Corinne always turned off the lights first thing in the morning. Like clockwork.
The hair rose on the back of Michelle’s neck. This wasn’t right.
She stepped out of the Volvo, didn’t shut the door all the way behind her. The path to her sister’s front door was a brick loggia pattern, the nooks and crannies filled with sand to anchor the Chilhowies. Ridiculously expensive designer brick from a tiny centuries-old sandpit in Virginia, if Michelle remembered correctly. She followed the path and came to the front porch. The door was unlocked, but that was typical. Michelle told Corinne time and again to keep that door locked at night. But Corinne always felt safe, didn’t see the need. Michelle eased the door open.
Oh, my God.
Michelle ran back to her car and retrieved her cell phone. As she dialed 911, she rushed back to the porch and burst through the front door.
The phone was ringing in her ear now, ringing, ringing. She registered the footprints, did a quick lap around the bottom floor and seeing no one, took the steps two at a time. She was breathing hard when she hit the top, took a left and went down the hall.
A voice rang in her ear, and she tried to comprehend the simple language as she took in the scene before her.
“911, what is your emergency?”
She couldn’t answer. Oh God, Corinne. On the floor, face down. Blood, everywhere.
“911, what is your emergency?”
The tears came freely. The words left her mouth before she realized they’d been spoken aloud.
“I think my sister is dead. Oh, my God.”
“Can you repeat that, ma’am?”
Could she? Could she actually bring her larynx to life without throwing up on her dead sister’s body? She touched her fingers to Corinne’s neck. Remarkable how chilled the dead flesh felt. Oh, God, the poor baby. She ran out of the room, frenzied. Hayden, where was Hayden? Michelle turned in a tight circle, seeing more footprints. No sign of the little girl. She was yelling again, heard the words fly from her mouth as if they came from another’s tongue.
“There’s blood, oh, my God, there’s blood everywhere. And there are footprints… Hayden?” Michelle was screaming, frantic. She tore back into the bedroom. Something in her mind snapped, she couldn’t seem to get it together.
The 911 operator was yelling in her ear, but she didn’t respond, couldn’t respond. “Ma’am? Ma’am? Who is dead?”
Where was that precious little girl? A strawberry-blond head appeared from around the edge of the king-sized sleigh bed. It took a moment to register—
Hayden, with red hair? She was a towhead, so blond it was almost white, no, that wasn’t right.
“Hayden, oh, dear sweet Jesus, you’re covered in blood. Come here. How did you get out of your crib?” She gathered the little girl in her arms. Hayden was frozen, immobile, unable or unwilling to move for the longest moment, then she wrapped her arms around her aunt’s shoulders with an empty embrace of inevitability. Pieces of the toddler’s hair, stiff and hard with blood, poked into her neck. Michelle felt a piece of her core shift.
“Ma’am? Ma’am, what is your location?”
The operator’s voice forced her to look away from Corinne’s broken form. She raised herself, holding tight to Hayden. Get her out of here. She can’t see this anymore.
“Yes, I’m here. It’s 4589 Jocelyn Hollow Court. My sister…” They were on the stairs now, moving down, and Michelle could see the whispers of blood trailing up and down the carpet.
The operator was still trying to sort through the details. “Hayden is your sister?”
“Hayden is her daughter. Oh, God.”
As Michelle reached the bottom of the stairs, the child shifted on her shoulder, reaching a hand behind her, looking up toward the second floor.
“Mama hurt,” she said in a voice that made her sound like a broken-down forty-year-old, not a coy, eighteen-month-old sprite. Mama hurt. She doesn’t anymore, darlin’.
They were out the front door and on the porch now, Michelle drawing in huge gulps of air, Hayden crying silently into her shoulder, a hand still pointing back toward the house.
“Who is dead, ma’am?” the operator asked, more kindly now.
“My sister, Corinne Wolff. Oh, Corinne. She’s… she’s cold.”
Michelle couldn’t hold it in anymore. She heard the operator say they were sending the police. She walked down those damnable bricks and set Hayden in the front seat of the Volvo.
Then she turned and lost her battle with the nausea, vomiting out her very soul at the base of the delicate budding dogwood.
THE COLD ROOM
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Gavin Adler jumped when a small chime sounded on his computer. He looked at the clock in surprise; it was already 6:00 P.M. During the winter months, darkness descended and reminded him to close up shop, but the Daylight Savings time change necessitated an alarm clock to let him know when it was time to leave. Otherwise, he’d get lost in his computer and never find his way home.
He rose from his chair, stretched, turned off the computer and reached for his messenger bag. What a day. What a long and glorious day.
He took his garbage with him; his lunch leavings. There was no reason to have leftover banana peels in his trash can overnight. He shut off the lights, locked the door, dropped the plastic Publix bag into the Dumpster, and began the two-block walk to his parking spot. His white Prius was one of the few cars left in the lot.
Gavin listened to his iPod on the way out of downtown. Traffic was testy, as always, so he waited patiently, crawling through West End, then took the exit for I-40 and headed, slowly, toward Memphis. The congestion cleared right past White Bridge, and he sailed the rest of the way. The drive took twenty-two minutes, he clocked it. Not too bad.
