Don't Look

by Alexandra Ivy

  Her mother had been right.

  Donny had married Madeline’s best friend and a few years later he’d disappeared, leaving her to raise three small children on her own. Still, Madeline’s choice to become a teacher instead of a wife and mother hadn’t brought her joy. Just the opposite. She’d spent each day counting down the seconds until she could walk away from the school forever.

  She hadn’t considered the possibility that after her retirement she would spend each day alone in this tiny house she’d inherited from her mother. Stupid, of course. She’d never made friends with the other teachers, and the few acquaintances she knew from church were all too busy with their families to consider she might be lonely. Or more likely, they just didn’t care.

  Why should they? She was nothing. To no one.

  She turned off the kitchen lights and entered the living room. As she passed by the bay window, she caught sight of her reflection in the glass. Even blurred, her image looked like an old woman. She’d always been slender, but now she was closer to gaunt with a narrow, pinched face that had long ago been drained of any beauty.

  She shivered, coming to a sudden halt. She’d been so wrapped in her bitter memories that she hadn’t noticed the sudden chill in the air. The snow had started to fall while she was making dinner and the wind was rattling through the trees, but that shouldn’t affect the temperature in the house.

  Was there a window open?

  No, that was impossible. She never opened the windows unless it was to yell at the neighbor’s dog that insisted on relieving itself on her mother’s prized rosebush.

  So why was it so cold?

  She was busy puzzling the question when a sharp pain pierced her back.

  Madeline grunted, trying to reach around to find out what was biting her. It was hard to believe a bug could survive in the subzero temperature outside, but what else could it be?

  It wasn’t until her knees collapsed and she fell flat on her face that she considered the possibility she might be in danger. And then it was too late.

  The story of her miserable life.

  * * *

  Madeline woke in the darkness. Not just night, but a black void. As if every bit of light had been sucked out of the world.

  The unnerving thought clawed through the fog in her brain. Had she gone blind? It seemed unlikely. She’d never had trouble with her eyes. But then again, her father had died of a stroke when he was in his early forties. Could a stroke cause blindness? Maybe.

  But that didn’t explain why she was lying on what felt like a cement floor. Or why it was so cold.

  Shoving herself into a seated position, Madeline squelched the urge to panic.

  There had to be a perfectly reasonable explanation. There always was. She hadn’t taught a bunch of savages for forty years to be rattled because of a little darkness.

  With grim determination, she sought to puzzle together where she was and what had happened.

  Her last memory was standing in her living room. She’d finished washing the dishes and she was going to watch TV. A typical evening. Boring.

  So what had happened?

  There’d been a breeze, right? Had she gone to check the back door and seen something that led her outside?

  Madeline licked her dry lips, eager to cling to her theory. Okay, she wasn’t outside now, but she had a detached garage. She might have gone there. No, wait. She had an old cellar just behind the house. It was possible that the door had blown open during one of the snowstorms. It wouldn’t be the first time. And if she’d gone to fix it she might have slipped and fallen down the stairs. It was pitch dark down there and always cold.

  Yes. That made sense.

  Relieved by the explanation, Madeline shakily rose to her feet. Her head throbbed as if she’d smacked it on the ground when she fell. And there was a queasy sensation in her stomach. But she couldn’t stay there. She was going to freeze to death.

  Holding out her arms like the blind people she’d seen portrayed in the movies, she took a cautious step forward. Then another.

  “You’re going to be fine,” she told herself in a loud, firm tone.

  “No, Ms. Randall. You aren’t going to be fine. In fact, you’re never going to be fine again.”

  Madeline froze. Where was that voice coming from? It popped and crackled as if it was being broadcast through one of those old-fashioned intercoms she used to have in her classroom.

  Was it possible she’d somehow driven to the school in her sleep? There was an old basement where the boiler used to be.

  “Who’s there?” she demanded.

  “This is my playground, Ms. Randall,” the garbled voice warned. “And I make the rules here. Understand?”

