by Mary Burton
The apartment was basic, but as college apartments went it was suitable. The foyer opened into a small kitchen, which led into a small living room furnished with a leather sofa and a chair. A collection of boxes were stacked high in the corner of the living room by an old television.
“Looks like she was getting ready to pack,” Santos said.
Beck glanced down at an open calendar on the counter. Notes were scribbled in the thirty-one blocks of May. He flipped to June and saw that the fourth was circled and in bold red ink Gretchen had scribbled Move! She’d been weeks away from starting a new chapter in her life.
Down a short hallway were two bedrooms on the left and a bathroom on the right. The first bedroom was stripped bare, and furnished only with the stock bed and desk supplied by the apartment building. The next bedroom was a riot of purple bedding, pillows, and sheer curtains. Neatly laundered and folded clothes were piled high in a laundry basket by a desk that was covered with books and papers. Above the desk hung a collage picture frame with an assortment of black-and-white photos. Some shots appeared to have been taken in Austin, others at the beach, and others in New York. Gretchen was smiling in them all.
Beck rubbed the back of his neck as he stared at the neatly made bed and the high-heeled shoes lined up beneath it. “She was organized.”
“Hell of a sight better than my college dorm room.”
Beck had lived at Henry’s when he’d gone to UT. It hadn’t been the fun ride lots of his friends had had, but he’d never been able to justify the extra rent. Plus, being at home, he’d been able to work in the garage during his spare hours. “I’ll have a check run on her financials. According to Missing Persons, she has no police record in Texas.”
Santos leaned into a picture of Gretchen hugging a woman who could have been her mother. “Kid seemed to be doing everything right. Played by the rules.”
Beck opened her closet. It was crammed full of clothes that came in every color but white. “She doesn’t seem partial to white.”
Santos glanced over his shoulder. “The whole room is color.”
Beck captured a red coat sleeve between his fingertips. “Nice material. The dress we found her in was homemade.”
“So the killer put her in it?”
“In Seattle, the killer did redress his victims.”
“You actually think we have the Seattle Strangler?”
“Shit, I don’t know.” Fatigue hung heavily on his shoulders. He’d had two hours of sleep last night, and the adrenaline from this morning had waned.
They spent the next hour searching the apartment, going through her mail, her notes, her schoolbooks, and even the kitchen drawers. No evidence suggested she’d been threatened, hassled, or stalked.
“How the hell did she catch his attention?” Beck muttered. They’d have to dig and peel away the layers of her life before they could hope to find that answer. Most folks who stayed on the straight and narrow didn’t find themselves murdered. Generally, it was the folks who strayed to the dark side—drugs, alcohol, or prostitution—who got tagged.
But there were exceptions. And after two hours of mining information and finding nothing, he wondered if Gretchen Hart hadn’t been one of those who’d just attracted the attention of a nut with his own twisted agenda.
Gently, he closed The Book of Gretchen and placed it on the shelf in his office. The slim, red book resembled several others he’d shelved, and like the others, was filled with a collection of notes, photos, musings, surveillance notes, and, of course, his dark plans.
Keeping and creating the books for his girls was such a part of his process now he didn’t think he could just kill anyone without knowing them. His books created an intimacy. A connection. A bond.
He’d been watching Gretchen since Christmas. He’d seen her crossing the university campus. It had been a cool, brisk day, and she’d been wearing a black turtleneck, jeans, and boots. She’d stopped for coffee—a nonfat latté. She’d been talking to a friend. Laughing. Her eyes had danced with excitement. And she’d spoken of moving to New York. “I’m counting the days,” she’d said.
He’d kept his gaze on his newspaper, but he’d not seen a single word after she’d come into the shop. She had consumed him. Overtaken him. And that exact day, he’d gone out and purchased one blank, red, leather-bound book and had her name engraved in gold, raised lettering on the cover: Gretchen Hart.
He skimmed his fingertips over the other books and settled on the thickest. The Book of Lara.
He’d been keeping this book for twelve years. He’d kept so many notes on Lara that he’d had to buy another book, which he realized was now almost filled. She was the one that got away.
After Seattle, he’d lost track of her. He’d felt lost. Empty. But then circumstance had brought her back to him. The instant he’d seen her, he’d begun taking more notes on her. He dreamed of her. Of having his fingers around her neck again.
It would have been easy to kill her outright. She was his for the picking. But where was the fun in rushing? She wasn’t going anywhere, and he had time.
Carefully, he pulled the book from the shelf and thumbed through the full pages stuffed with pictures and more notes. He flipped to one of the first pages, dated June 1, twelve years ago.
When I saw her I just about tripped over my own feet. She looked so sweet, so lovely and so sad. I couldn’t find the right words to speak when she said hello, so I fumbled a quick awkward greeting. Immediately, a keen stirring inside made me sit a little straighter. I stretched my arms as if awaking from a slumber.
When I slept, it was not a restful time. I dreamed more than I had in years, and all my dreams focused completely on Lara.
He ran his hand down the page. He was no longer a stumbling fool as he had been twelve years ago. He was a man in control of himself.
