by Mary Burton
When she finished, he pulled the straw away and dabbed the corners of her mouth. “You like the taste of cherry, don’t you?”
She nodded.
“That’s a good girl.”
As she stared up at him, her breathing hitched, and she tried to suck in air. She drew a stuttering breath. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s okay. This is what’s supposed to happen.” The Dollmaker smoothed his hand over her bald head, already eager to put the wig back on her. “Soon your lungs won’t work at all, and you’ll stop breathing forever.”
“What?” she gasped.
“Don’t worry. I’ll be right here with you. I would never leave you alone at a time like this.”
“You’re killing me?” Her tiny voice was now a hoarse whisper.
“No. I’m finishing the job.”
Destiny tried to speak, to scream, but her lungs were paralyzed. He knew she was afraid, but her fear would soon fade. Gently, he tilted her back so he could peer into her eyes and watch the life drain from her body.
Her hand rose to his arm in one final attempt to cling to life. Her grip was surprisingly strong for someone who teetered so close to death.
He let her hold on to him, smiling and touching her cheek softly. “Shh. Let go.”
Her fingers twitched and slackened a fraction. No more tears moistened her painted cheeks. Death pulled.
The Dollmaker leaned forward and kissed her warm, full lips. Slowly, her hand fell away as the remaining spirit faded from her body.
When her eyes closed, he removed a clean tissue from his pocket and wiped her face, marveling at the peaceful stillness settling over her.
God, she was a perfect creation. In all his years of practice, he’d never made anything so beautiful.
“Death has made you my permanent little Destiny doll.”
He kissed her lips again, savoring the sweet tranquility. “I wish I could keep you forever, but we only have two or three hours. But don’t worry, I’ll be as careful as always. You’ll see how much I love you.”
CHAPTER THREE
Tuesday, October 4, 6:45 a.m.
Agent Sharp rolled up on the homicide scene, slowly drawing in a deep breath. Shutting off the engine of his unmarked police car, he stepped out, noting the half-dozen local police cruisers gathered, lights flashing, on the side of the rural road twenty miles northwest of Richmond. Tugging on his jacket, he moved across the open field toward the glare of floodlights, absorbing the morning chill hearkening an early winter.
Tall brittle grass brushed his pant legs as he made his way toward the uniformed trooper who stood guard at the edge of yellow crime scene tape. Sharp didn’t need to ask for case details since he’d received them en route. The body had been found on the creek bank near Roger’s hometown.
A local man checking on deer stands this morning had spotted the victim’s white shirt as his flashlight’s beam swept the creek’s bank. The responding officer had secured the scene and found a driver’s license lying on the victim’s blood-soaked chest. The dead man was Terrance Dillon, age eighteen.
Sharp extended his hand to the officer, Trooper Riley Tatum, who along with her search-and-rescue canine, Cooper, patrolled along this section of the I-95 corridor. Sharp and Tatum had graduated in the same class at the police academy, and they’d both worked patrol together until two years ago when he transferred to the criminal investigations unit. “Riley.”
Riley took his hand, her assessing gaze taking in his slightly damp hair, neatly shaved face, and black suit. “I think if I woke you up in the middle of the night, you’d be clean-shaven and wearing a suit.”
He liked Riley. She worked hard and didn’t pull any punches. “Don’t hate me for being so GQ, Tatum.”
“No, man, I just wonder if you ever let your hair down,” she said.
He smoothed his hand over his closely cropped hair. “My hair’s always down, Tatum.”
Riley laughed. “You wouldn’t know a good time if it bit you in the ass.”
“I’m not that out of touch.”
“You’re aging exponentially, Pops.”
At forty-one with a six-foot-one frame, he kept his body fit so Father Time’s damage wasn’t as apparent. He’d accepted the flecks of gray in his hair and deepening lines around his eyes as enviable marks of character. But, Pops? No.
“Where’s Cooper?” he asked.
“In the car. We’re about to wrap up the night shift and head home. I’d like to be there when Hanna takes off for school this morning.”
