High Risk

by Rick R. Reed

  * * * *

  All the air rushed out of Beth when she hit the wall. Her head connected with the plaster in a sickening way. All she could do was slide to the floor and watch, dazed.

  Abbott grabbed the knife from the floor and gestured at her with it. “Don’t move!”

  Beth, for the moment, thought he had no worries. The connection between her brain and her legs seemed to have been broken.

  Then everything happened so fast, it all seemed so unreal. Beth felt as though she were watching a movie.

  Mark could do nothing but stand in frozen horror. He had time only to put up his hands in futile self-defense as Abbott advanced on him with the butcher knife.

  Yes, it’s all a movie. Sure. Abbott is Ray Liotta. The knife is a trick thing—rubber. It collapses back into the handle when pressed. That’s all. Sure. And that quick slash across poor Mark’s face? Fake. Just red dye. And Mark has always been a good actor. He’s just acting now. Sure.

  Mark’s doing a pretty good impression of terror as Abbott grabs him by his tie and cuts his face again. Oops, he knocked off his glasses. Oh my God, that looks real, like he really sliced through his eye.

  Beth could not—and would not—breathe. She knew with sudden, crashing certainty that all of this was not a movie, not a fantasy. But she couldn’t move. She was as stuck as if something sharp had pinned her to the wall, like a butterfly on display.

  She turned her head as a splatter of blood shot across the room, landing hot on her face.

  Why didn’t Mark scream? Could it have something to do with the fact that, with Abbott’s third slash, his lower lip lay in a bloody ribbon on his chin?

  Mark stumbled backward, his hand leaving a magenta print on the wall as he tried to steady himself.

  Abbott bore down on him, the knife sliding across Mark’s throat, laying it open. Mark gurgled. Blood soaked the front of his white shirt. He grabbed at his throat, as if he could staunch the flow with his hands. He fell backward, slipping in his own blood. Abbott moved in close, menacing, and watched as Mark thudded to the floor. He straddled Mark and, with a wolfen cry, plunged the knife into Mark’s chest, again and again.

  It was over so quickly. What had it all taken? A minute? Thirty seconds?

  And now it was so quiet. Beth wondered why there were no shrieking violins.

  Abbott looked at her, and something stirred inside. She rose, just a tiny bit, out of the thick cocoon of shock freezing her. His face was splattered with blood. It dripped from his chin.

  He smiled at her.

  She thought she should do something. She thought that, yes, she could move, and she crawled toward Mark and pulled the knife from his body. She lifted it, looking in wonder at the red-smeared blade, and dropped it to the floor.

  She leaned into her husband, heedless of the blood (or was it just dye?) and covered him with her body. She thought she should be crying. She thought there should be the distant wail of sirens. She thought there should be anything but this quiet, the only sound Abbott’s ragged, exhausted breath.

  Finally, she laid her head on Mark’s ravaged chest and prayed she would wake soon.

  Chapter 8

  Kate Donner sipped her wine and watched her husband, Ted, as he ate his dinner. To the left of his plate, he had folded the Wall Street Journal into a quarter. Even though his eyes moved relentlessly from left to right across the lines of type, Kate continued to hope for some glimmer of satisfaction to cross his features. But there was nothing, not even a slowing in his methodical chewing.

  “I got the trout fresh today, at that new market over on Davis.”

  Ted continued to read.

  “I said the trout came from this new seafood place.”

  The clink of his fork on his plate answered her.

  “I think it turned out good. Don’t you? I mean, with the almonds?”

  Finally, when her husband deigned to look at her, she wanted to shrink into her chair. What did he see? Did he see her as she used to be? As her daughter, Beth, now looked? Vibrant. Masses of red hair. A smile that could stop traffic. Or did he now see what she herself saw when she slathered Oil of Olay on her face before going to bed at night? A fat lady with three chins, porcine eyes that obscured orbs that had once been green and twinkling? Is that what he saw?

  “The fish is fine. Everything you make is fine.”

