Don't Look

by Alexandra Ivy

  Kir paled, his hands clenching into tight fists. “So he writes them and leaves them in the cemetery? The sick bastard.” There was fury in his voice. “Why can’t he let my dad rest in peace?”

  Lynne considered the question. She tried to imagine why any killer would write letters to an ex-sheriff. Was it to taunt him? To prove he was superior to the local authorities? But why choose Rudolf? Why not send them to the new sheriff? Maybe he had a grudge against the older man? That didn’t seem right either.

  Actually, the only thing that made sense was that the killer felt some need to reach out to Rudolf.

  “It must have stolen his pleasure to have your father so unexpectedly die,” she said. “He obviously considered Rudolf his confidant in a sad, twisted way.”

  Kir nodded. “Yes.”

  A silence filled the room as they both considered the possibility that letters had been left at Rudolf’s grave and what could have been in them. A couple minutes later Kir was crossing the room to stand at the base of the staircase.

  “What’s wrong?” Lynne moved to stand at his side.

  Kir was pale, his gaze locked on the wooden steps. “I was thinking about something Rita said.”

  Lynne was confused. “On the message?

  “No. When we were at the bar.”

  “What did she say?”

  “That there were four deaths.”

  “Oh, I remember.” Lynne was still confused. “She was talking about the three women who’d been murdered and your father. We didn’t know about Nash yet.”

  “Yes, but she connected them.”

  “What do you mean she connected them?”

  He turned to meet her searching gaze. “She put my father’s death with the murdered women.”

  Lynne wasn’t sure if Kir had a point or if he was just remembering his father’s untimely accident. Whatever he was talking about, it didn’t seem to have any relevance to what happened to Rita. “She was drunk and babbling,” she said.

  “Vino veritas.”

  “‘In wine lies the truth’?” Lynne translated.

  “Too often we make certain assumptions and accept them as truth. Drunks can occasionally see things more clearly.”

  Her confusion transformed into disbelief. “Are you suggesting that your father was murdered?”

  Kir pointed toward the staircase. “I was told he fell down the steps and I didn’t ask any questions of the coroner. Why would I? Even before I moved to Boston my father often slept on the sofa because he was too inebriated to make it up to his bedroom. If he had tried, it seemed plausible he could fall down and crack his skull.”

  Lynne reached out to touch his arm. She could feel the tension that hummed around him like an electric force field. “Kir, the killer was reaching out to your father with those letters. Why would he kill him?”

  His jaw tightened. “Maybe he gave away too much. My father might have been a drunk, but at one time he was a damned good lawman. Eventually he would be able to put tiny clues together to come up with a theory.”

  “If that’s true, why didn’t he tell you?”

  “Maybe he didn’t have the chance.” He deliberately glanced toward the answering machine. “Like Rita.”

  Lynne scowled, an unexpected anger jolting through her. Nash’s death had been horrifying. His broken body would haunt her nightmares for years to come. And she felt awful for the poor women who’d been murdered. No one deserved to die like that.

  But the thought that someone had deliberately attacked Rudolf and shoved him down the stairs made her strangely furious.

  “That bastard,” she hissed.

  Kir had started to nod in fierce agreement when his eyes widened and he was rushing across the floor. “Shit. The list,” he rasped. “That’s it.”

  Lynne watched as he grabbed his coat and dug into the pocket. “That’s what?”

  He pulled out the folded piece of paper and tossed his coat back on the chair. Then he walked back to stand next to her. “I thought at first that my dad had made it.” He unfolded the note, holding it so they could both see the printed letters. “But then Rita pointed out that it wasn’t my father’s handwriting.”

  Lynne didn’t remind him that Rita wasn’t the best source of information. She doubted the older woman could recognize her own handwriting let alone anyone else’s.

  “Do you think the killer sent it to him?”

  He rubbed his fingers over the tattered paper. “I think he somehow got his hands on it and made sure it got to me.”

