Ten minutes later Milo and I were cruising up Route 3. It was a beautiful, warm fall day and I was enjoying the moderate traffic, weaving in and out of other cars and trucks. As I drove, I made a mental list of questions I wanted to ask if we got a chance to talk with Alan Perkins. Number one was whether or not he knew Zeke or how Anna knew someone named Zeke.
“Don’t do anything crazy, Sam,” said Milo. “But there’s a white Honda that’s been behind us since we hit the highway.”
Chapter 24
I looked in the rear view mirror and then checked my side mirror. “Where?” I asked. My heart was pounding.
“He just pulled into the right lane behind the red pickup. Four cars back,” Milo replied. “I noticed it about a mile after we got on the highway. He’s been staying back, but following your moves.”
My knuckles were white on the steering wheel and my palms were growing damp. I pulled into the left lane to pass again and sped up a little. We were doing about seventy down the two-lane highway. The speed limit was sixty-five. As I accelerated around a service van, I saw the white car pull out.
“I see it,” I said. “Can you see the plate? Does it start with 828?”
“It hasn’t gotten close enough for me to see. I’ll watch; you keep your eyes on the road,” said Milo.
The highway opened up and I gave it more gas. I wanted to force the guy to have to catch up, to test whether or not he was actually following us. It wasn’t like white Hondas were uncommon; it could easily be a coincidence. I was pushing eighty now. I got past the last car in the right lane and pulled in front of it.
“Should I take the next exit?” I asked. I looked in the mirror again. The white Honda was passing now, still a couple of cars back.
“Not yet,” said Milo.
“Can you see what the driver looks like?” I glanced in my side mirror again, but the Honda had returned to the right lane; there was an SUV between us now. The gap between the Mini and the SUV lengthened.
“He’s wearing sunglasses and a hat.”
“Get my gun out of my backpack,” I said. Milo leaned between the seats and pulled my backpack into his lap. He dug around for a moment and pulled out my nine.
“It’s loaded?”
“Always,” I replied. “Safety’s on. Leave it on for now,” I added. I didn’t know how much experience Milo had with guns, but my experience was limited to the firing range. I didn’t want to put our combined lack of skill to the test unless necessary.
The distance between my Mini and the SUV behind me was now about one hundred feet. The white Honda was still behind it.
“The North Pembroke exit is next,” I said. “I’m going to take it. If he follows, I’ll pull into the shopping mall and we’ll nail him.”
“I really don’t think the killer would follow us in broad daylight,” said Milo, glancing over his shoulder. The Honda was still behind the SUV.
“I don’t give a shit who it is,” I said. “He put Pepper in the fucking freezer!” My anger, fueled by adrenaline, was boiling up. I was coming up fast on a mini-van. I cut into the left lane. The speedometer read eighty-five. Now I could see several cars in front of the mini-van, and the exit was only half a mile away.
“Watch this,” I said, and stepped harder on the gas. I pulled past the van. Five seconds later, I was passing a big delivery truck. “Is he trying to follow?”
“Not ye—yes. He just pulled into the left lane. He’s gaining on us.”
There was one last car in front of the delivery truck, a red Mazda Miata. The exit was a quarter mile away. I floored it, pushing the Mini up to ninety. I passed the Miata just as we got to the exit. I yanked the steering wheel hard to the right and we cut across in front of the little car and careened onto the exit ramp.
“Did he follow?” I asked breathlessly as I downshifted and fought to keep the Mini from flying off the long curved exit ramp. I looked quickly at Milo. He was clutching the ‘oh shit bar’ in one hand and still had my nine in the other. He looked like he was holding his breath.
Finally Milo exhaled and looked back through the seats. “Yeah, I don’t know how he got through those cars, but he’s coming round the bend now. Plate looks—shit!”
“What?” I yelped. “He have a gun?” I was getting ready to floor it again.
“No. But there’s a Statie right behind him. Lights blazing.”
“Are you out of your fucking minds?” Dennis was roaring.
I caught Turk’s eye in the rear view mirror; it looked like he was trying not to laugh. Dennis, however, was not even remotely amused.