He left the highway at McCrory Lane and went to his gym. The YMCA lot was full, as always. He checked in, changed clothes in the locker room, ran for forty-five minutes, worked on the elliptical for twenty, did one hundred inverted crunches and shadow boxed for ten minutes. Then he toweled himself off. He retrieved the messenger bag, left his sneakers in the locker, slipped his feet back into the fluorescent orange rubber Crocs he’d been wearing all day. He left his gym clothes on—they would go straight into the wash.
He went across the street to Publix, bought a single chicken cordon bleu and a package of instant mashed potatoes, a tube of hearty buttermilk biscuits, fresh bananas and cat food. He took his groceries, went to his car, and drove away into the night. He hadn’t seen a soul. His mind was engaged with what waited for him at home.
Dark. Lonely. Empty.
Gavin pulled into the rambler-style house at 8:30. His cat, a Burmese gray named Art, met him at the door, loudly protesting his empty bowl. He spooned wet food into the cat’s dish as a special treat before he did anything else. No reason for Art to be miserable. The cat ate with his tail high in the air, purring and growling softly.
He hit PLAY on his stereo, and the strains of Dvořák spilled through his living room. He stood for a moment, letting the music wash over him, moving his right arm in concert with the bass. The music filled him, made him complete, and whole. Art came and stood beside him, winding his tail around Gavin’s leg. He smiled at the interruption, bent and scratched the cat behind the ears. Art arched his back in pleasure.
Evening’s ritual complete, Gavin turned on the oven, sprinkled olive oil in a glass dish and put the chicken in to bake. It would take forty-five minutes to cook.
He showered, checked his work e-mail on his iPhone, then ate. He took his time, the chicken was especially good this evening. He sipped an icy Corona Light with a lime stuck in the neck.
He washed up. 10:00 now. He gave himself permission. He’d been a very good boy.
The padlock on the door to the basement was shiny with promise and lubricant. He inserted the key, twisting his wrist to keep it from jangling. He took the lock with him, holding it gingerly so he didn’t get
oil on his clothes. Oil was nearly impossible to get out. He made sure Art wasn’t around, he didn’t like the cat to get into the basement. He saw him sitting on the kitchen table, looking mournfully at the empty spot where Gavin’s plate had rested.
Inside the door, the stairs led to blackness. He flipped a switch and light flooded the stairwell. He slipped the end of the lock in the inside latch, then clicked it home. No sense taking chances.
She was asleep. He was quiet, so he wouldn’t wake her. He just wanted to look, anyway.
The Plexiglas cage was the shape of a coffin with a long clear divider down the length—creating two perfectly sized compartments—with small drainage holes in the bottom and air holes along the top. It stood on a reinforced platform he had built himself. The concrete floor had a drain; all he needed to do was sluice water across the opening and presto, clean. He ran the water for a few minutes, clearing out the debris, then looked back to his love.
Her lips were cracking, the hair shedding. She’d been without food and water for a week now, and she was spending more and more time asleep. Her lethargy was anticipated. He looked forward to the moment when her agonies were at an end. He had no real desire to torture her. He just needed her heart to stop. Then, he could have her.
He licked his lips and felt embarrassed by his erection.
He breathed in the scent of her, reveling in the musky sweetness of her dying flesh, then went to the desk in the corner of the basement. No spiders and dust and basement rot for Gavin. The place was clean. Pristine.
The computer, a Mac Air he’d indulged in as a late Christmas present to himself, sprang to life. A few taps of the keyboard, the wireless system engaged and he was online. Before he had a chance to scroll through his bookmarks, his iChat chimed. The user’s screen name was IlMorte69. He and Gavin were very good friends. Gavin responded, his own screen name, hot4cold, popping up in red ten-point Arial.
Gavin cringed. Sometimes Morte got to be a little much. But what could you do? It was hard for Gavin to talk to people, the online world was his oyster, his outlet. He had other friends who weren’t quite as crude as Morte. Speaking of which…he glanced at the listing of contacts and saw Necro90 was online as well. He sent him a quick hello, then went back to his chat with Morte.
Morte came back almost immediately.
Gavin bristled a tiny bit, then relaxed. Morte was right to chide him, after all, he had made a mistake. He’d quickly learned that following Morte’s every instruction was important. Very, very important.
He uploaded the shots, breath quickening in remembrance. So beautiful. Within moments, Morte responded.
Gavin blushed. Receiving compliments gracefully wasn’t one of his strongest attributes. He glanced over his shoulder, knew he needed to wrap this up.
A picture flooded his screen—Morte had sent him a gift. Gavin studied the photo; his ears burned. Oh, Morte was amazingly good with a camera. So much better than he was.
Morte’s doll had no animation, no movement. Her eyes were shut. Gavin turned his chair around so he could stare at his own dollhouse, his own doll, lying in the darkness. Alone. He’d need to find her another friend soon. If only Morte’s girl was a sister. He didn’t have a taste for white meat.