  “Why not mail it to you in Boston? Or take it to the sheriff?”

  “Good questions that need answers.”

  She recognized the expression on his face. He was plotting something he hoped would lead to the killer. “We need to call the authorities,” she urged in an attempt to keep him out of danger.

  He pulled on his coat and moved toward the television stand. “Let’s drop off the answering machine at the sheriff’s office. They can listen to the message for themselves.”

  Lynne narrowed her eyes. That was way too easy. “Then what are we going to do?”

  “First we’re going to visit my father’s grave.” He headed toward the door. “There might be more letters or an indication of who left them.”

  “And then?”

  “Then we’re going to find what Rita wanted me to see.”

  Dear Rudolf,

  What’s wrong with people? I spent years being savagely abused and not one person noticed. Or even if they did, they turned a blind eye. But when I want to be invisible it feels as if everyone is butting their noses into my business.

  First you.

  And then your beer buddy, Rita King.

  Why would she poke around your grave? It wasn’t like she even bothered to attend your funeral. Stupid bitch.

  I was going to take her to my special place. Why not enjoy her screams? But then I realized it would be a sacrilege.

  My special place is for exorcising my demons, not for getting rid of the trash. I’ve chosen my victims with exquisite care. I’ve spent years anticipating their punishment. I couldn’t defile what has become my temple, could I?

  No.

  Rita King wasn’t my enemy. She was a problem that needed to be solved. And that’s what I did.

  I stomped my foot on the gas and rammed directly into her. It was shocking how high she flew before she landed on the icy street. She looked dead, but I had to make sure, so I ran over her like she was roadkill.

  It seemed appropriate since she tried to do the same thing to her husband.

  Then I scooped up her broken body and left her in a spot you know all too well, my friend.

  I’m safe again and my attention has returned to my next quarry.

  Crimson blood stains the pure white snow. Life spills from warm to frozen. Don’t look. The pain is gone.

  Chapter 23

  Kir struggled to contain the impatience that sizzled through him as Lynne drove at a snail’s pace to the cemetery. It wasn’t her fault. The street was not only layered with ice, but the turnoff wasn’t marked. It was dark enough that it would be easy to drive past the gate. Besides, his impatience had nothing to do with their careful pace.

  He was still fuming from their recent trip to the sheriff’s office.

  It wasn’t like he expected Kathy Hancock to be on duty 24/7. Even with a serial killer on the loose, she deserved a few hours to sleep. But when he’d handed over the answering machine, he’d hoped for more than a bored deputy telling him they’d eventually get around to listening to it.

  It wasn’t like they were overrun with clues on who was killing the good citizens of Pike. And even if they didn’t believe Rita’s death was more than an accident, they would surely want to discover what she’d found when she’d been at Rudolf’s grave.

  At last Lynne pulled through the open gate and weaved through the graveyard. After parking in the middle of the narrow path, she left the truck running with the headlights directed toward Rudol
f’s headstone as they climbed out and walked the short distance.

  Kir’s lungs burned as he breathed in the frigid night air. People who lived in warm places had no idea that cold had a smell. It was sharp and steely, like a blade. And just as deadly.

  Approaching his father’s grave from the side, Kir pointed toward the footprints that were visible in the snow. “Someone was here.”

  “Yes.” Lynne halted next to the marble headstone. Bending down she touched the dead flowers that had spilled out of the heavy stone urn. “It looks like they took whatever was here.”

  Kir studied the grave. The mound of loose dirt was covered by layers of undisturbed snow. In fact, the only sign of anyone having been nearby was the one set of footprints that he was assuming belonged to Rita. So how had the killer known she had found the letters?

  Lifting his head, he glanced around. Although it was dark, it was easy to make out the nearby road. “It would be easy to see the grave from the street,” he murmured his thoughts out loud.

  Lynne pointed behind him. “Both streets.”