“Do you know how many favors I had to call in just to get you out of there? Excessive speed, reckless endangerment, the gun—”
“I have a permit, Dennis!” They couldn’t cite me for that one.
“I cannot believe you didn’t tell me about the break-in Friday night. We’re after a serial killer; you think this is some kind of cops and robbers game? Fuck sake Sam.”
“I’m sorry, Dennis,” I said quietly. “I’m really sorry. I should have told you.” I stared at my lap. I was afraid of what he’d say next. Like, “you’re off the case.”
Dennis leaned around the seat and glared at Milo. “And you! You were supposed to keep her in line.” They stared at each other. Milo didn’t avert his eyes and he didn’t apologize.
Finally, he said, “I’ve done my best to keep her safe, Dennis. Twenty-four seven. She made the decision not to tell you about what happened Friday night and I respected that. I did ask her to tell you. But it was Sam’s house. Sam’s cat. Sam’s decision.”
Thanks, Milo. But it was the truth.
“Dennis, you can’t blame—”
“Shut up, Sam.”
I blinked and stared out the window. We were in the back of Turk’s Lincoln, leaving the Troop D station house in Middleboro. They were taking us back to North Pembroke, where my car was still parked at the Ninety Nine.
Three hours earlier, on the way into Middleboro, Milo and I had been cuffed in the backseat of the state police cruiser. Along with Roald T. Harrington, aka, Tommy, from the Trap. He’d broken into my house Friday night; he was the one who put Pepper in the freezer. While he was there, Tommy saw the murder board and decided he could use the ten thousand dollar reward. He’d been following us around ever since. Based on his rap sheet, and our statements, they’d kept him in custody.
I sighed heavily. Dennis’ tirade had finally ended and the only noises in the car were the sounds of traffic on the highway. The sun was low in the sky. We’d missed Anna Fuller’s funeral. I stared at the colorful foliage as we left Middleboro. Tonight, another woman might lose her life in Plymouth. I almost wished my stalker had been the killer. At least then it would be over. One way or the other.
Forty minutes later we pulled into the Ninety-Nine and Turk pulled up next to my car. I waited for Dennis to speak, but he said nothing.
“So, uh, can we have a look at the tape from the Wine Cellar?” I couldn’t help myself.
“Team already looked at it,” Dennis said gruffly. “The guy with Reggie Cummins was out of view almost the entire time; they were only there for about forty minutes. Sitting behind a column. All we can see is his lap and his hands. He was wearing khakis. No rings. Kept his back to the camera when they were leaving. Hair was darkish but it’s a black and white film. Can’t tell if it’s brown or grey.”
“Oh.” I was at a loss.
“Just go home, Sam. Do your thing on the computer and leave the rest to the professionals.”
Blinking back tears, I climbed out of the car.
Thirty minutes later we pulled into my driveway. “You want to take Pepper over to my parents’ house now?” Milo asked. It was nearly five o’clock.
“That’s not really necessary now, is it? Tommy’s behind bars; the killer wasn’t here.” I turned to him. “But you should go see your mom and dad. You’ve been with me here for days.”
“You sure?” Milo looked doubtful. Disappoi
nted? Either way, I was on a mission.
I nodded. “I’m sure. I’ll probably be up on the computer all night anyway. I’m going to get to the bottom of this. It’s that church, or an abortion clinic or the Mayflower Society. One of those places holds the key. I’m not going to quit until I figure it out.” I grasped his hand. “Thanks, Milo. For everything. Go home and see your family tonight; sleep in a real bed. Pepper and I will still be here in the morning.”
Milo looked me in the eye, and then abruptly leaned in and kissed me softly on the lips. I was still sitting there stunned as he got in his truck and pulled away.
The General Society of Mayflower Descendants was established in Plymouth in 1897 to honor the memory and values of the Plymouth Colony founders. There were fifty state organizations as well as the founding society based in Plymouth. Membership was through the state societies; in order to become a member, you had to document your lineage back to one of fifty-one original Mayflower passengers who survived the first winter in Plymouth.
