Sue McCallister was vibrant in a red skirt and jacket, her curly brown hair tied back with a scarf. Julia hugged her, glad for some human contact after enduring Mitchell’s mood swings. They spent a couple of minutes catching up on the last few months and Julia’s new job, and then Sue said, “You got your ‘bloodhound’ face on. Let’s get to the clippings.”
They went to a small cubicle and sat at a table covered with press releases and Styrofoam coffee cups. Sue had already made copies of all the stories on Douglas Stone’s disappearance, and the pages protruded from a manila folder. Julia was familiar with most; she had clippings of the case tucked into her filing cabinet in Elkwood. This time, though, she jotted notes from each.
“Ah, what are we looking for?” Sue said, her smile bright with lipstick.
“Cops. I’m tracking the trackers.”
“Well, T.L. Snead headed that case, at least early on. It got dropped pretty quick.”
“Snead. Why does that sound familiar?”
“Probably because you’ve read it a hundred times. He’s the one who made all the media statements.”
They went deeper into the pile. Other officers listed were Whitmore, a Sgt. J.T. Redding, and Sgt. W.R. Ussery. Julia scanned the copy she almost knew by heart, hoping to catch something she had missed the first time. No mention of Satanic connections had ever been made.
One article was accompanied by a photograph of little Julia, her eyes wide and her mouth relaxed in shock. Some unidentified Social Services worker was leading her into an office building. The cut-line copy downplayed the “abandoned girl” theme, but it was impossible to avoid sensationalism totally. Julia had been front-page news for nearly a week, slipped to the crime briefs, and finally was gone, fading into the gray wasteland of dead stories.
Snead was quoted in several of the early articles. He used copspeak such as “We’re following up on every lead” and “We’re hopeful that Mr. Stone will be found.” Snead was photographed at the front of the house, directing the investigation, his hooked nose and dark eyes making him look like a great bird of prey. Far in the background, barely visible in the murky ink of the fence line, the barn stood in the meadow.
Julia’s heart raced for a moment, but she turned her mind back to business.
“T.L. Snead, T.L. Snead,” Julia murmured. “I wonder what his initials stand for?”
Sue wiggled two of her fingers. “Let your fingers do the walking, girl.”
Sue turned to her computer and mouse-clicked her way to a database of public records that included municipal police reports. A separate database listed the members of the police force, their salaries, and career highlights. Sue made a dirty joke about “police briefs” as she browsed the files.
T.L. Snead was not on the current roster. A search revealed that Snead had transferred from the force four months ago, though he was nearing retirement. The lieutenant had resigned to accept a position in Elkwood, North Carolina.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“Weird,” said Sue. “How many people move from Memphis to Elkwood every year?”
“Do you believe in coincidences?” Julia asked.
“I don’t believe anything unless I read it in the paper. You know the first rule of journalism: Consider the source.”
Julia’s mind raced with this new information. T.L. Snead had led the investigation into her father’s disappearance, an investigation that seemed to have been haphazard at best. Was Snead the one who had searched her father’s closet and failed to see the loose boards? Or had he deliberately ignored what he saw?
Or maybe–and this was the leap Julia kept to herself, lest Sue believe she was paranoid and delusional–Snead had planted the ring.
And the barn. The barn was part of the area that should have been searched. If Julia had been violated and abused there, some evidence might have remained, spots of blood or footprints or crushed grass marking a trail across the meadow. The police should have canvassed the entire neighborhood. Could Snead have taken responsibility for searching the barn, knowing that any stray evidence would stay secret if he filed a negative report?
No, this is stupid. Rick O’Dell is wrong. The police are not owned by Satan. They haven’t sold their souls and aren’t covertly working for capital-E ‘Evil’ under the guise of law and order.