  The past few years had seen a parade of gourmet dinners. Kate’s kitchen was crowded with cookbooks, the kitchen TV tuned solely to the Food Network. Perhaps one day, she would make something her husband would like.

  Ted scooped up his paper and headed toward the den, where CNN awaited his attention.

  Kate stood, picking up the butter dish, and paused. “I wonder.” She waited for a sign that Ted had heard. He turned slightly, not quite making eye contact, but enough to acknowledge her voice. “I wonder what’s happened to Beth.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Kate let a nervous little laugh escape. “It’s just that I haven’t heard from her in a few days.” She thought of the countless times over the past three days she had listened to her daughter’s voice mail message over and over again, which she would never admit to her husband. “Usually, we talk every day.”

  “Beth’s grown. I’m sure she has things to do. What’s a couple of days?”

  “Still. It’s unusual.”

  Ted shook his head and Kate knew she had been dismissed. He left the room, and in a moment, she heard the TV click on.

  After Kate had cleared the table, wiped down tabletop and stove, and loaded the dishwasher, she went and stood in the entrance to the den. She waited for Ted to take his eyes from the screen. He didn’t, but did ask, “What is it?”

  She bit her lip. “I’m going to run out, now.”

  He continued to stare at the screen, watching a report about online predators. She watched for a moment with him, waiting for a response. “I’m going to go out for a bit.”

  “Okay.”

  “I thought I’d pop down to the city and see if Beth and Mark are all right, since I haven’t heard from them.” She paused. “As I mentioned.”

  “Suit yourself, but I think you should stay out of their hair. Did it ever occur to you she hasn’t called because maybe she needs a little space?”

  Kate picked at some lint on her sweater.

  Ted sighed. “I can tell what I think won’t make any difference.” He picked up the remote and turned up the volume on the TV.

  * * * *

  Something is wrong. Kate went around the block once more, looking for a place to park. Something is very wrong. And it made her palms sweat, the steering wheel slippery.

  Why were both cars parked in front with the apartment completely dark? It wasn’t even nine o’clock yet. They wouldn’t have gone to bed this early. Near Clark Street, Kate found a parking space.

  She hurried up Fullerton, pulling her coat tighter. It was almost November and frost warnings were out for the night. Gone was the aroma of damp leaves. The air smelled cold, vaporizing in front of her face with each hurried breath she took.

  A few steps away from the front steps, Kate didn’t want to go any closer. Her heart thudded. Her hands felt clammy. She had an almost overpowering urge to turn and run back to the car, dig her cell phone out of her purse, and call 911.

  What would she say to the police? That her daughter hadn’t called in three whole days and she was worried?

  Kate forced herself to march up the steps. She raised her hand and knocked. Knocked again. When no one answered after she repeated the routine three or four times, Kate turned away. Almost at the bottom of the stairway, she turned and hurried back up the steps and tried the doorknob.

  It turned easily.

  Why would Beth and Mark go away and leave the door unlocked? Why go to bed and leave it unlocked? This isn’t Mayberry…it’s Chicago. People just don’t forget to lock their doors. Not these days…

  Something told her not to go inside.

  Get a
grip. Just have a quick look around, make sure everything’s okay before you call the cops. Having the willies isn’t motivation enough to just run.

  She swung open the door and stepped inside.

  The darkness rose up. Kate gasped at the stench of rotting meat. She rummaged in her purse and brought out a handkerchief to press over her nose.

  The orange glow of a nearby streetlight poured into the apartment, and Kate’s eyes adjusted to the gloom.

  What smells so awful? Did they forget to take out the garbage?

  She wondered why she didn’t just grope along the wall for the light. Pressing a hand to her forehead, she told herself she was being silly, then forced herself to reach out and flip the switch.

  Immediately she viewed the bloody print on the wall. It looked distorted, as if some huge, elongated hand had left its mark.

  Kate wished she could hold still, but she trembled so violently she feared she would collapse. All the sounds outside—the wind, the traffic—ceased.

