by Nancy Bush
And an arm and head flopped down, hanging outside.
Gemma screamed, then cut herself off abruptly, a hand at her throat.
Will bent down to the man. “He’s alive,” he said.
Quickly he called 911 while Gemma just stared. He seemed familiar. “I think he’s been to the diner,” she said in an unsteady voice.
“Can you help me lay him down?”
They carefully pulled the man’s body from the car, supporting his neck, keeping his back as straight as possible. Will’s flashlight revealed the blow to his temple where a stream of blood from a gash ran down his neck.
And then they heard the whimpering. Will whipped around, his beam catching Little Tim in its illumination. His face was contorted. He had a girlie magazine folded in one tight fist. “He burned her,” he said. “I could smell it. I thought he wanted to love her, but he burned her.”
“Who?” Will demanded. “Where?”
Tim ran to Gemma and nearly knocked her over. He was sobbing and shaking. He pointed with the magazine in the direction of the woods. “But he’s gone now. He took her.” He looked up and saw the unconscious form of the man on the ground. “Is he dead?” he wailed.
“No,” Gemma said. “No, he’s alive.”
“He took her!” he cried again. “Burned her and took her. It smelled so bad!”
“You saw him?” Will asked.
Tim nodded. He waved in the general direction they’d come on the access road. “He took her away.”
“Who?” Will asked again.
Little Tim looked at him fearfully from the comfort of Gemma’s embrace. “The cigarette man.”
“The cigarette man?” Will repeated, a cold finger drawing a line down his spine.
“I saw the cigarette tip,” he said, pointing toward a grouping of trees. “It was orange. And then I smelled it. And then he carried her away.”
Will met Gemma’s eyes. “I need to wait for the paramedics.”
“We’re okay,” she said. “Right, Tim? We’re okay for now.”
He sniffed and gathered her closer. “We’re at Lover’s Lane,” he said shyly.
“Yes, we are.”
It seemed like forever before they heard the sirens. Will checked the Camaro’s registration then got on his cell phone to his partner. As the ambulance arrived, lights flashing, Tim finally let go of Gemma to observe, his eyes wide. The EMTs jumped out and Gemma pulled Tim back to give them room. They worked over the unconscious man and loaded him into the back of the van.
Will said, “I’m going to take you and Tim home and then head to the hospital.”
“You think the guy who did this is the…?”
“Yeah.” Will was terse.
“What guy?” Tim asked.
“Not a nice one,” Gemma answered.
“No.” Tim shook his head dolefully, then cast a worried glance in the direction of the copse of trees.
Fifteen minutes later they were on their way, following the ambulance from the site. Will said quietly, “We’re going to search the area, but Tim, did you see the vehicle that left? The one the cigarette man was driving?”
“Noooooo. I heard it leave.”
“Taillights? The back, red lights? Did you see them?”
“Noooooo.” He gazed at Will with worried eyes.
“It’s all right,” he told him.
They drove to the Weatherford home. Vera had the lights on, and she hugged her big son when he lumbered up the front porch steps and into her waiting arms. “He was a mean man,” Tim said when Gemma and Will turned to leave. Then, a little desperately, “I see into your soul, Gemma!”
“It’s okay, Tim,” Gemma assured him.
They climbed into the Jeep and drove back to her farmhouse. “Are you going to come back after?” she asked him as he dropped her off.
He wanted to more than anything, but he knew how things were shaping up. “I doubt I’ll be able to. If this guy’s our psycho, the shit’s really going to hit the fan.”
“Whose car was it? Can you tell me?”
“It’s registered to Barry Halberton.”
Gemma shook her head. “He seemed familiar but I don’t know…”
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” Will promised, then lifted a hand and turned the Jeep around as Gemma let herself into her house. She’d left more Snickers bars in a bowl outside the door but they looked untouched. Charlotte had been her only trick-or-treater.
Nevertheless, she moved cautiously through the house, testing every window and door. She felt almost violated; the events of the night filled her head with emotions she didn’t want to examine.