  Without warning Madeline felt a shock blast from her neck to the tips of her toes. The pain buckled her knees and she landed back on the floor.

  She lifted a hand and touched the band around her throat. It felt like the sort of thing you put on a dog.

  A shock collar.

  Oh, heavens.

  * * *

  I chuckle as I watch the woman squirm on the floor.

  I’m wearing night-vision goggles so I can see without being seen. Besides, it seems appropriate to watch her flounder in the darkness.

  How many children did she lock in the gloomy classroom closet for hours at a time?

  I hold the remote to the shock collar in my hand as I speak directly into the intercom.

  “Back on your feet.”

  Ms. Randall pushes herself onto her hand and knees, panting as if she’s actually a dog.

  Good. I smile in satisfaction.

  “You have until the count of three,” I snap. Just like she used to do. “One, two . . .”

  “I’m doing it,” she mutters, managing to straighten and glare around the darkness. “Who are you?”

  “The one in charge,” I remind her. “How does it feel to be at the mercy of someone bigger and stronger than you?”

  Ms. Randall lifts her hand, tugging at the collar. “This isn’t funny. I demand that you reveal yourself.”

  I press the button on the remote, listening to the woman’s scream with a shiver of excitement. “You’re a slow learner, aren’t you, Ms. Randall?” I mock. “Do you know what I do to slow learners?”

  The woman licks her lips. Was she remembering how she would call a student stupid and then shove their nose against the chalkboard, forcing them to stand there for hours?

  “I think there’s been a mistake.” Her voice has lost the shrill arrogance that haunts my dreams. Now it is whiny. And equally irritating. “I’m just an old woman.”

  “Close.”

  She blinks like an owl. Blink, blink, blink.

  “What did you say?”

  “You’re not just an old woman,” I assure her. “You’re a dead woman.”

  I press the button, closing my eyes as the symphony of her screams fills the air.

  Bliss.

  Chapter 9

  The Bait and Tackle bar was sandwiched between the dentist’s office and the laundromat just a block from Main Street. It was a plain brick building with a tin roof and large windows that were fogged from the heat inside.

  Kir parked in front and allowed his thoughts to travel back to when he’d lived in Pike. This place had been called the Sugarland Saloon back then, and it’d belonged to a woman with garish red hair and false teeth that fell out when she laughed. She was a decent woman, even if she did drink most of her profits, and she would call him when his father was too drunk to walk home.

  Hurrying across the icy sidewalk, Kir shoved open the door and stepped into the welcome warmth. Then he stopped, an unpleasant sense of déjà vu jolting through him.

  The place hadn’t changed. The battered wooden bar was still located in the shadowed back of the room. There were the same old lights that advertised beer and the local hotel flickering on paneled walls. The same tables and stools scattered around the planked floor. He was willing to bet there were the same n
asty jokes scrawled on the bathroom walls.

  An urgent desire to turn and run out of the bar gripped him with surprising force. He hadn’t expected such a violent response. He’d already faced the funeral and packing his father’s belongings. So why did he feel as if he was being battered with painful memories?

  Perhaps because this was the place where he’d seen his father at his lowest. A once proud sheriff who’d turned into a drunk, feeble man crying alone at a table in the corner.

  A strange breeze brushed over him, almost as if his father was urging him forward.

  And maybe he was, Kir silently conceded. He didn’t really believe in mystical mumbo jumbo, but he wasn’t so arrogant to think that he knew everything about everything. Maybe Rudolf could reach out to his son.

  With a shake of his head at his morbid imaginings, he glanced around the long room. At the back a middle-aged woman was tending bar, and three younger men were playing pool.

  No Nash.

  Kir turned his attention to the tables. Most were empty. There was a couple who were cuddled near each other, trying to carry on an intimate conversation over the blare of honky-tonk music. And close to the large window a woman who was sitting alone, a bottle of beer in front of her.

