Epiphany (Legacy of Payne)

by Christina Jean Michaels

  “And what if she doesn’t? What then?”

  Judd scooted his chair back and stood. “Look, I understand your worry, but our department is overloaded right now. We’ll do what we can. If you haven’t heard from her by tomorrow, come back and we’ll file the report.” He crossed the room and opened the door. It seemed to me the only thing overloading him was an inability to use a trashcan.

  I brushed past him. “Your concern is touching, deputy.”

  “I’m sure she’s okay. If you know Six, you know she’s a wild one.”

  I nodded. “Sure, like Chloe Sanders was?” I didn’t stop to see if my point hit the mark. Judd’s unspoken message came through loud and clear: he was only placating me. He didn’t believe Six was in trouble. Guess I was on my own in finding her.

  * * *

  As soon as I returned home, I went straight to my laptop and typed in two words: Boise Hangman.

  The search results were overwhelming. On the first page alone, I found links to Wikipedia, several true crime sites, and a dozen or more articles written by various members of Boise’s local media, the most popular of which was the Idaho Statesman. I wasn’t sure where to begin—the information was massive. I would need a considerable amount of caffeine for this. I poured a strong-brewed cup of coffee and returned to my computer, mug in hand, and began digging.

  The Boise Hangman had surfaced three years ago, named for the city he terrorized and his method of killing. His first victim had been a bartender named Colette James. She’d been in her mid-twenties and a native of Boise. They found her body two days after Valentine’s Day. A month after Colette’s murder police discovered a second victim, Desiree Hammond, who had been an exotic dancer. Several more women were found, and a steady pattern was established.

  But then the killing had stopped about eight months ago. Until now.

  Taking a sip of coffee that had gone tepid, I leaned back in my chair and processed what I’d learned. The killer had taunted the media, and one name had come up the most. A.J. Payne, a reporter for the Idaho Statesman, had written the majority of press concerning the Hangman. The bodies had piled high as law enforcement continued their efforts in bringing a killer to justice and calming the rising panic taking hold of Boise.

  I swallowed hard as I thought of the victims—a list so long, I couldn’t stomach the idea of branding my mind with so many names. They’d been found within a twenty-five mile radius of the city, and they’d all been brutally raped and hanged. I shuddered. To think Six could suffer the same fate, that maybe she already had, was too horrible to imagine.

  What I couldn’t reconcile was why a notorious serial killer would choose a tiny town like Watcher’s Point to terrorize. He’d disappeared off the radar for months, and then suddenly he was killing again in another town and sending more taunting notes to the media?

  What had motivated him to cross state lines?

  The computer screen blurred before my eyes as I tried to come up with a valid explanation, though none was forthcoming. Exhaustion skewed my ability to think logically. I got up and stretched the stiffness from my muscles. I wouldn’t sleep. Not yet. Not until Six was home safe.

  I grabbed my library card and headed next door, grateful that my flighty friend never slowed long enough to lock the deadbolt. After a few swipes of the card, the door clicked open. I began my search in her living room, though I had no idea what I expected to find. Maybe some clue to her whereabouts? A flashing neon arrow pointing me in the right direction?

  Snorting at the thought, I headed for her computer. Password protected. Damn. After several failed attempts, I gave up and went to search the desk drawers. A stack of mail, mostly bills, and the normal office stuff I’d expect to find. I stumbled onto a letter from her mother but couldn’t find a phone number. At least the return address would be useful in tracking her down.

  I moved on to Six’s sleeping area, noticing on the way how her jacket hung over the arm of the couch. I almost tripped over a shoe; the other lay abandoned a few feet away. I felt completely out of my element as I rounded the tall bookshelves that separated her bed from the living room. I wasn’t a detective. The police were supposed to do the clue-gathering. Unfortunately for Six, I was all she had right now, and I was a sorry excuse for a search and rescue effort.