“I remember my senior year of high school. Lots of fun.”
She held up her hands in protest. “Don’t tell me about your exploits. It’ll give me more things to worry about.”
He grimaced. “You’re sounding like a mom.”
Riley was only thirty but had slipped into the role of mother to an adopted daughter, who was almost eighteen. “I’m a fast learner.”
When Kara was in high school, he’d been overseas, so their infrequent conversations were limited to the telephone. He’d enjoyed listening to her prattle on about her life, even if he didn’t catch all the endless details about fashion and friends.
“Dakota!” Kara shouted. “This is important! Are you listening?”
“I’m listening.”
“Okay, what’s the color of the dress I’m wearing to prom?”
“Red.”
“Oh, that’s close. It’s blue, Mr. Distracted!”
Sharp reached in his pocket and pulled out a packet of latex gloves pressed against a rumpled package of cigarettes. He tucked the cigarettes back in his pocket and, unsealing the gloves from a wrapper, tugged them on.
“They’re going to kill you,” Riley said.
“We all gotta die sometime.” On a good day he pretty much avoided the cigarettes, but lately, there’d not been a lot of good days.
She shot him a look he was used to getting from her now—sisterly exasperation. She was dating Clay Bowman, the new chief operating officer at Shield Security, a firm based sixty miles north near Quantico. She didn’t talk much about her personal life, but when Bowman’s name came up, her demeanor softened.
“Do we have any county deputies on scene?” Sharp asked.
“They were called away to a fire in town. I told them I’d cover the scene and you’d update the sheriff later.”
“I understand the victim has been identified,” he said.
Riley shifted her stance and flipped open a small notebook. “Terrance Dillon. Age eighteen.”
“Did you interview the man who found him?”
“I did a preliminary question and answer. His name is Mike Andreessen. He was scouting the land before hunting season opens. Inspecting deer stands.”
“Where is he?”
“The local deputy talked to him and let him go. We’ve all the contact information, so it’ll be easy enough to find him.”
“Did he see anyone in the area about the time he found the body?”
“Didn’t see a soul nor did he hear anything that was out of the ordinary. But he was pretty upset.”
Extreme stress could narrow vision and shut down the other senses. “Is this his land?”
“No. Belongs to a friend, but he showed me a note he has from the owner. He has the right to hunt the land, a fact I’ve also verified with a phone call.”
“Did he touch the body or move anything?”
“No, he did not.”
Good. The less outsider interference there was contaminating his crime scene, the better. “Right.”
State police didn’t have automatic jurisdiction in this homicide, but Terrance Dillon had been found in a rural locality with limited forensic resources. There was also evidence the body had been moved from a primary scene, indicating multiple jurisdictions could be involved.
“Didn’t you grow up in this area?” Riley asked.
“Yeah. About five miles east of here.”
“Somewhere near the college, right?”
“St
epfather was chairman of the art department. His house was on the lake.”
“Art department? I can’t picture you around a bunch of artists.”
“It wasn’t pretty,” he said. “Let’s have a look at the body. Lead the way.”
The sun peeked over the horizon, guiding them across the frosted field that crunched under their boots. Riley, an experienced search-and-rescue tracker, cut through the brush easily, forcing him to match her quick pace. Closer to the creek’s embankment roped off by crime scene tape, a halogen light running on a generator glowed unnaturally bright on the water’s rippling edge.
He lifted the yellow tape for her.
“Stop, you’re spoiling me,” she said.
“Only the best for you.” He waited for her to pass, then ducked under himself.
The victim lay on his back, arms crossed over his chest. The boy’s body was long and lean and had yet to gain the muscle mass many boys developed at this age. He wore jeans, boots, and a muddied letterman jacket.
Hands on hips, Sharp tapped his index finger on his belt. Needles pricked at the base of his skull, just as they had when he’d been a sniper and had his eye poised millimeters from the scope, finger on the trigger. “When was he last seen?”