Another chime—this time it was Necro responding. He asked how Gavin was doing, if there’d been any news in the community. Gavin replied with a negative—he’d heard nothing. Of course, his ear wasn’t to the floor like Morte—Morte was the architect of their online world anyway. Gavin had found his friends deep in a sleepy sex message board, and was so thrilled to have them. They made his life bearable.
He chatted for a few minutes with Necro, read a rambling account of a perfect specimen on some white sand Caribbean beach that Necro had sighted, then logged out. He stared at the photo he’d downloaded from Morte. He was overwhelmingly turned on, and no longer able to contain himself. With a last glance at his doll, he went up the stairs, unlocked the door, locked the basement behind him and returned to his life. It was time for another shower, then bed. He had a very busy day ahead of him. A very busy few days. The plan was in motion.
He was proud of himself. He only checked the doll’s breathing three times during the night.
THE IMMORTALS
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Nashville, Tennessee
October 31
3:30 P.M.
Taylor Jackson stood at attention, arms behind her back, her dress blues itching her wrists. She was feeling more than a bit embarrassed. She’d asked for this to be done without ceremony, just a simple here you go, you’re back in our good graces, but the chief was having nothing of it. He’d insisted she not only receive her lieutenant’s badge again, but be decorated as well, in a very public ceremony. Her union rep was thrilled, and at her direction, had dropped the lawsuit she’d been forced to file against the department when they demoted her without cause. Taylor was pleased, as well. She’d been fighting to get reinstated, and she had to admit it was nice to put all of this behind her. But the pomp and circumstance was a bit much.
It had been a long afternoon. Taylor felt like a show pony, was flushed with the overly exuberant praise of her career, her involvement in catching the Conductor, a serial killer who’d killed two women back-to-back, kidnapped a third and fled Nashville with Taylor hot on his heels. She’d arrested him in Italy, and the story had immediately caught international headlines, because at the same time, she’d been party to the capture of one of Italy’s most notorious serial killers, Il Macellaio. In the world of sound bites and news at your fingertips, taking two serial killers into custody had garnered so much attention that the chief had been forced into action.
Not only was she being reinstated; Taylor had command of the murder squad again, and her team was being reassembled. Detectives Lincoln Ross and Marcus Wade were shipped back up from the South Sector, and after a long discussion with the chief, she’d even talked him into allowing Renn McKenzie to become part of the permanent team. She had her boys back.
Most of them.
Pete Fitzgerald had fallen off the face of the earth. Taylor had last talked to him when he was in Barbados, anchored and waiting for a new part for his boat’s engine. He’d called to let her know he thought he’d seen their old nemesis, and she hadn’t heard from him since. She was sick with worry, convinced that Fitz had been taken by the Pretender, a killer so obscene, so cruel that he invaded her dreams and consumed her waking moments. A killer Taylor hadn’t caught; the one who’d quite literally gotten away.
Her concerns had been compounded just last week, when the Coast Guard had picked up a distress signal off the coast of North Carolina. The GPS beacon matched the registered number for Fitz’s boat. Despite countless days of searching, nothing had been found. The Coast Guard had been forced to call off the search, and the police in North Carolina couldn’t get involved because there was no crime to be investigated. She had a call in to the North Carolina State Bureau of Investigations, in the hope they would see things differently, but she hadn’t heard anything yet.
Taylor tried to shake off the thought of Fitz, of his body broken and battered, of what the Pretender was doing to him, or had done. The guilt spilled through her blood, making it chilly. She’d issued a challenge to the Pretender, told him to come and get her. Instead, she was positive he’d taken her friend, the man closest to her, aside from Baldwin. Her father figure. She had probably gotten Fitz killed, and she found that knowledge desperately hard to stomach.
She looked into the crowd, the sea of blue seated in compact rows before her. John Baldwin, her fiancé, sat in the front, grinning. His hair was too long again, the black waves falling over his forehead and ears in a tumble. She resisted the urge to roll her eyes; that was sure to get on the evening news, and she didn’t want any more attention than she already had. She touched her engagement ring instead, twisting the channel-set diamonds around her finger.
Her team sat beside him: Lin
coln Ross, hair grown out just enough to slip in some tiny dreadlocks; Marcus Wade, brown-eyed and sweetly happy. He was getting serious with his girlfriend, and Taylor had never seen him so content. The new member of the team, Renn McKenzie, was at Marcus’s left. Taylor saw McKenzie’s partner, Hugh Bangor, a few rows back. They’d been very discreet—only Taylor and Baldwin knew they were an item.
Even her old boss Mitchell Price was there, smiling benevolently at her. He’d been a casualty of the events that led to Taylor losing her badge in the first place, but had moved on. He was running a personal protection service catering to country music stars, and had made it clear that anytime Taylor wanted to bail on Nashville Metro, she was welcome to join him.
Fitz was the only one missing. She forced the lump in her throat away.
The chief was pinning something to her uniform now. He stood back with a wide smile and started clapping. The audience followed suit, and Taylor wished she could disappear. This was not what she wanted, this open, public enthusiasm on her behalf.
The chief gestured to the microphone. Taylor took a deep breath and stepped to the podium.
Sweet Little Lies Page 7