The Society stopped publishing its membership logs fifty years ago, but with Mrs. Trimble’s password I was able to move freely through the site; from there I finally was able to get to the internal databases, which contained all of the state member lists and archival data.
I found Margaret Warren in short order. She was descended from John Howland, Richard Warren and John Billington. I felt butterflies in my stomach. Reggie Cummins was descended from Billington.
A few minutes later I found Charlotte Fuller. She was descended from both Howland and Billington as well as John Alden, John Cooke and Samuel Eaton. So Anna Fuller was also descended from Billington. Yes! Now I just needed to figure out if Carolyn Bishop was too.
I leaned back, stretched and stroked Pepper, who was curled up in my lap. It was nearly eight o’clock and I hadn’t eaten. I put Pepper on the floor and went to the kitchen. A nice variety of fresh food filled the fridge, thanks to Milo, but that would require preparation and I’d sent the chef home. I stared at the bunch of kale for a moment and struggled not to think about the kiss. I was getting tingles and they were not in my face this time. I closed my eyes for a second and then slammed the door shut. I grabbed some granola bars out of the cabinet.
I didn’t have time to waste; I had to find something. I had to redeem myself with Dennis. Three women were dead and I’d not only wasted Dennis’ time this afternoon, I’d wasted his chits, something cops hold dear. I was determined to find the link between John Billington and the victims and Zeke or Charles Smit or whoever this maniac was, even if it took all night.
I put a cup of kibbles in Pepper’s dish and went back to my computer.
Carolyn Bishop had a Facebook page, but it didn’t look like she’d been there in months and I couldn’t identify any family members. This was going to take some doing.
For the next eight hours I hacked my way through Ancestry.com, Archives.com, and county, state and national census data. I found birth records, marriage certificates and death certificates, most of them hand-written. By four o’clock in the morning I’d worked my way back to the early 1700s; I’d documented ten generations of Carolyn Bishop’s ancestors and printed off the supporting documents. And then I found her. Carolyn’s great-times-eight grandmother on her mother’s side, Mary Cordelia Smith, born in 1719 in Providence, Rhode Island, was listed in the Mayflower Society archives. She was descended from four different surviving Mayflower passengers—including John Billington.
I texted Dennis and Milo. I didn’t care if it was four in the morning. “All 3 vics descended from Billington - confirmed,” I typed and hit send.
I leaned back and exhaled heavily. There was so much more to do, but I was exhausted and seeing double. I grabbed Pepper and stumbled up to my room. I was asleep by the time my head hit the pillow.
“For the generall good of the Colonie”
“I assume that you are unaware, Ms. Roberts, that in the early days of the Colony, the ordinaries were established strictly for the benefit of travelers passing through. Of course most Colonists made beer at home for their own consumption. But they were prohibited from drinking in the taverns and anyone who became ‘drink drunk’ was fined or put in the stockades.”
She shrieked through the duct tape that he’d wrapped around her mouth. Sweat was dripping down her forehead and burning in her eyes. She’d fallen over on the cold floor and she squirmed and scooted as far as she could, but there were racks and display cases everywhere. If only she could make enough noise! She threw her head back and smashed it into a tall metal card display that wobbled and then fell on top of her. Lying there covered in envelopes and greeting cards, Margot fought to catch her breath. Above her, dozens of decorative cut paper stars glittered eerily in the dim night light that came through the plate glass windows at the front of the store. If there was anyone outside, they hadn’t heard the commotion.
The man in black shook his head. “Was there really any need for that, Margot? No, I don’t think so. We both know you won’t be leaving here tonight.”
Margot moaned as he placed a milk crate on the display case and then climbed easily up. He moved an acoustic ceiling tile aside and tossed a heavy rope over some piping above. He took the end of the cord and looped it around itself.
“Our founders went astray some years later.” He continued his story as if he hadn’t been interrupted. “Swayed by the excise taxes they collected, they began to allow everyone to frequent the ordinaries. God-fearing men and women were corrupted in these dens of evil, and that corruption now runs rampant across the nation. Today drunken antics are considered a rite of passage and are tolerated with amusement. Encouraged even.”