She checked her phone messages and heard Tremaine Rainfield ask her to call him. He said that though the next day was Saturday, he would really like to see her again.
Gemma thought about her ability to read emotions as she walked into her red room. She suddenly wanted to know more about herself. If Tremaine could help…? Before she could change her mind, she called his number and left a message saying she would be happy to meet with him the next morning. The walls were pressing in and she needed tools to keep them from crushing her.
Barry Halberton woke up in Laurelton General’s ER. His head throbbed and his vision was slightly blurry. He was undressed under a sheet and suddenly he remembered taking his pants off and having Heather on top of him.
“Heather!” he called, shooting to a sitting position. Immediately a team of nurses gently pushed him back down. One of them, a young, pretty one, said, “Sir, you need to lie down. You’ve been in an accident.”
“An accident?”
And then the serious-eyed face of a man in a black jacket and jeans gazed down at him. “Are you Barry Halberton?”
“Yeah. Where’s Heather?”
“What’s Heather’s last name?”
“Uh…Yates…Is she okay?” he asked, panicked. Then, “Oh, my God! He broke into our car. Smashed the window! Where’s Heather! I need to see her.”
“Mr. Halberton, stay down,” the nurse ordered, her hands on his arms.
“Heather’s missing,” the man said. “We’re trying to find her.”
“What?” Barry was beside himself. “He took her. He’s going to kill her.”
“Can you tell us what he looked like?” the man asked calmly.
Barry moaned and closed his eyes. He saw the looming head come toward them in the front seat. “Like an ape. Big head and shoulders. Oh, God…” He leaned over the gurney and vomited.
“Sir, you need to leave,” the nurse said sternly to Will.
Will flipped out his badge but it held no sway. He was forced to take a few steps away but Barry yelled, “Find Heather. She works at the diner.”
“Which diner?” Will asked.
The nurse glared at him and then at Barry.
“LuLu’s.”
Chapter Twenty
Gemma awoke as if from a bad dream. Faint illumination was filtering through her bedroom blinds, and when she pulled them up she saw that the sun was fighting its way out from between two large, dark gray clouds.
She checked the time. Nine-thirty. Glancing around the room, she let her mind shy away from the events of the night before, yet she couldn’t forget that a woman was missing.
Shuddering, she quickly went through her morning ablutions: shower, change of clothes, makeup. Macie had said she didn’t need her help today, and Gemma, although she felt drawn to the safety and routine of the diner, was determined to start new.
With Will.
She thought about calling him. She knew he’d gone to the hospital and she could imagine the craziness at the sheriff’s department today in the wake of the abduction. Though the feds had been careful not to let too much out about the two other murdered women, a decision that had been helped by the fact they’d been found in different counties, this third victim, if that’s what it turned out to be, was bound to blow the case wide open to the press. The “burn” psycho would be front-page news.
&nbs
p; If Tim was right, which she kinda thought he was.
Her phone rang and she glanced at the Caller ID, didn’t recognize the number, so she answered cautiously, “Hello.”
“Gemma? It’s Tremaine Rainfield. I got your message. You sounded like you might be interested in going under hypnosis.”
“What I want is to move on,” she told him clearly. “I feel like I’ve been carrying around a lot of stuff I need to just let go of. That’s why I’ll do it.”
“Great.” He clearly didn’t care about her reasons, just was happy to get on with it. “This morning or afternoon? At my offices?”
“Let’s make it early afternoon.”
“See you then.”
Outside the PickAxe the street was filled with Halloween debris: rafts of Silly String in neon colors. A smashed bag which had been filled with candy, candy that was spread all over in sticky, mud-covered piles. A broken Lone Ranger mask, its elastic back torn. Dots, spilled from their ripped, shredded box, were dissolving gummily in standing water. A pirate’s sword which was really light cardboard covered with aluminum foil.
Kevin Dunleavy frowned down at the mess and kicked aside some of the Dots. He’d opened the front door to gaze across at LuLu’s, glaring at its raft of customers. He resented the diner’s booming business. He just about hated that Macie woman and her nosy bitch of a daughter. That girl was always watching, like she was taking notes, or something.
