by Pamela Clare
She passed a small bathroom and then stopped at the open door of a bedroom. Inside, she could see a full-size bed with black metal head and foot boards. A fitted white sheet with multiple stains in the middle covered the mattress. Black leather straps dangled from the four corner posts. A recliner chair had been placed next to the bed, kind of like the ones they had in some hospital rooms. A bedpan and a kidney-shaped emesis tray sat atop an otherwise bare dresser.
Tabarnak. Amy’s stomach heaved and she was forced to swallow bile.
Garneau had covered all four walls with rigid pink insulation, and filled the gaps with some sort of spray-on foam that had hardened into long white streaks. Even the back of the door was insulated. He’d obviously attempted to crudely soundproof the room, and had covered over whatever windows there would have once been.
Beckett would have trouble hearing or seeing anything from outside the house.
This might very well be the room where Amy would take her last breath before joining Ariane.
“Get in there and sit down on the bed,” Garneau said. Once she was inside, he followed and closed the door behind him.
Amy gingerly perched on the edge of the mattress and then Garneau sat down in the recliner, his gun never wavering and his eyes never leaving her.
She had to struggle to take deep breaths as her insides kept twisting. But she knew she had to try not to not show her fear.
Get him talking and keep him talking—that’s your only chance. “Why did you bring me here, Joey? Why not just kill me at the pier?”
“Come on,” he said, pursing his lips. “You know damn well your SWAT boys would have nailed me one second after I pulled the trigger. I’m not into death by cop, Robitaille.”
She started to respond but he jumped in before she could. “But that’s not the whole reason. The other important thing is that I want to give you a chance to confess your sins. Just like I gave those other bitches their chances.”
She frowned, startled. “My sins?”
“Don’t be coy, Detective,” he sneered. “I’m sure you’ve got a good, long list.”
To hell with the guessing games. Amy wasn’t going to let him mess with her head. “You’ll have to help me out here a little, Joey.”
He shook his head, grimacing. “Don’t try to screw with me. It’s not in your best interests.” Bitterness coated every word. “You know something? You’re all self-righteous and judgmental, but you’re the one responsible for screwing up three other players. Fucking up their futures. That’s a pretty damn big sin, don’t you think? Three guys are going to go down the toilet—all because of you, Detective Amy Fucking Robitaille. I had a mission. I could have saved those guys. Saved their careers. But you went and fucked it all up, so now I’m going to make you pay the price.”
By the time he was finished, he was vibrating with anger.
Her heart was practically pounding out of her chest but Amy gave him a purposefully blank stare. This guy is bat shit crazy. “Sorry, Joey, but I’m afraid you’re way ahead of me. I’m not getting it.”
He seemed to pull himself back under control, giving her a quick nod. “Yeah, okay. We’ll get to that. But, first, we’re going to talk about Luke Beckett.”
Chapter Seventy-One
Sunday, August 8
1:35 a.m.
Amy’s heart beat even faster as she struggled to school her expression. “Beckett?”
“You’re fucking him, Robitaille,” Garneau said. “Don’t even think about denying it.”
Despite her utter shock, she looked straight into his eyes and lied, a skill she’d honed in years of grilling criminals. “Beckett and I are just working together on this case.”
“Bullshit,” he spat.
Keeping his gun leveled on her, he got up and pulled open the top drawer of the dresser. “See in there?” he growled.
Amy leaned forward to peer into the drawer. What she saw inside made her stomach pitch again. Garneau had assembled a set of instruments—knives, pliers, a rotary cutter, a garrote, and a steel mallet. And a gleaming surgical scalpel. Earlier, she’d noted the baseball bat propped against the wall beside the dresser.
She got the message.
“I’ll hurt you if you make me,” he said, grinning. “You know I will.”
She had no interest in testing that assertion. “All right. Beckett and I have become close. How did you find out?”
He snorted. “Fuck, I knew there was something going on from the minute I saw you two at that press conference on TV.”
She forced a small smile. “Not much gets by you, does it, Joey?”