  Her bed appeared untouched, as if she hadn’t been back since the night of Halloween, though I knew she had. I remembered those shoes on her living room floor—they’d completed her costume to perfection two nights ago. Other than the shoes and jacket, nothing else seemed out of place. The decorative pillows on her bed hadn’t been moved, and the candles on her dresser still sat in a layer of dust. Everything was as it should be . . . everything but Six. She should be there sleeping in her bed, gearing up for another shift at the Pour House. Her absence filled the space so completely that I almost gave in and cried.

  Something caught my eye—something that reminded me of Six’s hair, only brighter. It poked out from underneath the bed.

  No, not hair. It was Elmo.

  The head of the Sesame Street character grinned in an unsettling way, its eyeholes now void where a blue-eyed gaze had danced at me on the night of Halloween. I resisted the urge to touch it. Never mess with evidence—that much I knew. Instead, I pulled out my cell and started snapping pictures.

  A draft suddenly hit my skin, and gooseflesh erupted just as the floorboards creaked. I whirled around and found myself face to face with Aidan.

  8. Stop Rattling My Closet

  For the longest time we communicated with our eyes, neither of us saying a word as Aidan blocked the path to the living room.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked, clutching my cell phone hard enough to whiten my knuckles.

  “I could ask you the same question.” He leaned against the wall and crossed his arms, never taking his gaze off me.

  “Six lives here,” I answered, as if that explained everything. “And I asked you first.” I imitated his stance.

  “I saw you break in. Call me curious.”

  “You saw me?”

  His attention landed on my cell. “What were you taking pictures of?”

  The question brought me back to my reason for being there. Six gone, and Elmo leaving his imprint on her floor. “Six is missing.”

  Aidan uncrossed his arms and leaned toward me. “What do you mean missing? Since when?”

  “Since Halloween. She’s in trouble, Aidan.” Would he believe me? God, he had to. I needed someone’s help. Relief at not being in this alone seeped from my noodle-like limbs, and I sat down on the bed before my legs gave out.

  He crouched in front of me. “Did you go to the police?”

  I let out a disgusted snort. “They think she partied hard and is passed out somewhere. They won’t file a missing persons report until tomorrow morning.” I blinked back tears. “I saw today’s paper. I’m worried he has her.”

  “The Hangman?” His careful tone didn’t match his eyes; something formidable festered in them.

  Wringing my hands, I nodded, and in the back of my mind I questioned why I wasn’t more alarmed at his sudden presence.

  “Did you contact her family? Friends?” he asked.

  “No one from work has heard from her, and I couldn’t find her mom’s phone number.”

  He covered my hand with his. “Don’t think the worst yet.”

  I wet my suddenly dry lips. “It’s hard not to.” The idea of divulging my dreams terrified me, but how else could I get across how serious the situation was?

  Wait . . . Elmo. My only tangible clue. I got up and pointed to the floor. “I found this.”

  “What is it?” I sensed him staring at the red fur from over my shoulder.

  “Part of an Elmo costume. There was a guy at the Pour House wearing one just like this on Halloween.” I tilted my head and found Aidan’s face inches from mine, radiating heat.

  “This is what you were snapping pictures of?”

  “Yeah.”

>   “And you have no idea who he was?”

  “No.” I took a discreet step away, putting a few more inches between us. “I don’t know,” I amended, “it’s possible I’ve seen him. He had blue eyes, but other than that . . .” I sighed. “What bothers me is that I saw Six flirting with him before I took off to—” I abruptly stopped, stricken by what I was about to say. “Well, before I left.”

  The way he studied me, brows slightly raised, told me he was aware of what I hadn’t said. I let out a small breath of relief when he didn’t pursue it.

  “So the natural assumption is she brought this Elmo guy home.”

  “That’s what I’m thinking. I also found her jacket and the shoes she was wearing that night. They’re out there,” I said, pointing in the direction of Six’s living room.