  He narrowed his gaze. There was something familiar about her. Perhaps her body was thinner beneath the velvet jogging suit. And the lines had deepened around her weary blue eyes, while her limp brown curls were threaded with silver. But there was no doubt this was Rita King.

  Perfect.

  The woman was twelve years older than Kir, but she’d been one of his father’s regular drinking buddies. He didn’t know her story beyond the fact that she’d been brutalized by her first husband, and that she’d had her teenage daughter taken away by the state when she’d tried to run the bastard over with her car. But if there was anyone who could answer questions about what went on in this bar, it was Rita.

  Crossing the floor that was disturbingly sticky, Kir pulled out a chair opposite the woman and sat down.

  “Hello, Rita.”

  She studied him with bleary eyes. “Are you buying?”

  “Yep.” He held up a hand, catching the bartender’s attention and indicating he wanted two beers.

  Rita leaned forward, trying to focus her gaze. “Do I know you?”

  “Kir Jansen.”

  “Kir?” She released a short laugh, her gaze taking in his expensive leather coat that he’d had fitted to accommodate his wide shoulders. “Good God, you’re a sight for sore eyes.”

  “That I am,” he agreed.

  “What brings you to Pike?”

  “I came for the funeral.”

  “Oh.” Her smile slowly faded. “Damn. I’m sorry about Rudolf. I miss him. He was one of the few men a woman could trust to share an evening without expecting her to take her clothes off.” The bartender arrived and set down the beers. Rita reached for one of the bottles and lifted it in the air as Kir paid. “To Rudolf.”

  Waiting for the bartender to leave, Kir lifted his bottle. “To Rudolf.”

  Kir took a sip while Rita swallowed the beer in two huge gulps. She slammed the empty bottle back on the table.

  “He was proud of you, you know,” she said, her voice astonishingly steady. He’d be gasping for air after downing an entire beer. “He talked about that fancy business you started all the time.”

  Kir didn’t have to fake his expression of regret. “I wish I would have come home more. I thought we’d have more time.”

  Rita looked grim. “We all do.”

  Kir leaned back in his chair, considering his words. He’d come to the bar for information on Nash Cordon. Now he realized this was the perfect opportunity to discover more about his father. And any connection to the killer.

  “Did you happen to talk with Dad before he died?” he asked, keeping his tone casual.

  Rita paused, the effort to think through the beer fog in her brain a visible struggle. “I didn’t see him that day,” she said slowly. “In fact, I hadn’t seen him for a couple weeks, which was strange.” She shrugged. “I thought maybe he was sick.”

  Kir set aside his beer. It really was strange. There were other bars in town, no doubt, but Rita made it sound as if this was his regular spot. So why had he stopped coming?

  “I spoke with him on the phone, but he never said anything about not feeling well,” he said. He tried to recall his last conversation with his father. The effort was bittersweet. “He was more . . . distracted.”

  “Yeah, he’d been that way for a while.” Rita paused, as if shuffling through her memories of Rudolf. “I think it was because of those letters.”

  Kir froze. “Did he talk to you about them?”

  “He talked about them to anyone who would listen when he’d had a few too many,” she said dryly. “No one believed him.”

  “Did you?”

  She wrapped her fingers around her empty bottle, as if wishing it would magically refill. “Not until today.”

  They shared a glance, silently acknowledging that there was something evil stirring in Pike. “Is there any word on the second victim?”

  “Randi Decker. She was married to Ned Decker,” Rita told him. “She ran the flower shop on State Street. I seen a whole bunch of trucks with flashing lights in front of her shop this morning and then the television people showed up. I stopped to find out what was happening, and they said they found her body out by the lake. Terrible business.”

  Kir tucked away the knowledge that the sheriff had been at the flower shop and not her house. Later he would try to discover if she’d been murdered there or if she’d been tranqued and taken somewhere else to be killed.

  “I don’t recognize the name.”

  “She was Randi Brooks in high school. She was probably a few years older than you.”