“But I dare say you have no idea of the heavy price of alcohol abuse on our nation today. Allow me to enlighten you, Ms. Roberts. Excessive alcohol consumption kills 79,000 people annually and costs our society $225 billion. Each year. Lives are ruined. It’s a disgraceful legacy to the righteous intentions of our forefathers.”
“And yet you, you who stands so proudly in support of vile, unholy practices like abortion and homosexual unions, each night you go and happily serve alcohol to your friends and customers. As if you’re providing a vital community service.”
He climbed down off the counter and stood over her, his hands on his hips.
“Ms. Roberts, you’ve chosen to spend your golden years in pursuit of sin. From your blasphemous cardboard placards to the very way in which you earn your living, you demean the legacy of the Colony and you commit treason against the laws of our founding fathers. In response, for the generall good of the Colonie, tonight you must die.”
Chapter 25
“They’re all descended from John Billington,” I said as I walked into the kitchen. “You got my text?”
“Yeah,” Milo said. He was scrambling eggs. The scent had awakened me; it was nearly nine o’clock. Five hours of sleep would have to do; I was on a roll. I grabbed a coffee mug out of the cabinet and filled it.
“He wants to cleanse Plymouth of sinners, of Billington’s evil descendants. Like Carolyn Bishop, who had an abortion.” I hopped up on a bar stool and stirred sugar into my coffee. “Maybe the….”
Milo was pulling toast from the toaster with a frown on his face. I wasn’t sure he’d even heard me.
“Milo?”
He looked over at me. “Sorry, Sam. I’m listening.” He buttered the toast. He was wearing an old sweat suit and his hair wasn’t combed. My bad habits were rubbing off on him.
“Is something wrong?”
He stopped buttering, but didn’t reply.
“Milo?”
“It’s Mom. She’s got a bad cough.”
“Oh.” I watched him as he made two plates of eggs and toast and added apple slices to each. He put the plates down on the breakfast bar and sat down beside me.
“Is it because of the chemo?”
Milo shook some hot sauce on his eggs and passed it over to me. He took a bite. I watched him nervously. It wasn’t l
ike Milo to be so distant. I touched his arm. Finally he looked over at me. He exhaled loudly.
“Yeah. Her immune system’s weak and now she’s sick. She says I’m overreacting. I wanted to take her to the hospital last night. She wouldn’t go.”
“What’s your Dad say?”
Milo snorted in disgust. “He took Mom’s side. Says if it gets serious, they’ll go. Told me to get back over here and help you. They think I’m helping you fix your deck.” He took another bite, chewed and swallowed. “So, here I am.”
I felt a knot in my stomach. Milo didn’t want to be here. Suddenly, the idea that Milo might not keep fighting to be with me felt very real. And it felt terrible. Terrible and terribly familiar. (“Cut the crap, Sam,” said Dad. “This isn’t about you.”) As usual, Dad was right.
I stared at my plate and pushed my eggs around with my fork. “How bad is the cough?” I asked softly.
“Bad enough. I kept trying to tell them that it could turn into pneumonia overnight. But Mom says she knows her body. She promised to go see someone if it gets any worse.”
“Laura’s a smart lady, Milo. Maybe you are overreacting. She’s come so far, she wouldn’t risk it now.”
“Do you realize how quickly an infection can go from nothing to practically untreatable in a cancer patient?” he asked in a loud voice. He slammed his napkin down, stood and stormed over to the sliders. He stood with his back to me, arms crossed, looking out at the beach.
“I laid awake all night listening to her cough,” he said. “I was afraid to sleep. Afraid I would wake up and not hear anything at all.”
I slid off the bar stool and went to stand beside him. I put my hand on his shoulder. “Hey.”
He turned and looked down at me with those gorgeous eyes.
“Why don’t you just go home and be with her? You’re too distracted to be much help anyway,” I said with a small smile. “I got this; I’m going to work on the symbols today.”
Saints & Strangers (A Sam Warren Mystery) Page 14