“According to the missing persons report, when Terrance didn’t come home on Sunday night, his grandmother got worried and went looking for him. She visited his regular haunts, including the Quick Mart on Route 1. The manager told her he saw Terrance about nine p.m. getting into a fancy white Lexus.”
His gaze remained on the kid as he absorbed details: faint thin whiskers on a smooth chin, a small diamond stud in his left ear, a shiny high school class ring on his right ring finger. “Did he get in willingly?”
“Manager told the grandmother the kid was grinning when he opened the car’s front passenger door.”
“Has anyone been to the store to get surveillance footage?”
“Not yet.”
“I’ll take care of it.” Sharp squatted by the boy’s body. The creek’s waters lapped against the victim’s shoes.
A sensible man avoided this kind of violence and death. The horror was too much to process for the rational mind. But he had a knack for dealing with it. His ability to lock his feelings away into a box allowed him to narrow his focus to the target or objective. Later, sometimes weeks after a grim death scene, the emotions might stir. They wanted to be acknowledged. But he never let them loose. When it became too much, he went to the gym and pounded on a punching bag until his body was drenched in sweat and he was huffing for air.
Fellow officers said he was made of ice. They called it a blessing. The shrinks called it compartmentalization. The second term warned of consequences, but good or bad, he couldn’t turn off this innate skill, which at times he considered a curse.
Sharp thought about the pack of cigarettes in his pocket. He’d light up after he left the crime scene. “Who’s doing the forensic work-up?”
“Martin Thompson.”
“Good. Where is he?”
She glanced around and pointed. “Shooting pictures.” She raised her hand and caught Martin’s attention. “He’s headed this way.”
The victim’s hair looked as if it’d been cut recently. The jeans were new. The kid’s clothing suggested he’d taken time with his appearance, as if he’d expected to be out with friends or maybe on a date.
“Why the hell did he get in the car?” he asked, more to himself.
Riley shook her head. “Why do teenagers do half the stupid-ass things they do? Your guess is as good as mine.”
He’d been one hell of a daredevil as a teenager and at times run wild. If fate had shifted a fraction, maybe he’d have died young like this kid. But by some miracle he’d lived long enough for the marines to get ahold of him and channel his energy. Fortune had cut him a break, but it had cheated Kara and this kid.
“I preach to Hanna all the time about danger,” Riley said. “Her time on the streets and kidnapping taught her how bad it can be, so she thinks she has all the answers. I know she’s tuning me out when I’m on one of my rants about safety.”
He’d always figured Kara for smart. “Just keep reminding Hanna. You can’t do it enough.”
Sharp studied the fingers on the boy’s hand and noted the nails were crusted with dirt. His date-night-like attire didn’t fit with dirty nails. “When is the medical examiner’s office coming?”
“Soon. They’re short staffed,” Riley said.
“Aren’t we all?” The rejoinder came from Martin Thompson as he stepped forward. In his midforties, Martin was a slim man who wore a blue Windbreaker that read “State Police” on the back, khakis, and black boots. Martin ran the police forensic team in this part of the state.
“Can I inspect the body?” Sharp asked. “I want to look at the wound.”
“Sure, I’ve processed the evidence,” Martin said.
Sharp laid his hand on one of the victim’s before he lifted the folds of the jacket and searched the pockets. He found a rumpled bill, fifty-two cents in change, and a receipt from a convenience store. He also noted the blood staining the boy’s fingers. “Martin, do you have an approximate time of death?”
“Hard to say. It was thirty-one degrees the last two nights, so rigor mortis would have taken longer. If I had to give a rough guess, I’d say thirty-six hours at most.”
Sharp pushed up the bloodied T-shirt and inspected the knife wound cutting directly into the midsection. The wound was small, clean, and made with one neat jab. Judging by the injury and the dark blood, the blade had damaged the liver. There appeared to be no other marks or bruises on the kid.
He noticed the kid’s belt buckle had been dusted with black fingerprint powder. “Martin, you pulled the print?”
“It was only a partial, but it’s something.”