Lara was the one whom he craved when he’d strangled Lou Ellen and Gretchen. She was the one. And soon he’d let his beast out to play with Lara.
For now, watching was enough.
Chapter 4
Tuesday, May 21, 6:45 AM
Lara’s German Shepherd, Lincoln, barked behind the house, a clear sign he’d found another rabbit to chase.
While the dog woofed, she watched the sun rise over the horizon as she’d done dozens of times over the last eight months.
Daybreak never failed to awe and calm. A new sunrise. A new day. A gift. A victory.
Most folks missed moments like this. Too busy, still sleeping, or just not interested, many people never paused to watch the sun rise. Not Lara. She watched every one she could.
Lincoln barked louder, prompting her to rise from her chair and walk around the one-level rancher to the backyard. The lush, now overgrown gardens had been her grandmother’s pride and joy. They’d grown wild during the last years of her grandmother’s life. Though she’d tilled the soil with her grandmother as a child, she’d neglected the beds. She’d claimed lack of time, but in all honesty she wanted to avoid the memories of a loving grandmother whom she still missed.
To appease her grandmother’s spirit she’d bought a collection of annuals and put them in scattered pots on the porch. But so far she’d not been great about watering them. For the last six years, she’d dedicated herself to photography, and the rest of life just got done when it got done.
Lincoln dug deep next to a rosebush, and though she enjoyed watching the dog joyfully burrow, her grandmother’s unquestionable concern for her roses had her saying, “Let it go, boy.”
Lincoln looked up, his brown nose snorting.
“Go on. Eat the breakfast I set out for you.” She took the dog by the collar and led him to the large, dented bowl by the back sliding door. He sniffed his dry food, which she’d laced with a bit of chicken broth. He started to eat.
She sat on the stoop beside him and sipped her juice.
For the last seven years, Lara had lived a gypsy’s life, traveling from west to east and back again. Fear of settling had kept her moving f
rom town to town.
And then eight months ago her grandmother had passed in her sleep and had willed Lara her one-story limestone house set on ten acres of wooded land accessible by a winding gravel road. Her grandmother, Edna Bower, had not been an easy woman. She and Lara had had their share of disagreements. Lara had been a bit of a know-it-all in her teens and her grandmother rigid. But despite their differences she’d given Lara all her summers and finally the home they’d shared.
Lara had been in Maine when Edna had passed, and she had not received word in time to return for the funeral. When she had come back to Austin, she’d had no intention of staying. She’d settle the estate and move on. But this place, her summer home as a kid, had had a pull she’d not expected.
The house, more than simple shelter, had come with a collection of comforting memories that had seduced her to defy better judgment and give up her nomad life “for just a few days.”
Days soon turned into a few weeks, and when she’d been here a month, she’d set up a darkroom in her grandmother’s old potting shed. She’d cleared out the collection of clay pots, swept the dirt off the floor, and covered the windows with black plastic. The shed came equipped with electricity and water, so it was little time before her equipment was out of the back of her truck and installed in her first official darkroom.
And almost immediately, Lincoln had fallen in love with his morning walks, digging in the yard, and chasing rabbits. Despite their recent gypsy life, the idea of putting him in the truck and hitting the open road made her feel selfish.
Without constant travel, she’d had so much more time to pull out the glass negatives she’d created over the last six years with her antique bellows camera and carefully go through them. No longer developing on the back tailgate of a truck but in a real space, her art had taken on a sharpness she’d never experienced before.
Seeing her work in print and on the walls of her studio and in her home had fostered a satisfaction that ran deep.
So much motivated her to make Austin her home. So much.
And yet offsetting the many was the one important reason why remaining so endangered her life.
Her neck muscles tensed as she raised a tentative hand to her throat’s tender skin. She could still remember the moment seven years ago when her eyes had sprung open, and she’d gasped for air. Terrified, a hoarse scream had strained her bruised vocal cords as she’d stared widely around a hospital room at the dangling IVs pulling at her arms. As the heat in her throat burned hotter, her panic heightened. She’d screamed. Nurses and orderlies had come rushing. There’d been swift assurances that she was safe.
“Shh, shh, Lara. No one will hurt you again.”
No one would hurt her again.
What made matters worse was that she could not remember what had happened or what her attacker looked like. The horrific attack that had left her battered inside and out had been wiped from her memory. Doctors had said she’d suffered a concussion. Her memory of the two days leading up to the attack may or may not return. The nurses again assured her she was safe. But as the days passed and her memory didn’t return, her anxiety swelled.
Just relax. Heal. It will come back to you.
But the memories had not returned. There’d not even been nightmares to offer glimpses of her attacker.
The police had been careful to keep her name from the press, which had been clamoring for an interview with the Seattle Strangler’s lone survivor. Reporters had guessed at what might have happened to Lara. They’d done piece after piece on amnesia. Experts had said how lucky she was that she could not remember such an appalling attack.
But she didn’t feel the least bit lucky. She wanted to remember. She wanted to know who had raped, beaten, and strangled her so that she could look him in the eye when police slapped on cuffs. She wanted to see him locked away behind bars, his whole future taken away.
