by Rick R. Reed
She leaned back and cocked her head.
“I’m sorry. It’s just that it’s been kind of rough. This Beth Walsh…she just doesn’t…the pieces don’t fit. I talked to this guy, Rich Jenkins, up in Rogers Park—”
“Yeah, he called while you were out.”
“Thanks. I’ll call him. Anyway, it seems he and Beth had a sexual encounter just a couple days before Walsh was discovered and she turned up missing. From what he told me, it sounded pretty raunchy. Apparently, she slept with his son, too.”
“So she fooled around?”
“Yeah, but you see, when I talked to the parents and a few people who knew her from her volunteer work at Children’s Hospital, I got a completely different picture—a sweet young housewife, someone who bordered on being a Stepford wife.”
June laughed.
McGrew shook his head. “I just don’t know. A secret life? Who knows what anybody’s up to these days?”
“If she was with Jenkins, he might have been involved.”
“The chances are slim.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because I checked up on Jenkins and his son. Both of ‘em work for a big plumbing outfit over on Western. They were on documented calls all day the murder happened. He—or they—have a pretty airtight alibi.”
“Maybe Beth did it and Jenkins helped her plan?”
“There’s always a chance. Anything can happen. But I really don’t think so. This really seemed like a sleazy, sordid little encounter, nothing more. Hell, I’m not even sure Jenkins isn’t one of these kooks that come out of the woodwork when a crime’s committed, wanting attention. He really didn’t know anything he couldn’t have gotten out of the paper.” McGrew wondered if the helplessness showed on his face. “We have to find her.”
“And soon. You think she’s still alive? You really think she wasn’t involved?”
“If everything’s consistent with what I heard from this Jenkins guy this morning, I’d say yes, maybe. But I just can’t guess, not yet. Who knows?”
* * * *
Later, McGrew returned Jenkins’ call. The man picked up on the first ring. “Yeah?”
“Mr. Jenkins? This is Detective McGrew. I had a message you called.”
“Yeah, right. I ain’t gonna get in no trouble for this, am I? I mean, I was just tryin’ to do the right thing, civic duty and all that bullshit. I wasn’t involved in any crime or whatever. Some of my buddies, you know, they’re paranoid. Say I should have kept my mouth shut.”
“You’re not in any trouble, Mr. Jenkins. I’ve already cleared you as far as the time of the murder goes.” McGrew sighed. “Is that all you were calling about?”
“Well, no. Actually, I was callin’ because I remembered something.”
“What’s that?”
“Well, you remember when you asked if she was married?”
“Sure.” McGrew pulled his legal pad closer.
“I got to thinkin’ about that, man. Like maybe I answered too quick. It was kinda buggin’ me all day. Anyway, I did remember she was married, ‘cause I kind of suspected she was. A lady like that’s usually not unattached, you know? Not that it’s any of my business.”
“So she told you she was married.”
“Yeah, in fact she mentioned her husband was some hotshot and in Door County overnight for work…and we had nothin’ to worry about.”
“I see. Is there anything else?”
“Nah. That’s about it.”
After he hang up, McGrew doodled on his pad for a moment, then threw down his pen and sighed. Jenkins had just supplied him with the corroboration he needed, the missing piece of the puzzle. Up until then, he could give Beth the benefit of the doubt. But no one knew about Mark’s trip to Door County. It wasn’t reported anywhere. The only way Jenkins would be privy to that information is if he heard it from Beth herself. Now McGrew knew Jenkins was telling the truth.
He leaned back, closed his eyes, and conjured up Jenkins in his mind’s eye: the shaved head, the gold hoop earring, the tattoo. He saw Jenkins and Beth locked in a sweaty embrace, her writhing with him on top, her red hair fanned out on a pillow beneath her. McGrew’s face grew hot and he felt an erection start to snake upward. He needed to ease up on this case.
He was already getting way too involved.