And the LaPortes owned the building. Gemma LaPorte. He’d like to smash his fist in her face and his boot in her hot little crotch before he killed her.
“Psychic, my fuckin’ ass,” he muttered, slamming back inside to the semidarkness. There’d been a Halloween party of sorts the night before and the black-and-orange streamers that hung limply around the windows and from the brass lights, just plain pissed him off. He tore down a streamer and stomped it into the floor.
Patsy appeared, her face wan as she walked in from the back door.
“What’re you doin’ here?” Kevin growled.
“I’m getting ready for lunch.”
“They’re all over at the diner, stupid bitch. That’s where they go. Pancakes and eggs sunny-side up and club sandwiches and hamburgers…when’s the last time we sold a burger, huh? When?”
“Last night.” Her words were clipped. He could almost hear the asshole she didn’t have the nerve to tack on at the end.
Fury licked through his veins. With an effort he charged through to the bar, his eye on the bottle of expensive scotch. He’d forced himself to keep to just four drinks the night before. Had to keep the damned partiers happy and buying. It wasn’t that long ago that he’d gotten in a fight with one of their big spenders and he’d been crawling on his belly and begging ever since. The dumb fuck just loved to see good ol’ Kev squirm.
Jesus. What a life.
The door opened, letting in weak sunshine and a blast of cold air. Burl Jernstadt’s bulky form entered and Kev grunted a hello at him. Here was someone who understood his frustration. A compadre. A drinking pal.
“What a fuckin’ mess out there,” Burl said. “Pardon my French.”
“Ready for a scotch? God, don’t tell me you think it’s too early.”
“I don’t have a job no more, courtesy of Detective Will Tanninger, so pour it neat and make it tall.”
Kev snorted and filled Burl’s order and a glass for himself as well. He gave Burl the cheap stuff and his hand hovered over the expensive bottle, debating. Oh, hell. He deserved something good. He broke open the seal on the expensive scotch and filled himself one hefty dose.
Burl didn’t notice. He was already bitchin’ and moanin’ and whiny-whinin’ about Tanninger some more. Truth to tell, Kev was sick of it. The man’s constant crying made him want to puke.
“He’s been getting into that nutso Gemma LaPorte’s pants. I overheard Barb on her cell phone letting him know what she thought about it. She’s been all over him like white on rice, but nope, he likes the crazies.”
Kev’s fury resurfaced when he thought about Gemma LaPorte. Touch me and you die. Who did she think she was, threatening him? She was the one who was going to die, all right.
Burl worked his way through his drink, and kept on and on about Tanninger. Kev sipped more slowly and made a gross face at Patsy, who hovered around like a bad smell. He could tell she was gonna rat on him to Rome. Well let her.
“We shoulda played a trick on her last night,” Burl said suddenly. “Soaped her windows. Disabled her car.”
“On Gemma?” Kev was beginning to have a tad bit of trouble keeping interested, what with Burl’s monotone.
“Yeah, for fun. Something. Scare her shitless. Watch Tanninger run around like he’s got a hot poker up his ass, trying to figure out who’s after her.”
Kev liked that idea. It warmed him inside. But he didn’t want Burl involved in any way. He wanted to sneak up on Gemma LaPorte and scare her till she wet her pants. He had a sudden vision of throwing her down on the ground and sticking his dick inside her dirty little pussy. Take that, whore. And again. And again.
“I gotta go,” he said, tossing back the remains of his second drink. The cheap scotch. Not the good stuff. Not necessary after the first drink.
“Where ya off to?” Burl demanded, but Kev was out the back door, lurching toward his ’66 El Camino, his pride and joy. White. Beautiful. Shouldn’t be driving it drunk.
But hell, he wasn’t drunk.
And it was high time he taught Gemma LaPorte a lesson she wouldn’t forget.
