint of foul play, you could.”

  “Again, why dig into the case? The medical examiner ruled her death an accident. Overdose.”

  “You know RB never believed that.”

  “You were the chief of police then. You know there was no forensic data to back up Roger’s suspicions of homicide.”

  “I’m not appealing to your logic, but your loyalty to RB. He wanted you to have one more look at the case.”

  These files were likely a rabbit hole. A goddamned blind alley destined to loop back to an unrecoverable loss that still bred anger and blame. Jesus, Kara would be alive now if Roger had been a more attentive father. Or, shit, if Sharp had stuck around, not joined the marines, and seen to it Kara lived a full life.

  Sharp cleared his throat. “Do you have my address?”

  “RB said you lived on Libby Avenue.”

  “That’s the old place. I moved out about eight months ago.” He pulled a business card from his pocket. “Send it to my work address. I’m there more than not.”

  Knox took the card, flicking the edge with a bent finger. “I looked into everyone who knew Kara, including you.”

  “Me?” Sharp had no secrets, so if Knox’s comment was meant to put him on edge, it fell flat. “I was in Iraq when she died.”

  “She met people through you. I was interested in them.”

  “She also met people at school. At the lake. In the bars where she used her fake ID. You look into all those people as well?”

  “I did. Funny you ended up marrying one of her friends. Tessa’s her name, right?”

  “We aren’t together anymore.” Separated was the legal term, but he wasn’t keen to jab into more wounds today.

  “I asked around. She’s doing well. Hear she’s overseas identifying the remains of lost US servicemen.”

  Sharp’s patience snapped. “Make your point.”

  “When you’re looking at my case files, keep an open mind. I think RB was right.”

  “What do you mean, right?”

  Knox shoved his hands into his pants pockets as he turned. “Look at the files.”

  Sharp blocked the older man’s attempt to leave. “You know who fed her the drugs?”

  “I think if you look at the files, you’ll see things I didn’t.”

  The heaviness on Sharp’s shoulders grew, but he didn’t attempt to shrug it off this time. Kara’s death was his burden to carry alone now.

  Knox looked past Sharp toward the headstones. “I’d go to my grave willingly if this case were closed and I thought the person responsible for Kara’s death were caught.” He shook his head. “Maybe I spent too much time with RB. But I don’t think the kid accidentally overdosed.”

  Sharp glanced back at the funeral attendant as he removed the flowers Knox had brought from Roger’s casket. The man’s gaze met Sharp’s. When Sharp nodded, the attendant signaled two gravediggers to lower th
e casket into the vault and seal it.

  “Send me the files.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Monday, October 3, 3:00 p.m.

  The Dollmaker gently touched his newest creation’s face, knowing it was still tender. The redness and swelling had faded, and the skin had shed the damaged cells, leaving healthy skin in its place. Still, her face would be sensitive to touch, and he didn’t want to hurt her.

  Her skin warmed his fingertips as he traced the outline of her thin dark eyebrow, then slowly along high cheekbones dotted with freckles, and finally over bright-red heart-shaped lips.

  She was perfect.

  A living doll.

  Four weeks ago when they’d met again, her face had been lovely in an ordinary sort of way. She was in her late twenties with long limbs, a trim waist, and perky round breasts. But she’d reached her full potential, which was sadly destined to fade with age. So he’d intervened, rescued her from her predictable life, renamed her Destiny, and enhanced her beauty by painstakingly tattooing her face.

  Experience taught him flawless tattoo art began with detailed prep work. And knowing Destiny deserved the best, he took his time, first sedating her, then cutting off her brown hair and shaving her scalp and eyebrows until the skin was as smooth as glass. Next he used alcohol pads to clean the skin so there’d be no risk of infection.

  Only when the canvas was ready did he reach for the first tattoo gun loaded with the finest of needles. It took a full day of meticulous work to cover the key portions with the base coat of white ink. And though there were times when his hands ached and his back stiffened, he refused to rush. Finally, when all the base color had been applied and the tiny amount of blood wiped clean, he tattooed gracefully arching eyebrows. Next came the rosy blush of color on the cheeks. Stippled freckles. Heart-shaped lips. He saved the eyes for last, permanently lining the upper and lower lids with the steady hand of a seasoned artisan.

  Toward the end of the transformation, she began to wake, so he injected a fresh syringe of sedative into her IV line. Very quickly she drifted off to sleep again. The transformation had taken more time and drugs than he’d planned, but the end result was worth the complication of restocking his drug cabinet.

  After the job was complete, he wrapped her head and face, knowing the healing process was critical to the best tattoo work. Infection and neglect ruined tattoos. He changed her bandages four times daily, understanding his work at this stage was akin to an open wound.

  For her safety, he kept her drugged and hydrated with an IV bag hanging over a special reclining chair. And as she slept, he spent hours embellishing and tailoring the clothes to match her flawless features. Again and again, he gently removed her bandages and carefully washed her face.

  Ten days of healing had passed, and he now stood back and studied her. All the hours of labor and the extra days of recovering had been worth it. The colors on her face were vibrant and vivid, the lines clear and sharp.

  He’d dressed her in a plaid skirt and a white top that was formfitting but not overly tight in a vulgar sort of way. He turned toward the collection of wigs and vacillated between blond and auburn. Finally, he chose the blond wig with long locks that curled gently at the ends. All the wigs were natural, the best on the market. He’d even taken extra care to trim the bangs on this particular model so delicate wisps of hair brushed the tops of her painted brows.

  The Dollmaker carefully settled the wig on her head, centered it, and after brushing it, braided the strands into two thick ropes. He slowly rolled on knee socks, savoring the silky smoothness of her freshly waxed calf, and then folded the white cotton neatly at the top. He slid on patent-leather shoes and fastened the buckles so they were snug but not too tight.