Sharp pushed up the sleeves but didn’t see signs of needle marks, and a check of the teeth found no signs of meth use.
“And the wallet was found on the body?”
“It was under the hands lying across his chest,” Riley said. “Makes me think the killer wanted the kid identified easily.”
“Any money in the wallet?”
“One dollar. According to the missing persons report, he’d received twenty dollars from his grandmother for his birthday,” Riley said. “He must have spent the rest before he died, but I’ve seen people killed for less.”
What the hell did you do, kid?
Sharp rolled the body on its side. “There’s no blood under or around the body.”
“He definitely wasn’t stabbed here,” Martin said. “If he had been, the bank and the surrounding soil would have been stained with his blood. He was dumped here.”
“Not dumped, but placed near water,” Sharp said more to himself.
“That’s my theory,” Martin said. “Wherever he was stabbed, he bled out and died within a minute. There’s a crime scene out there somewhere soaked in blood and hard to miss.”
“I’ve walked the area with Cooper, and we didn’t find anything associated with the victim,” Riley said. “He wasn’t stabbed in the immediate area.”
“What about tire tracks near the road?” Sharp asked.
“I found two that I’ve marked,” Martin said. “There are traces of blood near the tire marks. They’ve been flagged and photographed and are ready for casting.”
“Good.”
The sun inched farther above the horizon, casting a brighter orange-red light on the creek. If the killer had tossed anything in the water, it could be miles from here by now.
His jaw tightened. “Thanks, Martin. Riley.”
“Glad to be of service,” Martin said.
“Cooper and I can make another pass in the area,” Riley offered.
“No, you clock out. Go home. See your daughter off to school.” Sharp searched the boy’s pockets a second time. Double-checking behind his comrades and himself had been a habit he’d developed in the marines. He found nothing new
. “If I need you and the dog, I know where to find you.”
“I’ve the next three days off, but that’s never stopped me from working a case,” she said. “You have my cell.”
Martin shook his head as he tucked a pencil in his pocket. “You two are workaholics. Do you ever stop and smell the roses?”
Riley shrugged. “Clay’s in Houston on a job until late tomorrow or Thursday, and Hanna is obsessed with decorating the school gym for the homecoming dance. I won’t see them until the end of the week.”
“You and Clay are still an item?” Martin teased. “What’s it been, five weeks?”
The comment startled a nervous laugh from Riley. “Six weeks and going strong.”
“Hard to picture you domesticated,” Martin said. “Are marriage bells ringing?”
“Too soon to tell. But if I ever go down the aisle, it’ll only be once.” She glanced at Sharp as if she realized what she’d said. “Sorry. Second time will be the charm for you.”
The first had been the one. But he’d screwed it up.
When he didn’t respond to her quip, Riley navigated back to the safer waters of murder. “Keep me posted on this case. I want to know why shit like this happens to young kids.”
“I’ll call the medical examiner and see when she’s scheduled an autopsy.” Sharp stared at the young boy a long moment. Dead at eighteen like Kara. “Is it true Shield Security is offering its expertise to law enforcement working on unsolved cold cases?”
“They are,” she said, swinging her full, and clearly curious, attention to him. “I hear the applications are pouring in.”
Absently, he pulled the victim’s jacket closed and laid his hand on the kid’s shoulder for a moment. “Could I get a case in the queue?”
A frown wrinkled her brow. “Clay would bump yours to the front of the line.”
He was silent for a second as he took one last look at the boy. “At this stage, I’m not sure a girl’s death was a homicide. The medical examiner tagged it as an accidental overdose, but the family never really accepted the ruling.” He rose, stepping back onto the firmer ground of the bank. “I’m too close to the family to work the case.”
“Who was the girl?”
“Kara Benson. Found dead on the side of the road not too far from here twelve years ago. Like I said, the medical examiner said it was a drug overdose, but Kara had no history of drug use, and again, her family never believed she took the drugs willingly.” He hesitated before saying, “She was my half sister.”