He preened a little at the compliment. “Luke Beckett’s been my favorite player since I was a kid, and it fucking near killed me when I saw him sitting at that table with the people that were trying to fuck up my mission.” A red flush mottled his face. “I was mad as hell at him for a little while, but then I calmed down and figured it out. You brainwashed him, Robitaille. You brainwashed him like all those other bitches brainwashed their men. Fucking Megan O’Neill and all the rest. You’re all alike.”
He was working himself into a rage, and that was the last thing she wanted. She needed him to stay calm and keep talking for as long as possible. “I certainly understand why you admire Beckett,” she said in a soft voice. “He was an incredible player, wasn’t he?”
“Hell, yeah,” Garneau said, nodding. “He was the best.”
“I saw the poster above your bed. That was a very special place for a very special player.”
“You got that right. And you know something else?” Garneau’s lips curved into a tight grin. “Luke was the smartest player, too.”
“I’m not surprised,” Amy said sincerely.
“Yeah, he was. Because he never let himself get tied down to a bitch that would make his life miserable and ruin his career.”
The grin vanished and cruelty pulled his features into an ugly mask. Hatred for women practically seeped from his pores. God, she wanted to rip his pathetic throat out.
Instead, Amy forced herself to appear deeply interested in whatever the wacko had to get off his chest. “I’m wondering, do you think all women are like that?”
He grimaced. “No, not all of them. Of course not. Don’t think I’m stupid, Detective.”
She shook her head. “Oh, you’re far from stupid, Joey. It was only by sheer luck that we managed to track you down.”
That pleased him, and the ugliness receded a bit. When he wasn’t snarling or grimacing, he looked so youthful. Where had this young man gone wrong? When had that cute boy in the baseball photo with his dad turned into a murderous monster?
She found herself wanting to find out. “Tell me about those women—Krista Shannon, Carrie Noble, Ashley Rist, Megan O’Neill. Were they all bitches that were ruining their husbands’ careers?”
“Damn right they were. And now they’re out, because I cut them out. I saved those guys, Robitaille. Kevin and Matt and Tyler and Heath—they’re all free men now. They’re going to go on and have great careers, every one of them. They’ll meet somebody nice, too. Somebody who’ll be good to them, and help them be the best they can be instead of dragging them down.”
Keep talking, because I’ll listen all night, asshole. Well, until Beckett gets here, that is. “I think I’m beginning to understand, Joey. Is that what happened to Eddie Ramirez? After his wife’s death, he made it to the major leagues, didn’t he?”
Garneau’s jaw dropped and, for a split-second, the gun wavered. But he quickly reined in his surprise. “Fuck, you are good. How’d you connect me to Eddie?”
Amy smiled. “Your pal, Brett Kozak.”
Another surprised look. “Aw, fuck. I thought Kozak ran so far that nobody would ever hear from him again.” He shook his head ruefully. “I should have killed the fucker when I had the chance.”
“The FBI found him. It’s hard to get away from those guys. But why didn’t you kill Kozak?”
“Simple. I wanted to use him
some more. Keep my supply up. But the stupid dickhead got himself caught. Then the son of a bitch lit out before I could get to him.”
“I see,” Amy said. Kozak had been lucky, after all. “Can we talk about Rita Ramirez for a moment? That one seems so different, which is why we didn’t initially connect it to the other murders.”
“Fucking Rita, queen of the bitches,” he spat. “God, I hated that cow. But I didn’t mean to kill her. I just went there that night to talk. Well, to try to talk, anyway. I thought maybe I could persuade her to stop screwing Eddie over. But the dumb bitch wouldn’t listen so I had to beat on her ass.”
Amy wanted to puke, but she managed a nod. “I understand. You took care of your friend. Did that give you the idea to help more players? Help them like you helped Eddie?”
He grinned, looking almost like a smug teenager. “I saw what happened to Eddie after I got Rita out of his life, and right then I knew I could help out a lot of other players, too. The bitches fuck with the guys’ heads, but the guys never seem to connect the dots between their screw-ups on the field and their screwed-up marriages. I do, though.”