If people were able to sell their souls, and Satan truly was the Master of the World, a cop would probably ask for a job that was better-paid and less dangerous. But if a man were deluded enough to believe that Satan existed, maybe such a willing slave would let the “master” determine the task. Religious fanatics throughout history had done stranger things, such as flog themselves with whips, wear sackcloth and rub themselves with ashes, and perform suicide attacks on so-called infidels.
Then again, if Satan wanted to work dark miracles in the world, why not first corrupt law and order?
“What are you thinking about?” Sue asked, leaning away from the computer.
“How many unsolved murders have you covered since you’ve been working here?”
“Hmm. In twelve years, maybe eight or ten. Murder is one of the easiest crimes to solve. The idiots almost always have an obvious motive, whether they realize it or not. It’s a matter of putting the pieces together.”
“And the eight or ten?”
“Give me a minute.” Sue left the cubicle and waded through the journalistic storm of the newsroom. While she was gone, a man with graying hair and glasses scowled at Julia sitting at the computer. She looked away and he left.
Sue returned in a few minutes with another manila folder. “Even with computers, sometimes you can’t beat good old black and white.”
“I’ve seen your filing system. How did you ever manage to find that?”
“Job security. If you scramble everything around until you’re the only person who knows where the good stuff is, they can’t afford to fire you. Even in the age of Google and the Internet, sometimes you need a piece of paper.”
“Ah-hah. That might come in handy when you write your true crime book.”
“‘True crime’ nothing. I’m going to make it all up. Same as I do with Page One stories.”
Julia laughed, glad to be around someone she was comfortable with. She was hit with a wave of warm nostalgia. Despite her diffuse and fractured memories, she’d had a routine here, along with friends and a fiancé. But Elkwood was more soothing somehow, as if its rounded, ancient mountains were shoulders to lean on in troubled times. She already missed the smell of the hardwoods and the splendor of the autumn forest. It seemed like weeks had passed since she’d arrived in Memphis.
Sue opened the folder, glanced at the incident reports, and passed them to Julia. Sue’s original notes on the case were attached to the reports with paper clips.
“Caucasian male, aged approximately 30, found on the shore of the Mississippi by some kids,” Julia paraphrased aloud. “Decapitated. Disemboweled. Fingerprint check came up empty.”
“Ooh, that was a good one,” Sue said, affecting a wistful sigh. “I got two weeks of front page out of that one. I followed up on it about six months later. Nothing ever came of it, but I suppose the case officially is still open.”
Julia read through the next case. White female, early twenties, multiple stab wounds to the chest. Wrists slashed. Exsanguinated. The M.E. unable to determine if the blood had been drained before or after the victim’s death. Possible sexual assault. Missing the tip of the right pinkie.
Three other victims were found in various stages of mutilation. In one instance, the M.E. had determined that some sort of symbol had been carved into a ruined section of flesh. None of the investigators speculated on the possibility of ritual murder. A couple were more mundane cases that appeared to be drug-related violence. The cases were spaced one or two years apart, and no connection had ever been made between them.
“Did you ever try to connect the dots?” Julia asked. “These murders have several things in common.”
“Yeah, once
I asked old Budgie if I could spend a few weeks running with it. You know what she said?”
Budgie was the less-than-fond nickname for the Appeal’s news editor, Bridget Lawrence. She had a reputation for having greater concern for the paper’s budget than for her reporters’ pay rates. Plus, when Lawrence made up her mind, she wouldn’t budge from her opinion, hence the nickname.
Julia drooped her jaws in imitation of Budgie’s sour bulldog face. “What are we going to run in the meantime, press releases?” Julia said in a high-pitched, cigarette-scarred voice. They shared another laugh.
For a wild instant, Julia thought of moving back to Memphis and taking up her old life here where she had left off. She could probably get her job back and work on these clues in her spare time. She could get right back to normal, or the closest thing that passed for normal for someone with panic disorder.
Except such straight roads from the past and future didn’t exist. Everything had changed. Julia was losing touch with Mitchell, but she had found Dr. Forrest. And being healed was more important than anything else right now.