Chapter 12
Abbott opened his eyes all at once. His headache, his constant companion, had disappeared. He touched his forehead, almost not believing it. He burrowed down under the rough wool blankets, pulling them up to his chin. The sunlight coming in through the window did little to warm him. Today, he needed to get the wood-burning stove working. Each day now, especially out here, it grew colder and colder.
* * * *
Beth lay on a damp mattress, spine stiff, trying to hold herself away from the mildewing pallet beneath her. Outside, the wind howled, came in like ice through the chinks in the wooden walls surrounding her, wooden walls that had become her prison.
The room was some sort of closet, or perhaps a pantry, since there were a few tiers of rickety shelving. These contained blue-green Bell jars, dust obscuring whatever floated in the murky liquid within. The walls had no insulation; the floor was concrete.
And the door locked from the outside.
She sat up, weary from crying and lack of sleep. She had watched, through the chinks in the wood, yesterday’s daylight pass into night and rise again to this, her second morning here.
Wherever here was. No other houses as far as she could see. The pine tree-covered hills met a purplish blue sky, filled with low-hanging clouds promising snow.
Everything that had happened was so unbelievable she still expected to awaken with Mark snoring beside her.
Yesterday, she remembered sort of “coming to” in Abbott’s apartment, like being thrust into a new—and unwelcome—reality. One moment, there had been no awareness of her meager surroundings and the next, it was all there: the secondhand furniture, the cracked mirror, traffic sounds outside.
And memories—Mark lying in a pool of his own blood; the feel of the butcher knife in her hand as she pulled it from his chest and the sucking sound it made when it came out; Abbott and Mark grappling; blood spattering the wall; Mark’s face and the moment of terror just before Abbott began slashing at him. She remembered watching her husband die, suddenly certain that his wounds were too huge to allow hope of survival.
She wished it had been a movie, but knew it wasn’t. And when the shock wore off, all she was left with was reality at its ugliest.
Before they’d left her apartment, Abbott had forced her up from the floor and taken her into the bathroom. They had stood naked in her shower with hot water rushing over them. He’d wiped the blood from their bodies with the stiff brush she used for cleaning, scrubbing and scrubbing, abrading their skin. She had felt nothing, not even as the harsh bristles passed over her breasts and thighs, leaving the tender flesh raw and chafed.
Afterward, Abbott had cleaned her bathroom, scrubbing in all the tile cracks, so not even a trace of blood remained. He had dressed her in clean clothes and she complied, like an invalid. Then he had taken one of Mark’s overcoats to hide his own bloodstained clothing. She had thought he might have wanted to take Mark’s body with him, to somehow dispose of it. As if reading her thoughts, he’d said, “Let them figure it out. Let them think you did it.”
She had felt nothing.
And now, in this old pantry, she felt maybe she had done it; maybe—in a very real way—she had killed Mark. He wouldn’t be dead now if it hadn’t been for her behavior. That fact she couldn’t escape.
And she couldn’t escape this room. Once more, she stepped to the door, lifted one leg to the doorframe for leverage, and pulled. It wouldn’t budge. She flung herself against the wood several times, the lock jiggling, but the door gave little against the force of her shoulder. Her efforts served only to hurt her more, to cause the sharp pain to dig right down into her bones.
She returned t
o the opening in the wood—a knothole, maybe?—and peered outside. A light snow had begun to fall.
She remembered how Abbott had burst into his apartment yesterday. She’d recoiled, but she could tell he realized she had come out of her shock. Her reaction must have made her seem more alert.
“I see you’ve come to,” he had said. “Maybe now you’ll begin to think about all the trouble you’ve caused.”
He’d kept the butcher knife, and had used it to force her down to his car, its motor running, parked in an alley behind his building. Before heading down the stairs, he’d bound her hands together, then forced her to lie across the backseat of the car, face down. He covered her from head to toe with a woolen blanket.
The ride had seemed interminable, and Beth sensed they were traversing highways, bumpy back roads, and, finally, gravel, moving farther and farther from civilization.