How far back did Joey’s delusions go? She might as well take a chance and hope he’d keep talking. Garneau seemed to be almost anxious to explain himself.
“Were you a baseball player yourself? I think you must have been, simply because you care so much.”
Garneau wriggled back in the recliner, relaxing a little. He looked like he might even be enjoying their little talk. “Yeah, baseball was my whole life when I was a kid. You wouldn’t believe how good I was. I had a whole room full of trophies, and I owed it all to my dad. He worked hard with me, and always said I could make it to the big leagues some day if I worked hard, too. I believed him.”
“Really? You were that good?”
He seemed to retreat into the past for a few moments. Take all the time you want.
“Dad coached me every day. Every day he was home, at least. Dad knew what he was talking about, because he made it to the majors himself.”
She feigned admiration. “Wow, no kidding?”
“He played ten games for the Red Sox,” Garneau said with evident pride. “I was only five that season, but I still remember what it felt like when he came up to bat the first time at Fenway Park. I watched it on TV. All I could think about for a long time was how much I wanted to stand in that batter’s box someday, just like he had.”
“But you didn’t get the chance, did you, Joey?”
The fingers of his left hand tightened on the arm of his chair and hatred seemed to take him once more. “My goddamn mother fucked it all up. She hated baseball, and was always yapping at Dad that he was never going to be good enough to make it in the majors. She nagged him all the time to quit playing and get a real job. Called him a loser because he never made much money. And she hated that we had to move around, following him from team to team. When I was ten, she went back to Ville Platte for good and dragged me with her even though I didn’t want to go. After that, we only saw Dad in the off-season.”
“That must have been hard for you.” Surprisingly, her sympathy sounded genuine to her ears. And it was—for the kid Joey Garneau had once been.
He almost looked like he was going to cry. “Jesus, yeah. Her bitching was why Dad drank so much. And when he drank, they’d fight even more. I’d have to lock myself in my room and pull the fucking blankets over my head.”
“Your parents are both dead, right? What happened?” Amy knew but wanted him to tell her, and take his time doing so.
He grimaced again. “One night they were going at it really loud, and the next thing I knew my mother was yelling at Dad that she was leaving him.” His words came out clipped, dripping with a lifetime of hate. “Maybe he smacked her then, because I heard her cry out, and then the yelling and swearing started again. And then running. Then I heard a gun go off and I ran out to the living room and found Dad on the floor. There was blood all over his shirt. She’d shot him in the chest.”
His lips pulled back into an agonized snarl. “The bitch was standing there with the gun in her hand, just watching as I got down on my knees, hugging Dad and crying and yelling and calling her a fucking murderer. I told her I hoped she’d fucking die in the electric chair. Then she put the gun in her mouth and pulled the trigger.” He inhaled deeply and shook his head. “Ever seen brains splattered all over a wall, Detective?”
Amy swallowed hard. In fact, she had. “I’m sorry, Joey. To see what you saw, and to be orphaned so young…”
He seemed to shake off the surge of emotions, quickly morphing back into the pitiless killer. “The state made me go live with my grandmother in Maine, because I was still a minor. She said she wanted me, but she was a bitch, too. Just like her fucking daughter.”
So you tried to murder her by burning down the house.
He started to get up. “So, that’s my sad little story, Robitaille. And now it’s time now for you to start talking.”
“I understand,” she said, not moving.
She’d fight him now if she had no other choice, but she sure didn’t want to. She needed Beckett. Needed him to distract the killer, even for a second. Anything to give her a real chance. Beckett had to be close by now.
“Can you just explain one more thing for me first?” she said quickly.
“Jesus Christ, Robitaille. I’ve been nice, but you’re really starting to piss me off.”
She let her head sag forward. “Please. I’m about to die, for God’s sake.”
He gave a frustrated sigh. “Make it quick.”