  Was she moaning? A low, animal sound escaped her. Was that really coming from her?

  Blood splattered the walls. Everywhere. Little specks of it, as if someone had dipped a brush in gore and shaken it. Kate grabbed her face, dug her nails into her cheeks until it hurt, until she felt her nails break the skin.

  She couldn’t accept Mark lying on the floor. It had to be someone else. Someone else’s face cut into shreds. Someone else’s shirt stained dark.

  Kate jumped back and cried out.

  It seemed the body had moved.

  No. That body would never move again. Kate pulled her hands out of her hair; she had been pulling so hard, bits of dry orange hair fluttered from her fingers.

  Oh God, where was Beth?

  Kate went back to the foyer, continued through the other rooms, relieved each time she didn’t find the bloody corpse of her daughter. Finally, she ended back with Mark.

  “Beth!” Kate screamed. “Beth!”

  She screamed again and again, until her throat burned raw, until at last help arrived.

  Chapter 9

  The headline on page one of the Chicago Tribune was the first thing that caught his eye…

  Attorney Murdered: Wife Missing

  He took a long drag off his Marlboro and put it in the close-to-overflowing ashtray on the arm of his recliner. He started reading:

  “Mark David Walsh, 36, was the victim of multiple stab wounds in his Fullerton Avenue home at approximately 2:30 P.M. on Monday, according to a spokesperson for the Chicago Police Department. At this time, there are no leads in the case. “The Walsh murder is being given our full attention at this time: all leads are being followed up,” Chief of Detectives June Comstock said this morning.

  “Walsh’s wife, Beth Donner Walsh, 33, has been reported missing by her mother, Kate Donner, of Evanston. Mrs. Walsh was last seen by her mother on Saturday.

  Comstock said the Walsh stabbing was, “In all likelihood, not the work of a burglar or thief.” Nothing was reported missing from the home and there were no signs of forced entry.

  “Walsh’s mutilated body was discovered about 7:00 P.M. Monday evening by Mrs. Donner. Walsh had been stabbed several times in the chest and abdomen. His face had been slashed numerous times.”

  He stopped reading to pick up the can of beer at his side and take a swig. The remainder of the article prattled on about the Walsh’s guy’s law practice and ended with the usual plea from the police asking anyone with information to come forward.

  It wasn’t so much the story that really caught his attention; it was the photo accompanying that made him look twice.

  Pretty lady.

  Rich Jenkins stubbed out his cigarette. That face was way too familiar.

  He may have been the last person to see her since her disappearance. “Hey, Brian,” he called over the TV. “Come in here a second, would ya?” His son would recognize the Walsh woman for sure. The kid hardly ever got laid.

  * * * *

  Detective Pete McGrew, at 29, was probably the best-known detective on the force. When reporters called, it was usually McGrew they talked to. He was young, dynamic and outgoing, with a habit of turning interviews around, so the reporter suddenly realized he or she was the one being interrogated. The habit often proved annoying to the reporter, but gave McGrew satisfaction. He had gotten where he was because of his interest in people and his ability to draw them out. Even reporters. In spite of his habit of taking control of interviews, reporters still went to McGrew first because he was often willing to share details about cases. Human touches. This way, he hoped to make allies of the media, involving them in a crime’s solution. His black hair, startling blue eyes, and dimples also didn’t hurt—he was a great subject for the camera.

  When his phone rang, McGrew picked it up, already knowing it be his boss, June Comstock, the highest-ranking female detective on the force. He was certain, now that the medical examiner and forensics had had their chance to photograph the Walsh crime scene, dust for fingerprints, fill countless paper bags with everything from carpet fibers to fingernails to strands of hair, that she was going to assign him to the case.

  And he couldn’t wait to get started.

  “McGrew.”

  “It’s June. Come on in.”

  He waited for the click, then hung up his phone. June never said one word more than necessary. Maybe that’s what had gotten her where she was. McGrew grabbed a legal pad and a Bic, and headed for his boss’s office.