  Kir glanced over his shoulder. She was right. The graveyard seemed isolated because there were no nearby buildings and the front was blocked by a thick line of cedar trees. But if it was daylight, he would be easily visible to anyone passing the cemetery from the south or east.

  “The killer must have been driving by and happened to see Rita here,” he said. “He might even have seen her pulling the letters from this urn.”

  She frowned at him. “Kir.”

  “I know.” He held up his hands. “I’m just speculating.”

  She offered a grudging nod. “Okay. Let’s say the killer did see her. Rita left you a message after she’d found something at the grave. So he didn’t try to stop her from taking them.”

  Kir gave a slow nod. “It’s possible he parked down the street to wait for her to leave the cemetery.”

  “Then he followed her to the café?”

  Kir hesitated, trying to recall the exact layout of Pike. It wasn’t a big town, but it’d been a long time since he’d lived there. “Rita said in the message she was going home,” he muttered. “She lives in the opposite direction.”

  Lynne shrugged. “She could have decided she was hungry.”

  “I suppose.” Kir wasn’t satisfied. He didn’t know much about Rita King, but if she was anything like his father, she would have saved every penny to buy booze. Eating out at a restaurant would have been a rare indulgence. “It was cold to be out walking.”

  Lynne shivered. “It’s still cold.”

  It was their cue to leave, Kir decided. “I think we’ve seen all there is to see here.”

  She didn’t hesitate, hurrying toward the truck and taking her place behind the wheel. Kir climbed in beside her.

  “Now where?”

  “The café,” Kir said without hesitation.

  “I’m pretty sure it’s closed,” Lynne warned, putting the truck in drive and easing her way over the snowdrift blocking the path. “They only serve breakfast and lunch there.”

  “I don’t want to eat. I want to search the alley next to the building.”

  “Search it for what?”

  “The letters.” He held his hands toward the heater that was blasting hot air. “Or whatever Rita might have found at my father’s grave.”

  They pulled out of the cemetery. “Wouldn’t it be easier to search during the day?”

  “I don’t want anyone asking questions,” he told her. “Not to mention the fact that there’s a good chance the sheriff is going to block the alley off as a crime scene once they get around to listening to the tape.”

  Lynne snorted. “If they get around to it.”

  “True.” Kir shrugged. “But I don’t want to take a chance.”

  Lynne was silent as she concentrated on the slick streets. The wind had picked up, blowing the snow to create a fresh layer of ice. At last she pulled into the lot in front of the café and parked.

  “You can stay in the truck. There’s no point in both of us freezing.”

  She slowly turned her head, studying him with a narrowed gaze. “Do you know how many nights I’ve spent in the middle of a pasture pulling a calf? If anyone should stay in the truck, it’s you. After all, you’re the soft city boy.”

  “Soft?” He leaned across the console, pressing a lingering kiss against her lips. “I’m going to prove just how wrong you are.” Another kiss. “Later.”

  “You promise?”

  He nipped her lower lip, savoring her sweet taste. “You have my word. And my heart.”

  Swiftly she pulled back, her eyes wide. “Kir.”

  Kir swallowed a sigh. “Yeah, I know. My timing sucks,” he admitted, cupping her cheek in his hand. They were parked beneath a streetlight that bathed her face in a silvery light, adding a hint of mystery to her beauty. His heart swelled, filling with an emotion that felt too big to be contained. As if it was going to burst out of him if he didn’t share it. Unfortunately, this wasn’t the time, and most certainly wasn’t the place. “Put a pin in it and we’ll revisit this conversation when we’re back home.”

  She hastily scurried out of the truck, reaching behind the seat to pull out a heavy flashlight. Kir followed behind her, using the flashlight on his phone to penetrate the thick shadows of the alley. He pushed away the fear he’d just made an idiot of himself. Men in love were supposed to make idiots of themselves, weren’t they? He’d worry later about finding a more graceful way to convince her they belonged together.

  For now, he had enough to deal with searching from one end of the short alley to the other.