Police had theorized her attacker would strike again. And when he did attack, they’d catch him, they had said. But the Seattle Strangler had never struck again. He had vanished, leaving Lara to wonder if he was dead, in prison, or simply passing by her on the street.
Realizing he could be so close and she’d never know it had started to play on her mind. And as the days and weeks passed, she’d freaked out at the oddest sounds at night, the lingering look of a stranger, wrong numbers on her cell or the odd e-mail.
No one could reason with her. Not her grandmother, not her cousin, not even her friend from Texas who’d come to take care of her. None had the magic words to ease her fears. Two months after the attack she’d dyed her blond hair brown, packed her bags, and left Seattle forever. The last seven years had been a collection of odd jobs, endless new towns, and a sea of faces that all left her rattled and questioning.
Through that entire time the one constant had been her photography. It had been her home, her sanctuary, and it had kept her sane.
Her grandmother’s neighbor to the east had heard she might be staying and had offered her a job at the university teaching photography. He’d explained she’d be an adjunct and wouldn’t make a fortune, but it was a start. Her gut had told her to keep her ties to a minimum. A real job meant roots, even responsibility. But she’d gone against grain and agreed to teach a class this semester.
So these days, her time was split between her photography and the university classroom where she taught an intro class. The move to teaching had been happenstance, but so far it worked.
This week marked yet another milestone. She was introducing her photography to the world in an Austin gallery. The show opened in five days, this Friday, and she was ... excited, not only for the show but the future.
Lincoln’s barking pulled her back to the moment and she glanced over her juice glass toward her one-year-old German Shepherd. She’d found the large black and tan dog in an animal shelter when he was eight weeks old. According to the shelter owner, the dog had been left behind because of a bent ear and a crooked tail. Such imperfections had rendered him poor breeding stock and therefore worthless. In her mind the imperfections made him perfect. She’d taken him immediately, and they’d been inseparable ever since.
Lincoln ran up to her and dropped a large stick at her feet. Wagging his tail, he barked. She picked up the stick and heaved it across the back lawn. Lincoln ran, pounced, and immediately brought the stick back to her. He could play this game for hours. She tossed the stick a second time.
“Catch it quick, boy. We’ve got to get to our morning hike, so I can get into town and check on the displays.”
Restlessness stirred in her bones as she finished off her juice. There were papers to be graded and prints to be made, but those were jobs for the heat of the day. Now she’d enjoy the precious cool morning. She grabbed her grandmother’s well-oiled rifle and locked up the house. “Ready to go for a walk?”
Lincoln barked and wagged his tail, dashing toward the trails that led into the foothills.
As she followed behind him, she dared to smile. She had a home. A car. A job. A show opening. Had her life finally turned normal?
Beck could get by on a couple of hours of sleep a night for weeks on end. The trait, which had confounded his mother when he was a kid, served him well now.
Last night, still jazzed from returning to work, Beck read the Lou Ellen Fisk file. The San Antonio woman had also been a student, working two jobs on top of fifteen credit hours. Liked by friends and other students, no one, according to the statements, could believe anyone would want to hurt Lou Ellen. There’d been mention of her boyfriend, but local police had cleared him. She’d been scheduled to leave Texas at the end of the semester.
So far the two victims had more in common than he’d have liked. Young. Blond. Leaving Texas. White dress. He still didn’t know enough about Fisk to draw a firm link between the two cases, but the connecting threads were weaving together faster than he’d have imagined.
Now as he crossed the lot toward his office, balancing a cup of coffee and the Fisk ca
se file, his cell phone rang. “Beck.”
“I hear you’re looking for me.”
He squinted against the sun, already bright and hot. “And who might you be?”
“I’m Mike Raines. I was the investigating officer into the Seattle Strangler cases.”
Beck had never placed a second call to Seattle. But no surprise that Detective Cannon had called his former partner and given him the heads-up. He’d have done the same. “Who said I was looking for you?”
Raines chuckled, accepting Beck’s test with grace. “Steve Cannon. He was the officer you spoke with yesterday.”
He paused outside the front door of the Rangers’ offices, preferring privacy to the cooler inside temperatures. “What else did he say?”
“Steve and I went to the academy together. He was there when my kid was baptized, and I was there for all his six kids’ christenings. We were partners for eight years. When you called he thought I’d like to know. He told me you’ve got a case reminiscent of the Seattle Strangler.”
“Right now I can’t say for certain what I have.”
“There are a couple of red flags you need to watch out for.”
“Such as?”
“Cannon said there was a penny.”
Beck turned from the building’s front entrance, but didn’t acknowledge the statement, not knowing if he actually had Mike Raines on the phone.
“Was the year 1943?” Raines prompted.
He could have been speaking to the Almighty himself and Beck wouldn’t have given case details away.
“I can appreciate you not wanting to talk. Shoe on the other foot, and I wouldn’t be talking to you. The first six victims in Seattle had pennies dated 1943. All the victims died except the last.”
“I’m listening.”
“Her name is Lara Church.”
And according to Cannon only a handful of cops knew the name of the survivor.