  Kir couldn’t place her. Not surprising. He never tried to be Mr. Popular in high school. He went to class and left. It was a means to an end. “Was she friends with Sherry Higgins?”

  Rita’s sharp laugh echoed through the nearly empty room. “Christ, no. Randi lived in a big brick house next to the golf course. She thought she was some hotshot in this town just cause she won a few beauty pageants when she was young.”

  Kir frowned. The two women had to have something in common, didn’t they? “Did they go to the same church?”

  “I don’t think so. Randi went to that new church in Grange. I guess ours weren’t fancy enough.”

  The mention of Grange reminded him of his original purpose in coming to the Bait and Tackle. Nash Cordon. “Did Sherry or Randi ever come to this bar?”

  Rita shook her head. “Not that I ever seen.”

  “Did they know Nash Cordon?”

  “It’s a small town, but I never seen any of them together. Nash has been sniffing after our local vet.”

  Kir snapped his teeth together. The next time Nash came sniffing he intended to teach the bastard he wasn’t welcomed. As painfully as possible. “Was Nash here last night?”

  “Yep.” Rita hesitated, her brows drawing together. “Or he was. He was behind the bar when I first got here, but I didn’t see him around when I left.”

  “What time?”

  “Ten or so. I don’t stay out as late as I used to.” She shoved aside the empty bottle with a sigh. “What’s going on? Is Nash in some sort of trouble?”

  Kir rose to his feet. He’d discovered that Nash had left the bar before closing time, and that his father had been acting strange before his death. That was enough for tonight. “It’s freezing outside,” he said. “Why don’t you let me drive you home?”

  “No need.” She waved her hand toward the bartender. “Cherry gets off in an hour. She said she’d drop me off.”

  Kir nodded and shoved his hands in his pockets. His fingers brushed against a folded piece of paper, and he was suddenly struck with inspiration. “One last thing.” He pulled out the note and unfolded it before he set it on the table in front of Rita. “Did my father ev
er show you this?”

  The older woman squinted at the column of initials. “What is it?”

  “I’m not sure. My father left it with Pastor Bradshaw before he died and told him to give it to me after the funeral.”

  “Is that the preacher from the Lighthouse Church?”

  Kir was genuinely surprised. “You know him?”

  “Not personally. I’m not the churchgoing kind of gal. At least not anymore. But the pastor runs a charity shop out of the old bowling alley.” She glanced down at her velvet jogging suit. “I get all my clothes there. I even found a television for my bedroom. The screen is cracked, but it works fine. Course, I had to wrestle it away from Sherry.”

  Kir stiffened. “Sherry? Sherry Higgins?”

  “Yeah. She was in there every week trying to snatch up anything she could get for free.” Without warning, Rita flushed. “Oh, I forgot . . . I shouldn’t have said that.”

  Kir waved away Rita’s apology, his thoughts racing.

  A charity shop. What better place for the community to cross paths? Randi Decker could easily have gone there to donate items. And it sounded as if Sherry Higgins was a regular.

  And Pastor Bradshaw.

  Something to investigate.

  But not tonight.

  “So you don’t know anything about the list?” he asked Rita.

  She grabbed the paper and held it out to him. “I know one thing.”

  “What?”

  “That’s not your father’s handwriting.”

  Dear Rudolf,

  I wish you were here with me. I’ve improved so much. I think you would be proud.

  Sherry was sloppy, although I won’t lie, her death gave me a great deal of pleasure. The ugly bitch had never looked better than when I was slicing open her throat. But I didn’t take my time to savor my revenge.

  Randi was better. I brought her to my happy place so we could be alone. We played until she couldn’t scream anymore, but I was too rough. She was gone before I could finish enjoying her pleas for mercy.

  Now I have Ms. Randall. The dried-up bitch looks like death warmed over, but I intend to take care not to end our time together until I’m fully satisfied. After all, she took delight in seeing my suffering. Day after day, she smirked at the sight of my bruises, never doing anything to end the torment.