  Comstock faced him over the top of a battered metal desk. Her auburn hair was cut short, gelled, and combed straight back. She wore no jewelry or make-up. At 47, there were a few lines around her brown eyes, on her forehead, and creasing the area around her lips when she smiled, which was seldom. Still, her disdain for feminine trappings did little to diminish her beauty. Her eyes were bottomless and her face, heart-shaped. McGrew thought she looked like a doe as he took a seat.

  “Monday morning.” Comstock closed the file folder on her spotless desk.

  McGrew nodded, waiting, trying to peer over to see how the file folder was labeled without being obvious.

  She slid the file toward him. “Yes, Pete, it’s the Walsh case. Read. Read, since you’re so damn eager.”

  McGrew snatched the folder and opened it.

  “Later.” Comstock waited for him to close the file with the look of an indulgent mother. “I talk now. You can read later.”

  He reluctantly closed the file.

  “What have you heard?” she asked.

  “Just what the Trib reported this morning. Which wasn’t much.”

  “They don’t have much.”

  “Isn’t the guy a divorce lawyer? That right there makes him a target.” McGrew snorted.

  Comstock shook her head. “Not nice.”

  “Well, no.” McGrew shifted in his seat. “You know what I mean—disgruntled clients.”

  “But it looks like the guy was pretty well-liked, disgruntled clients or their mates aside. None of the partners in his firm seem to know of any cases that had more rancor than the usual.”

  “And where’s the wife?”

  “That’s what I want you to find out. Get a feel for this woman. Did she and the husband get along? Who would she keep in touch with, assuming she’s still alive?” Comstock unwrapped a stick of Dentyne and popped it into her mouth. “I don’t need to tell you the questions.”

  “No, I’ve already got a list.” McGrew tapped his forehead. “Right here.”

  “Get it down on paper. And get going. This Walsh had some higher-up connections and there’ll be pressure.”

  * * * *

  The file didn’t contain much. The Walsh’s looked pretty solid, white bread. Beth did volunteer work for the Children’s Hospital and was a rare bird—a stay-at-home wife with no kids. Not much more to go on: college-educated, with a lot of time on her hands. Staring at the photograph of Beth, McGrew couldn’t help but be struck by her beauty. Her eyes, even in the photo, reached out to
him. There was something almost wounded in them, a quality begging for protection. Her hair was like something ethereal around her face. McGrew almost felt as if he could rub the photograph and feel the silk of her skin.

  Beauty like hers could sometimes cause problems. It could fuck up the owner’s mind.

  The phone rang. “McGrew.”

  “Uh, yeah. The lady connected me to you, said I should talk to you about this Walsh case.

  McGrew sat up straighter, pulling his legal pad toward him. “Go ahead, sir. Who am I talking to?”

  “Name’s Rich Jenkins.”

  * * * *

  Jenkins’ place was a mess. McGrew had to clear away stacks of newspapers just to sit. Dirty clothes littered the living room floor; dust and cigarette ash covered the coffee table before him. Walls were dingy white, with the only decoration being a mirror with the Budweiser logo. But this guy had said on the phone that he thought he might have been one of the last people to have seen Beth Walsh.

  Jenkins sat across from him. Everything on the man looked hard, lean. His eyes were bloodshot, and his face was creased with wrinkles that told tales of too many late nights, too many rough times, and too much abuse.

  The man cracked open a beer and lit a cigarette. McGrew could tell he was waiting for him to begin.

  “Mr. Jenkins, maybe we could start by having you take a look at this picture.” He held out the photo of Beth. “Just want to be sure we’re talking about the same person.”

  Jenkins’ rheumy eyes scanned the photo. Already, McGrew had a hard time reconciling the image in the photograph with this man and these surroundings.

  The careworn faced registered little emotion. He handed the photo back to McGrew. “Yup. She’s the lady. My boy, Brian, is in the kitchen, if you wanna have him take a look. He’d recognize her, too.”