To be healed, she needed to be in Elkwood with her therapist. Sobered, Julia studied the notes again.
“Well, two things jump out at me,” said Julia. “First, all the victims were killed with knives or sharp instruments.”
“Yeah, one M.E. says an ax was used to hack open the chest cavity. Other than that, everything from serrated edges to surgical blades. None of them were shot or bludgeoned first, so we assume the victims were carved up while still alive. So, what’s the other connection?”
“You’re slipping a little, Susie Q. You’ll never get your Pulitzer at this rate.”
“Sacrilege. What do you see?”
“The chief investigating officer. The same for each case.”
Sue snatched the papers away and shuffled through them. “I’ll be doggoned. Our old friend Lt. Snead.”
“I guess he moved up to Homicide. He headed all these cases and then happened to move to Elkwood right after I did. What are the odds when you cross several one-in-a-million coincidences?”
“I never was good at math. That’s why I went into journalism.”
“Let’s just call it ‘right next to impossible.’“
“Works for me. Sounds like we need to do a little digging on Mr. Snead.”
Julia stood, stretched, and rubbed her eyes. Her stomach muscles had clenched without her realizing it. She was on edge, wound tighter than the strings inside a baseball. She wanted to keep moving so the panic didn’t have a chance to swoop down over her.
“We’ll have to leave that job for later. I owe you a lunch, remember,” Julia said, though she herself wasn’t hungry.
“A reporter never turns down a free meal,” Sue said. “It’s a long and honorable tradition.”
Julia smiled at her friend, though their closeness had waned through the geographic distance. Julia would be back in Elkwood this evening, in that strange land of mountains and forests and cold water running over boulders. How different this city was, with its plate glass and steel and asphalt, its teeming strangers. She longed for a breath of the sweet mountain air she’d quickly come to love.
They ate at The E-String, as elegant a lunch counter as Memphis could offer. Sue agreed to do a little background on T.L. Snead, and then asked when Julia and Mitchell were “gettin’ hitched.”
“I don’t know anymore,” Julia said. “He was so supportive for so many years, but lately he’s been acting strange.”
“Honey, I hate to say it, but you haven’t exactly been jumping into his arms every chance you get. Can you really blame him? If guys aren’t getting their pipes cleaned out often enough, they get a little cranky.”
Julia pushed her plate away, her chicken salad half-finished. “I know. I feel awful about it. Six months ago, I couldn’t imagine life without him. He was so kind and supportive. But lately he’s been impatient, trying to rush me into marriage. I just wish he’d understand that once I’m better, I’ll be able to give him all of me.”
“Probably in the meantime, all he wants is a piece of you.” Sue leered and wiggled her eyebrows.
Julia looked outside at the crowded street and the bumper-to-bumper traffic. “He’s too desperate. He wants to own me.”
“A lot of women would kill to have Mitchell own them.”
“That’s one thing that worries me. The more possessive he gets, the more the little warning bells go off in my mind. It’s almost Creepy. Why is he so afraid of letting me get away when he can have any woman he wants? And he said something yesterday that made it sound like I’m important to his financial stability, which is odd since you know how lousy reporters’ salaries are.”
“Maybe Mitchell is more complicated than you think. I hope it works out, though. You deserve to be happy.” Sue glanced at her watch. “Hate to eat and run, but I got to get back to the office.”
Julia had a momentary urge to tell Sue about the ring she had found, but decided against it. She felt as if she was deceiving her friend, but she promised herself that she would tell Sue just as soon as Dr. Forrest found out. The safest place to share secrets was Dr. Forrest’s office, not over a lunch table.
They hugged good-bye on the sidewalk, with Julia promising to e-mail more often. Then Julia caught a cab back to the hotel. She rode the elevator up, distracted by the thoughts of packing for her flight. The hallway was empty and quiet, the business travelers already checked out. As was her habit, she glanced around to ensure she was safe before swiping her key card in the door lock and entering.