When he finally stopped, he took her out of the car and she could see the woods and hills for the first time. Day was winding into dusk, but the light hurt her eyes. They had parked next to a small white clapboard cottage with a fieldstone foundation. It looked old, unused. Behind it, a lake mirrored the leaden sky. Across its surface lay more dense woods.
Abbott had whispered something about an aunt and a summer place, but Beth hadn’t been paying close attention. Soon, he had imprisoned her in this pantry, and she had begun to wonder where she was and would anyone ever be able to find her?
Beth brought her mouth close to the opening in the wood and began to shriek.
* * * *
Abbott sat up straight in bed. Beth’s piercing scream briefly triggered the pain in his head, but the agony subsided after a moment.
He bolted from his bed and dressed quickly in the jeans and sweatshirt he had folded on a chair the night before. With no one else around to hear, where did she think the hollering would get her? The bitch needed to know that all she would accomplish was to give herself one hell of a sore throat.
The pleas for help got louder, bringing back the pain in his head and causing his paranoia to rise. What if someone happened to be driving by on the access road over the hill? The mailman, maybe? He might be able to hear her.
Abbott ignored the cold floor and rushed to the lean-to once used for canned fruits and vegetables storage. He unlocked the door and burst inside.
When Beth saw him, she stopped fell silent and came away from the opening in the wood. She flattened herself against the wall, as if trying to sink into it. Her eyes widened and her legs began to shake. She slid to the floor, drawing her knees up to her chest. “Don’t,” she whimpered.
He crossed the room and stood over her.
Suddenly, everything went out of control. Beth leapt from the floor, as if she had been poised for flight. She flung her arm toward his chest, causing him to stumble backward, and brushed by him.
She dashed through the door before he had a chance to regain his balance. He started after her, hearing her tear through the cottage, looking, he supposed, for the way out.
Cold wind rushed into the cabin when she found the back door, flung it open, and dashed through. Abbott went after her, the light covering of snow on the ground cutting like needles into his bare feet. She had found a path through the pines and headed away.
Abbott gulped for air. “Come back here!” he cried. “It’ll go better for you if you don’t do this.”
She stumbled over a bramble, all the advantage he needed. He leapt into the air and tackled her, landing with him on her back. She grunted as the wind rushed out of her.
With her face pushed into snow and pine needles, she began to sob.
He picked her up. She went limp in his arms, seeming much heavier than when he had carried her before. “Bitch,” he whispered, staggering through the snow back to the cottage.
Her body went taut as she brought up her nails to claw his face. “You can’t do this!” she shrieked. Her nails ripped through his skin; he felt a warm trickle run down his cheek.
It stunned him. She broke free from his arms and began her flight into the woods once more. But with his well-muscled legs, he was on her again in an instant. This time, he grabbed her around the chest, pinning her arms to her sides, and carried her upright, her legs kicking at him, her mouth open for screams and pleas for help.
Only the birds in the trees and rustling pine boughs witnessed her terror.
Rage rose up in him, humming like a horde of bees. He tried to tell himself to calm down, to not let things get out of hand. But—damn it—she hurt me!
He veered off the cobblestone path and headed toward the cold, gray lake.
Beth stiffened and bucked in his arms. “What? No, please don’t! Please! I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”
Abbott knew it was just an act.
He grew winded, and it proved difficult to walk with Beth’s weight, with her kicking and struggling. When he finally stepped onto the rickety wooden fishing pier, he watched his footing; it would be easy to step on a rotten board and fall right through, breaking bones, cutting them both, and sending them into the icy water below.
Then what would he do? How could he teach the cunt a lesson?
* * * *
Beth closed her eyes, gasping and praying this would end in a different way from what she dreaded. She wished now she hadn’t tried to get away, had just stayed put, played the good little girl, suitably remorseful. She knew now she needed to bide her time, wait for the right moment. She was no match for Abbott…physically.