  “Let’s take a look.” He gestured for me to go first. The tight space made it impossible not to touch him. The contact, however, shouldn’t have made me so dizzy. I sank onto the sofa and put my head in my hands, closing my eyes to the spinning room.

  “What’s wrong?” He sat next to me.

  “I have no idea. I just got so lightheaded . . .”

  “Hey, look at me.” I raised my head and found him watching me carefully. “When was the last time you slept? Or ate, for that matter?”

  The first question was easy—I hadn’t really slept in weeks. The second took longer to answer. “I think I ate yesterday before my shift.”

  “You think?” Shaking his head, he let out a sigh. “C’mon,” he said, pulling me to my feet.

  “Where are we going?”

  “I’m taking you home.” He shut Six’s door and led me to my apartment without any input on my part, which should have alarmed me, but I was too tired to care. He pushed my door open and treated me to another long-suffering look. “Don’t ever leave your door unlocked again, okay?”

  “Okay.” At his insistence, I reclined on my worn sofa.

  “I’ll go find something to cook up in the kitchen.”

  This take-charge side of Aidan was disconcerting. I was used to taking care of myself, though I realized with shame that I’d done a lousy job of it lately. Then another thought occurred to me, blocking out my exhaustion. The drawings, all of Aidan, were scattered in plain sight on my dinette.

  I bolted from the couch just as he reappeared. My gaze fell to his hands where he clutched a sketch in each one. I opened my mouth but could find no explanation.

  “You drew this?” He held up the drawing in question—the one I’d finished right before Halloween of masked faces and him lying on the ground.

  “Yeah.” I bit my lip and told myself not to panic.

  He studied the scene, which was mostly black with various grays and a few splashes of red. “You’re very talented,” he said, and then he held up the other, only this time his expression wasn’t so friendly. “Explain this one.”

  I gulped. I’d sketched the portrait a couple of years ago, using my dreams as inspiration. His hair was shorter, not so wild and unruly, and a wide expanse of bare chest tapered down into the unknown. The tantalizing image still burned in my memory.

  I faced his stony expression, certain my face had turned several shades of red. “I’m an artist. You caught my eye, so I got creative. I draw a lot of people.” Nonchalance wasn’t easy to forge when faced with such incriminating evidence. What would I think if our positions were reversed? If he’d drawn me before I cut my hair a few months ago?

  “The necklace,” he said. “Who told you?”

  A simple gold chain encircled his throat—the only thing he wore in the drawing, and the only spot of color. I tilted my head and frowned. What was he getting at? “No one told me anything.”

  He seemed transfixed by the drawing, or more accurately, the necklace adorning an earlier version of himself. The paper shook in his hands, and for a moment I thought he was going to crush it in his fist. “How is it possible . . . that you came up with this on your own?”

  My only option was to play dumb. “I’m not sure what you mean. Do you have a similar necklace or something?”

  His mouth hardened into a straight line. “Not anymore.” Without warning he disappeared into the kitchen again.

  I fell onto the couch and dropped my head into my hands. As I pulled myself together, I heard the refrigerator door open, followed by the creak of cupboards, the slide of drawers.

  “How about eggs, potatoes, and toast?” he asked from the other room.

  Despite the nervous flutters in my stomach, I nearly salivated at the thought of a cooked meal, even one as simple as breakfast. I hoped he was better in the kitchen than I was. “Sounds perfect, thanks.”

  “How do you like your eggs?”

  “Scrambled is fine.” Another drawer opened and closed, and I wondered at the speed in which he’d shifted gears. Something about the drawing disturbed him—disturbed him so much he’d let it drop? More sounds echoed from the kitchen. “Need help finding something?”

  “Nope, found it.”

  While he busied himself cooking, I thought of how little I knew about him. What was his story anyway? He’d literally walked out of my dreams and into the flesh just days before Six went missing.

  “I did a little digging on the Internet today,” I said, listening as he chopped what I assumed were potatoes.

  “About what?”

  “The Boise Hangman.”