  Destiny’s finishing touches included a small bracelet with a heart charm on her left wrist, and on her right hand, a delicate pinky ring. He painted her fingernails a pale pink, fastened delicate earrings, and dabbed hints of perfume behind her ears and on her wrists.

  He stepped back, pleased. She was his living doll. A perfect mate.

  He lifted her listless body and placed her on a red couch in front of a photographer’s screen. He angled her face to the side and propped it up with a silk pillow. He arranged her braids on her shoulders and fluffed her skirt. Reaching for his camera, he snapped a couple of pictures as he did with all his dolls.

  Glancing in the viewfinder, he frowned, not liking what he saw. Her eyes were closed. And to have the right effect, they needed to be open.

  Time to wake up.

  “Destiny,” he whispered close to her ear. He ran his hand over her cheek, along the smocked edge of her blouse, and over the swell of her round breast. Drawn by her seductive lure, he squeezed her nipple. His body hardened, and unable to chase away temptation, he slid his hand under the skirt and caressed her.

  She wasn’t ready for him yet. But she soon would be. He needed to be patient.

  “Time to rise and shine.”

  When she didn’t stir, he pulled an ammonia caplet from his pocket, snapped it, and held it close to her nose. She inhaled sharply as the acrid smell chased away the haze.

  His Destiny doll looked up at her creator with a lovely look of bewilderment. Yes, her open eyes completed the look.

  He snapped his fingers. “Wake up, my sweet little doll.”

  She stirred and her eyes fluttered, but the sedatives still lingered. She was confused as she stared up at him. “Where am I?” she asked. “Am I getting better?”

  “You’re perfect.”

  She blinked, focused, and looked at her hands, now tattooed white like her face. She tried to rub off the ink, and when it didn’t smudge, confusion turned to worry. She pushed off the couch, but her legs wobbled as her head no doubt spun.

  “Not too fast, Destiny. It’ll take time for the drugs to clear.”

  She staggered a step, crumpled to one knee. “What’s happening? What have you done to me?”

  “I’ve made you perfect.”

  She looked at her delicately painted fingernails, and as her gaze rose, she caught her reflection in a large mirror he kept in his studio. She froze, shocked. Tears mingled with disbelief. “What have you done?”

  He didn’t like the judgment in her voice. A perfect doll didn’t judge. It didn’t get angry. Look at you with disgust and horror. A perfect doll was still. Accepting.

  “Shh,” he said. He put his camera aside and reached for a drink cup with a straw. “It’s okay. You’re fine.”

  With a trembling hand, she touched the wig and then her bow lips. “I look like a freak!”

  Worry crowded out his happiness. “Don’t say that. I’ve made you perfect.”

  “I’m a monster!” Her hands trembled. Red-rimmed eyes spilled more tears.

  He hated to see a woman cry. They used their tears to make him feel bad and to manipulate him. “Don’t be ungrateful.”

  Shaking her head, she raised her hand to her head and felt the wig. “My hair?”

  When she tried to tug the wig free, he brushed her hand away. “Don’t do that,” he said, trying to remain calm. “It took me a lot of time to get it right.”

  “It’s not my hair. Not my skin.” She forced herself to stagger toward the mirror. Her face inches from her reflection, she gawked.

  “You must be pleased with the work. You’re one of my best creations.”

  She rubbed the round blush on her checks and the dots of freckles. Worry ignited in her eyes. “What have you done to me?”

  “I’ve made you beautiful.” He snapped more pictures, enthralled by this instant of discovery. She might be shocked now, but she would be beholden to him when she realized the beauty of his work.

  Her fingers curled into fists. “You’ve ruined me.”

  “I’ve made you a living doll.”

  With a yank, she pulled the wig off and smoothed her hand over her bald head. She screamed. The shrill sound cut through his head, shattering his calm.

  She glanced wildly ar
ound at the large four-poster bed, the rocking chair, and the small table with the tea set. When she saw the door, she stumbled toward it. Her knees wobbled as her skirt skimmed the top of her shins.

  She yanked on the knob, and realizing it was locked, screamed, “Let me go!”

  “No one can hear you,” he gently said.

  She pounded her fist on the hard wood, crying for help and mercy. “This is a nightmare!”

  “You need to calm down. It’ll be all right. I have taken such good care of you.”

  Her eyes blazed with hate and disgust. “You fucking freak!”

  Her harsh words belied the angelic features. “That’s not necessary.”

  “Like hell it’s not! Let me out of here! Let me go!”

  As her raw words mingled with more weeping, he knew he had to silence her. Dolls were not supposed to speak, and Destiny was not supposed to cry.

  He moved to his worktable and hurriedly dumped a powder into a glass. As she shrieked louder and pounded on the door, he added fruit-flavored water because he knew she’d like the taste.

  Mixing the drink with a straw, he stood beside her. “Here, drink,” he said, raising the straw to her lips.

  She slapped at his hand. Red drink sloshed on her white skin. “Get away from me. I’m not drinking anything else.”

  “You have to drink,” he coaxed. “It’ll help you, and when you wake up, you’ll be better than you were.”

  “How can I be who I was? This shit is all over me.” Her hands clutched into fists, she slowly slid to the floor, her legs crumpling under her like a rag doll.

  “I promise. Drink this and you’ll be fine. You’ll see.” He pressed the tip of the straw to her lips that now were always smiling. “Please, drink.”

  “I don’t want to drink.” She tried to stand but couldn’t rise. “I want to go home.”

  “And I want you to go home, too.”

  The Dollmaker wiped the tear from her cheek with his fingertip, pleased her face remained unspoiled. No smudged mascara or faded blush and lipstick. No one would undo his work.

  She stared up at him, eyes large with fear and hope. Finally she sipped, her throat and mouth clearly parched.