Intellectually was another story.
But she recalled the open door and how it had practically called to her, its pull irresistible. She wasn’t sure she could prevent herself from doing the same thing again, if the opportunity presented itself once more. She had just thought, if she could make it outside, that she could get away.
She should have known better.
A bitter wind blew off the water’s surface, bringing up a smell of fish. Beth swallowed as Abbott neared the edge of the pier. The water looked dark, hungry, sloshing against the pilings.
How long did it take for hypothermia to set in?
What did it feel like to drown?
She was afraid to twist in his arms, afraid she would send herself plunging into the cold lake. She began whispering, fast, “Please. I’m sorry. I promise I won’t try to run away again. I’ll do whatever you say.” She tried to turn her head so she could look into his eyes, so he would know she meant it.
The water sloshed, rising and falling, beneath them.
“That’s all you’ve had, isn’t it?” Abbott’s voice sounded dead.
“What do you mean?”
“Second chances, second chances a hundred times over. Not this time.”
One moment, she was on the pier with his arms like steel bands around her. The next, she was sailing through the air and into the murky depths of the icy, gray lake.
She opened her eyes and couldn’t see anything except the fine silt floating in front of her. The frigid water actually hurt, like needles, and she feared her heart would stop. Frantically, she headed for the surface. Her head broke through, and for a moment, she couldn’t breathe. She tried to suck in some air, but it seemed as though she were still underwater.
Then she gasped, desperately sucking in a lung full of oxygen.
Abbott reached down and pushed her under.
The cold didn’t feel so bad this time; she began to go numb. She worried about how long it would be before she couldn’t feel—or move—her arms and legs. Yet in order to get away from his strong grasp, she moved away from the pier.
Suddenly, her head once again broke the surface of the water. Abbott was now lying on the pier, arms outstretched to help her. Gratefully, she swam toward him. Then she saw a weird grin on his face before he forced her under again.
She fought wildly against the hand holding her down, twisted up in her hair. She pushed against it while he pushed down. She had no leverage.
Oh God. This is where I die.
With a burst of effort she didn’t know she had, she managed to force her face above the surface of the lake again, choking and shivering too hard to form words. She tried to swing at his arms, but her limbs betrayed her, not receiving the signals her brain sent to them.
Abbott shoved her under again, and the gray, silty world finally, mercifully, went black.
Chapter 13
Consciousness seeped in—flashes of sight, sound, smell, and feeling. Several layers of warm blankets surrounded her, the fuzzy nap of the one closest to her skin a pleasant chafe. Nearby, the smell of smoke and a faint crackling sound reached her. She closed her eyes.
“I hope you’ve learned who’s in charge here.”
She didn’t open her eyes, but the voice chilled her, in spite of the nearby heat and the blankets. Beth lowered the sound of his voice, as it continued to a drone, and drifted off into a dreamless sleep.
* * * *
When she awakened a second time, she found herself sitting on a ladder-back chair, its slats uncomfortable against her back. Clothesline had been looped around her chest and knotted behind her. Her wrists had been bound together on her lap, while each ankle had been tied uncomfortably to a chair leg. And a mirror had been positioned on the table in front of her, so she could she herself. Her skin was white, lips blue, and her red hair hung in a dark mass, lifeless, around her shoulders.
Where was Abbott? She sat in a long, narrow room. A black wood burning stove occupied one corner. A scarred wooden pedestal table stood to her left and beyond that, a cot, stripped bare, with a thin mattress upon its spring—striped ticking. Two narrow windows revealed a copse of pine trees that almost pressed against the glass.
Where was Abbott?
A white sheet covered her body. On the floor lay its mate, positioned neatly under the chair.
She glanced into the mirror again, noticing how the red of her hair made her skin look even more ashen and white.
She cringed when she heard him behind her. She felt almost as if she were in the freezing waters of the lake once more, and couldn’t breathe. With his arrival, the air seemed sucked from the room.