  It didn’t take long. Besides the dumpster there wasn’t anything to see. The trash had either been collected by the sheriff’s department to be searched through later, or no one ever bothered to enter the alley besides the owner of the café. He was betting on the latter.

  “Nothing. Not even a stray piece of paper,” he muttered in disgust, glancing along the foundations of the brick buildings. “I suppose it was a long shot.” He glanced to the side, surprised to discover Lynne standing at the entrance to the alley with her hands on her hips. “Is something wrong?”

  “It’s too narrow.”

  With a frown he walked to stand next to her. “What’s too narrow?”

  “The alley.” She spread her arms, indicating the width. “Only a compact car could fit between the buildings. And even then, it couldn’t get past the dumpster.”

  “You’re right.” Kir cursed. How had he missed something so obvious?

  Lynne shook her head in confusion. “So was the car chasing her and she ran down the alley?”

  Kir tried to picture it. Had Rita been heading to the café? If so, why wouldn’t she have run inside instead of entering the alley? Or had her destination been the alley? Maybe she’d been meeting someone there?

  He shook his head. Even if Rita had been in the alley, it would have been awkward to try and kill her there. Why not wait for a more convenient location? “He would have had to back out and pull away after he hit her. It’s hard to believe no one noticed anything.”

  “Especially if it happened around lunchtime,” Lynne agreed.

  Kir considered the various possibilities. At last he pointed straight ahead. “What’s on the other side?”

  Lynne took a step back, glancing around as if trying to orient herself. “Empty buildings, I think,” she finally said. “It’s been a while since I’ve been around here.”

  “Let’s check it out.”

  Without waiting for her to agree, Kir was striding down the alley. There didn’t appear to be anyone around, but it was possible someone might notice their flashlights and decide to call the sheriff. It would be his luck to have the sheriff show up and toss them in jail for trespassing, even if she couldn’t be bothered to listen to the message Rita left.

  Their footsteps crunched loudly as they exited the alley to halt on the frozen sidewalk. It was even darker on this side of the block than
the other, and he realized the streetlights had burned out. Either no one had bothered to complain to the city, or Pike was too financially strapped to deal with the outage.

  He glanced from side to side. Nothing but empty buildings. “Not much to see.”

  “No.” She shook her head. “Pike seems to die a little more each year.”

  Kir started to sympathize only to stiffen as he caught sight of the store across the street. It was a low building that had cheap siding to make it look like a log cabin and a tin roof. Plastered on the large front window were several faded posters that advertised the various beers and spirits available inside. The door, however, was hidden by a heavy slab of plywood.

  “Shit.” He pointed across the street. “That used to be a liquor store.”

  “Yes. It closed down years ago.”

  “Eighteen years ago.”

  She glanced at him in surprise. “Did you know the owners?”

  “No, but they shut down the store and moved away from Pike a few months after my dad was shot in the middle of this street.”

  “Oh.” She glanced toward the street, her hand lifting to press against the center of her chest. “That was here?”

  Kir nodded. “The owner . . .” His words trailed away as he forced himself to recall the night that had destroyed his father’s life. It wasn’t easy. Not after eighteen years of trying to block it from his mind. “I think his first name was Gordon. Anyway, he called the office to say he’d seen a man loitering in his parking lot. He suspected the guy was selling drugs.”

  “Your dad came to check it out?”

  “Yep.” Kir’s mouth felt oddly dry. “He’d gone into the store to talk to Gordon, and when he came out he saw the suspect in this alley. He was crossing the street when the dealer pulled out a gun. A few seconds later the dealer was dead, and my father was lying in the street with a bullet in his head.”

  He said the words in clipped tones, battling back the image of his father lying in the dark street with blood pouring from his shattered skull.

  “Did the liquor store owner blame himself?”

  “I think so.” Kir had a vague memory of a silver-haired man stopping by the hospital, tears in his eyes as he stood next to Rudolf’s bed. “He packed up and moved away a few months later.”