The door didn’t close behind her, even though she had given it a shove. Confused, she started to turn.
A whisper at her back.
Movement of shadow.
CREEP.
Ohgodohgodohgod, a Creep for REAL.
Then a hand was over her mouth, encased in a glove that tasted of bitter leather. An arm snaked around her waist, pinning her right arm to her side and knocking her purse to the floor. The door slammed shut.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
She tried to scream, but the glove mashed her lips against her teeth.
The arm around her waist tightened like a boa trying to squeeze the life from a rodent.
Her attacker loomed over her, a powerful stack of darkness. Leg muscles tensed against her, his erection pressed hot against her back.
Not a Creep, a rapist. A goddamned RAPIST.
Julia folded her leg backwards, hoping to kick the attacker in the groin, but he was too fast. Her heel struck harmlessly on the side of his calf. The attacker shoved her toward the bed.
God, right here in the hotel room. Not in the damned alley or shadows or dark parking garage. Right here on clean pressed sheets.
Her eyes bulged, dimmed by tears, as she fought to break free, to stand upright and not let the Creep on top of her. He grabbed the front of her shirt, jerked, and two buttons popped to the floor. One of the buttons rolled across the carpet and disappeared under the desk.
This wasn’t happening.
This was not happening.
Not to her.
Someone else, not her.
She nearly collapsed as the panic swelled in her throat and joined the gloved hand in suffocating her. The darkness was so tempting. She wanted to grab the edges of those mental shadows and pull them over her head until the rapist was finished. She wanted to disappear like the button had, to be swallowed by the cold, soothing blackness.
God, where are you? If you’re up there, why do you let things like this happen?
No answer.
The rapist drew his hand across the bare skin of her belly, and the glove raked across one of the scars. The pain of memory brought Julia back, fueled a fury that had been building since she was four years old. She couldn’t fight then, not against ropes and two dozen hooded bad people, but she could fight now.
She drove her elbow into the side of the attacker. He grunted but kept his grip around her waist.
He w
rapped a leg around hers, trying to force her onto the bed. Her shirt was now fully open, the flesh goose-pimpled by fear. The man grabbed one of her breasts and squeezed roughly. She screamed against the glove, but all that came out was a soft, agonized wheeze.
Julia twisted, evading that horrible, insistent heat. She reached her left hand to grab at his hair, but the man wore a covering of some kind.
A HOOD.
The man’s breath was hot on her ear, rasping in a ragged rhythm. His lips trailed wetly across her neck. A shiver of disgust raced up her spine.
The man pressed her closer to the bed. Her knees bumped against the mattress. She braced her legs as he grabbed for the waist of her skirt.
When his hand was occupied, she attacked. She bent her neck down and suddenly drove the back of her head into his face. Due to his height, she only managed to hit his chin, but the blow gave off a satisfying crack.
The man groaned and his grip eased slightly. Julia took the opportunity to spin, nearly breaking free. Then the arm was around her, crushing more cruelly than before.
As they shifted, Julia saw their reflections in the dresser mirror. Her own pale, frightened face glared back through her tears, the black glove gagging her.
Behind her grappled the man in the hood. It was the gray hood of a jogging pullover, not a hood from her dreams. He wasn’t one of the bad people from the past.
Just a miserable, pathetic, run-of-the-mill Creep.
Maybe that’s your answer, God.
Julia relaxed her legs, letting him hold her full weight for a moment. Then she snapped upright and tried to squirm away. He held her firmly, though, and used the momentum to flop her onto the bed.
He pulled his hand from her mouth, but before she could draw in enough air to scream, he cupped his other hand over her lips. He rolled her onto her side, pinning her between his knees.
Julia flailed her legs as he sat on her thighs, his elbow digging into her chest. She could smell him, sweat and a raw animal scent, and beneath that, a faint, familiar, sweet aroma.
Mystery Dance: Three Novels Page 44