Amy looked back up at him, smiling as she cleared her throat. “Thanks. We came to the conclusion that you were trying to plant evidence to make us believe Johnny Franks had murdered at least some of those women,” she said slowly. “But I can’t figure out why you would try to frame him. You must have known that it wouldn’t work.”
When he laughed, the sound was cold and cruel. “I was just having a little fun with that. Franks is such a prick. He treats everybody else on the field like shit. And, hell, it was easy to point a finger or two in his direction since I knew what he’d been up to. I figured it would confuse you for a few days. Keep you looking in the wrong direction.”
“It sure did,” Amy said, injecting an admiring tone into her voice. “Look, I’m sorry, Joey, but there’s one more thing I have to know. Just one. Then you can do what you want.”
Her deferential manner seemed to work. “One more,” he said.
She nodded. “Are you going to kill me because I found out you were the murderer? Or, are you doing it to save Luke Beckett from me?”
“Both,” he said, without a second of hesitation. “But don’t flatter yourself. It’s mainly because somebody has to pay for stopping me before I could complete this mission. Helping Luke out is a bonus, but I figure he would have tossed you aside sooner or later, anyway. He’s always had his head screwed on straight.”
God forgive her, she had thought the same only a few days ago. But now she knew that Beckett wasn’t like that. In a space of less than two weeks, she’d come to believe Luke Beckett was the finest man she had ever known. She just prayed she would have the chance to tell him that.
Garneau got up and motioned for her to rise, too. “I know you’re going to tell me you were just doing your job, but fuck that. And fuck you if you can’t you see that what I do is important. The men I save are special, Robitaille. They have a talent God has given to only a few guys on the planet. If they aren’t allowed to be great, like they’re supposed to be, it’s a sin. An absolute sin.”
Amy nodded as if she understood his sick logic.
“And you want me to confess. Yeah, I think I get it now.”
“That’s right.” He gave her a pleased smile. “Good for you, Detective. I’m impressed.”
Nut job.
“And now that we’re done with the little show and tell, it’s time to make your confession. A full and complete one, because you’ve seen what
happens to bitches who don’t comply.”
She sensed she couldn’t push him to answer any more questions. Beckett, where the hell are you?
“I understand, but please, I need to use the bathroom first. I haven’t gone since way before I left West Palm hours ago, and I’m absolutely bursting. I don’t want to embarrass myself or make a mess, but honest to God that’s going to happen in about thirty seconds. I’m not kidding, Joey.”
Garneau laughed. “Fuck that. You really do think I’m stupid. Every fucking time I start to think you have a little respect for me, you say something shitty like that.”
“Please. You’ve got the gun. What can I do?”
“You can piss yourself if you have to. I don’t care.” He waved the gun at her. “Now, take off all your clothes.”
Chapter Seventy-Two
Sunday, August 8
1:35 a.m.
The GPS indicated Garneau’s vehicle had stopped in the town of Buckhead Ridge. Expelling a hard breath, Luke gave a silent prayer of thanks to every saint he could think of. He sped up as much as he dared and hoped the gas remaining his tank would get him there.
He’d kept Cramer well behind his true position. Deputies from Martin and Okeechobee had already set up roadblocks, but thanks to Luke’s misinformation they were miles behind. When Cramer demanded to know why Garneau hadn’t run into the roadblocks, Luke had been forced to pretend he’d temporarily lost cell phone contact. He hated to do it, but Garneau would kill Robitaille if they encountered any cops.
Cramer had already mustered two trucks full of SWAT team cops who were blasting toward Luke’s position. Along with Sergeant Knight, Cramer had boarded a helicopter with SWAT officers and a pair of medics.
A handful of minutes later, Luke turned off the highway into Buckhead Ridge. He made two quick turns, then cut his lights and crawled down the residential street where the tracker indicated Garneau had stopped. He peered into the distance and determined that it had to be the small house straight ahead. The one at the bend in the road—a bungalow separated from its neighbor on the east side by an empty lot. The L-shaped road had only two dim streetlights. Neither one was close to that house, and Luke muttered a silent thanks.