Lucky had the distinct feeling she was supposed to be somewhere, but she was poised in her newly borrowed Hunk O’Junk brownish Chrysler sedan, parked on Quarry’s main street. She’d opened the door to her past and let little, jagged-sharp pieces of memory escape, memories she mostly refused to acknowledge. Now she thought of her father. Or the man who claimed to be her father, as he’d adopted her when she was too young to remember.
The day she’d walked him onto the jetty was dark and threatening. Everyone knew you shouldn’t walk on the jetty with a storm coming in. She’d been young, but strong, lithe and agile and she’d taken care of herself from the time she could remember. The doctor liked his pills and he liked to make it an evening at home with her as much as he could. Pills and his little girl. She’d grown up feeling first ashamed, then increasingly angry. Then she’d started recognizing the signs of what was to come: his stupid amorous talk, his lurching drunkenness.
She learned from others in town that they suspected what had been going on but had turned a blind eye.
So she took him out on the jetty. Begged him to take her, though he tried to back out. Said she’d be such a good little girl for him. Helped him with his pills.
And as they stumbled along, holding hands, she continued to coax even though the clouds grew black and the wind whistled and the waves swept upward, glorious in their force.
She tripped him. So simple. And right at that moment a wave crashed onto the jetty and knocked her down, sweeping dear old dad into the sea. He screamed and she saw the “O” of his mouth as he realized he was going in the ocean. She had to hang on with all the strength she possessed or be swept in with him and she did, head down, a grim smile of satisfaction on her face. She was found by a man who’d witnessed the whole thing, who rained scared accusations down on her about “idiots who walked on the jetty in a storm.” He blamed the doctor, not Lucky, though he’d seen that she’d been the one instigating the walk, because the doctor should have known better.
The doctor’s brother was brought in to take her. There was talk of giving her back to her real mother, but she was crazy. So, Lucky slipped away. No one was going to take her. Ever again. Without her consent.
Now Lucky gnawed on the back of one knuckle. That was the truth, wasn’t it? That was her history. It wasn’t a made-up story. That’s how she’d come to this point.
As she considered, she saw a vintage El Camino rattle past, its frame dent-free, its grillwork shinin
g even if the engine sounded a little rough.
The bastard from the PickAxe was at the wheel. Bent over the wheel. Swerving a bit as he hauled ass down the main street.
Lucky read his emotions as he passed by as if they were written against the sky. He wanted to rape and kill someone.
She said simply, “No,” to the empty bench seat of her car, and she pulled out behind him.
He drove to a long lane that was bordered by shrubs and looked to Lucky like it could be a trap. She parked her Chrysler about fifty feet away, in a turnaround that bordered the property but was screened from the main road by Scotch broom and scrub pine. She then worked her way back to the drive and walked down it carefully, ready to dart into the underbrush if he suddenly came back the way he’d gone in.
She reached the end of the lane and the back of the El Camino at the same moment. He was striding up to the front porch of a farmhouse, not bothering to hide his approach. He was drunk as a skunk, too, she realized, which probably accounted for his poor judgment. If he really wanted to attack whoever lived here then he would have been wise to be more discreet.
He pounded on the front door, pressed a hand against the bell half a dozen times. When nothing happened, he screamed, “LaPorte, you fucking bitch! Answer the goddamned door!”
LaPorte? So was this the home of the well-hated Gemma?
A few moments later Kev turned around, slipped on some leaves on the porch, swore pungently, then staggered back to the El Camino. Lucky eased into the surrounding shrubbery, squatting down, making herself small.
He turned the vehicle around, throwing mud from beneath spinning tires, then headed back the way he’d come. Lucky stood up and stepped from her hiding spot, her gaze on the farmhouse. A strange frisson of awareness came over her. She felt caught in a tractor beam, dragged by forces other than her own will toward some nameless and unwelcome truth.
The sound of an approaching car broke the spell. Lucky jumped back toward her hiding spot, scrambling behind a clump of Scotch broom. A county law enforcement vehicle entered the drive and pulled up to the house. As she watched, a tall, somewhat familiar dark-haired man stepped from the car and walked toward the house.