  He didn’t answer for several moments, though the sound of the knife hitting the cutting board ceased, so I figured he’d heard me. “What did you find?”

  “He killed several women, mostly bartenders. The media was all over the case, and he sent scathing notes to the major newspapers.” Silence stretched into minutes, and soon something sizzled from the next room. My stomach rumbled, and I yawned, fighting to keep my eyes open.

  Sometime later, he startled me awake with a plate full of steaming food. How he was able to get it all done at the same time, I’d never understand. I’d eaten cold eggs on more than a few occasions. He set the plate down on the coffee table and added a glass of milk.

  I scooted over, giving him room to sit. “You have no idea how much I appreciate this.” Noting the single plate, I asked, “You’re not hungry?”

  “I already ate.”

  I took a bite of eggs. Damn, he could cook. When I scrambled eggs, they tasted like rubber.

  “Do you work tonight?” he asked.

  “Yeah. Six is supposed to work too.” I prayed she’d be back. We’d poke fun at the customers and talk about the regulars that Six knew on a more personal level.

  “You should get some rest then.” He started to move, clearly intending to leave. The drawings sat between us like a third person. So did something else.

  “Don’t go yet.” I set the fork down. “I need to ask you something.”

  “All right.”

  “Why did you come to Watcher’s Point? You said you’re passing through, but I feel like there’s another reason.”

  “What reason is that?”

  “I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking.” I winced at the petulance in my tone.

  A sly grin flitted across his mouth. Obviously, he found me amusing. “I’m housesitting.”

  “Housesitting?”

  “Essentially.” He tilted his head. “What are you doing here besides sketching . . . interesting drawings and breaking into your neighbor’s apartment? Do you have skeletons rattling in your closet, Mackenzie?”

  “Doesn’t everybody?” How had this conversation turned to me?

  “You can’t answer a question with a question. That strategy won’t work on me.”

  I hesitated. “My mom grew up here.” That was about as vague of an answer as I could get. I figured it was wise to leave out how I’d dreamed of the town for weeks preceding my move—how I’d seen horrific images that had kept me up at night. Still, something had drawn me to the place, and I was beginning to think it was Aidan.

  He leaned forward and invaded
my space in a way that unsettled, yet left me tingling with awareness. “And?”

  “And . . . it was as good a place as any to get away to.” I folded my arms as a sudden chill went through me. “I never imagined I’d find out my mom’s been lying to me all my life.” Effortlessly, the words tumbled out. I hadn’t really talked to anyone—other than Six—about what I’d discovered, but talking to Aidan was becoming easier each time I saw him. “Turns out the man I thought was my father . . . wasn’t.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “You must’ve been stunned. Are you an only child?”

  I shook my head. “I have two brothers and a sister.” I paused and let out a burst of bitter laughter. “And believe it or not, turns out Christie is my sister.”

  His eyebrows shot up. “Are you talking about who I think you are?”

  “Judd’s girlfriend? Yeah, and she hates my guts.”

  “No doubt. She’s spoiled, rich, and you’ve come into town poaching on her territory. So, Will Beckmeyer was your father?”

  I regarded him closely. “So I’ve been told. You sound like you know the Beckmeyers.”

  “Sort of. I know of them. My mother is from here too.”

  That tidbit of information surprised me. “But you’re just ‘passing through’? You know, I recognize evasion when I see it. Why are you really in town? Because according to creepy tattooed guy from last night, you’re trouble.”

  “That part he’s right about.” He brushed an errant strand of hair from my brow, and his touch completely unhinged me. “You should heed his warning.”

  “Aidan—”

  “Let it drop.” He rose from the couch and pointed at my plate of forgotten food. “Eat and get some rest. Worrying about Six isn’t going to help you right now. If you want to find her, you need to take care of yourself.”

  I halfheartedly glanced at the breakfast. Thanks to our conversation, I’d lost my appetite. But he was right; I needed to eat. Besides, it had been sweet of him to cook for me. Not many strangers were so thoughtful.