“What plans?”
Tom watched in surprise as Mrs. Jankowski’s eyes filled with tears. “She could be on her way to something good if it wasn’t for him. You know them TV shows where people sing and everybody that’s watchin’ calls in to pick the winner?”
Tom nodded, recalling his own question to Rita about auditioning.
“Well, she was all set to go and try out, and you know what her voice is like, she coulda got on the show like that.” Mrs. Jankowski snapped her fingers, then sniffled and swiped at her nose with the back of her hand. “She was keepin’ it a secret, so she wouldn’t be embarrassed in case it didn’t work out. But she told Jordy, and by the time Jordy got through, she was sayin’ she wasn’t ever gonna sing again. He’s a loser, and he’s makin’ sure she’ll be one too, so she won’t get above him. He’s tryin’ to get her to run off with him, start over somewhere. If she does that, she’ll never come back, I just know it. I’ll never see her again.”
“Are you afraid he’s going to hurt her?” Tom asked. “If she won’t do what he wants?”
“Now, I didn’t say that. I—” She broke off, frowning. Then she produced a little smile and her tone changed abruptly to a wheedling plea. “You know, you could do Rita a lot of good if you’d talk to Jordy, tell him to leave her alone.”
“Sorry, but keeping Rita and Jordy apart isn’t in my job description.”
She huffed in frustration. “Well, I’m gonna find a way.”
Mrs. Jankowski’s feelings about her daughter were all over the place, shifting from resentful to protective without signaling a turn. The prospect of her daughter being tied to a man with a history of drug abuse was enough to worry any mother. But Mrs. Jankowski was in the grip of much darker fears for Rita, and Tom was beginning to think she might have good reason.
He pulled the photocopied picture from his inside jacket pocket and unfolded it. “Is that Jordy there, at the last concert?”
She stared at the picture for a long moment, chewing on her bottom lip so vigorously that Tom was afraid she would draw blood. She flipped the latch, pushed the screen door open a few inches, and grabbed the paper from Tom. He waited out the silence while she studied it. At last she shifted her eyes to Tom. “Ain’t this proof enough he was around that night? The Beecher girl wanted Rita to say he was there, put it in writin’. But you don’t have to drag her into it, do you? This picture ought to be enough.”
“It’s nowhere near enough,” Tom said. “It’s not even a clear picture of him. Are you sure it’s him?”
She opened the screened door again and thrust the paper at Tom. “Maybe I said too much already. I’m not gonna get my girl in trouble. Jordy Gale’s gonna do a real good job of that.”
“I don’t know what kind of trouble you’re talking about,” Tom said. He didn’t let himself stop to wonder about the meaning of her statements. At the moment he wanted to keep her talking and get as much information out of her as he could. “If Rita didn’t tell the police Jordy was at the concert that night, so what? Nobody was investigating Jordy. There was no reason for her to say anything about him being there. Or was there?”
Mrs. Jankowski sniffled and her mouth puckered as if she might start bawling in earnest. Tom stayed silent while she dragged a wad of tissues from her pants pocket and blew her nose. He thought she was working her way around to telling him something, but instead she stepped back, shaking her head, and closed the door.
Chapter Thirty-seven
Ben Hern, Rachel’s appointed escort and guardian, stayed downstairs to play with Frank and Cicero while she collected a few things to take to Michelle at the hospital.
She opened the closet in Michelle’s room to find it empty except for a single pink blouse. Michelle had brought plenty of clothes with her. Where were they?
Rachel’s gaze dropped to the suitcase on the floor. She hauled it out, dropped it on the bed, and snapped it open. Inside, still neatly folded, lay the clothes her sister had packed when she’d been determined to leave. Despite their argument, Rachel thought she’d talked her out of going home, but clearly Michelle wanted to be ready to leave at any minute.
I should have let her go. She’s not safe around me.
Was that true? Sinking onto the bed beside the open suitcase, Rachel gave in to the accumulated tension of the past few days, allowing her shoulders to sag as her emotional defenses fell away.
Because of a drawing sent to her months ago, she’d become convinced Perry Nelson was the one tormenting Michelle, that the snake picture had turned out to be a literal warning. Tom didn’t seem sure, though, and his doubts made Rachel question her own conclusion. It must sound crazy to Tom. And if Rachel were the target, why would Nelson involve Michelle? Why didn’t he come after Rachel directly? Because it was more fun this way? Stretching it out, savoring the thought of stupid Rachel worrying about her sister instead of herself? Yes, she could imagine Perry Nelson thinking that way.
Even if Rachel were the ultimate target, she had been right to worry about Michelle. The calls and threatening e-mails terrified Michelle, destroyed her emotional equilibrium. The snakebite could have killed her.
If all this happened because of me—
She banished the thought—this was all Perry Nelson’s doing, not hers. She rose to gather necessities for her sister. Toothbrush and toothpaste, comb, fresh underwear, a change of clothes, a bar of the triple-milled coconut oil soap Michelle couldn’t live without. She placed it all in a little pile on the bed. One of her canvas shopping bags could hold everything. Leaving most of Michelle’s belongings packed in the suitcase, Rachel returned it to the closet floor. Michelle and her husband would decide when she should go home to Bethesda, but Rachel knew it would be soon. Although Kevin was a sensible and even-tempered man, Rachel had a feeling he would be outraged if it turned out she was the indirect cause for Michelle’s fear and anguish over the past month.
Where was Nelson right now? Was he following her around, always just beyond sight? He had the kind of unremarkable good looks, a smooth boyish face and dark hair, an average build with no striking features, that would allow him to be a chameleon, blending in anywhere. Rachel hadn’t seen him in a while, and she might not recognize him instantly if he had changed his hair color or grown a beard. Maybe she’d seen him on the street in Mountainview, looked straight at him without knowing him.
She walked to the window and gazed out across the acres of rolling land that made up Tom’s small farm. For a moment she almost forgot her fear as she took in the beauty of the scene. The spring grass had a vibrancy that would fade when the heat of summer set in. Half a dozen mature dogwood trees near the house were losing their white flower petals to the breeze. On a hillside in the distance, Tom’s flock of sheep grazed, slowly making their way down toward their paddock as the day drew to a close.
Nowhere out there for Nelson or anyone else to hide. Rachel felt safe at home during the day. Night was a different matter. Even with the security lights creating an illuminated perimeter, someone—Nelson?—had dared to walk right up to the house and throw a gallon of blood on the front porch.
What had Tom found out from the mental hospital? Why hadn’t he called her? Rachel was supposed to wait for him to get back to her with news, but she couldn’t keep her hand away from the cell phone in her shirt pocket. She was fingering it when its ringtone startled her.
Certain Tom was calling, Rachel didn’t check the display before answering. “Hello? Tom?”
The caller chuckled, a low, derisive sound. “So sorry to disappoint you, Rachel, but it’s not your darling Tom.”
She balled her free hand into a fist, wanting to hit him, frustrated that she couldn’t get at him. “You won’t get away with this,” she said.
“Oh, but I will. I’ll see you soon, Rachel.”
He was chuckling again when he broke the connection.
***
Skeet Hadley lay on his bunk, hands clasped behind his head, glaring at the ceiling as if he
had something personal against it. Stubble covered his jaw, and he still wore the clothes he’d been arrested in, although his mother had brought over a fresh shirt and pair of pants. Skeet didn’t look over when Tom spoke to him through the wall of bars enclosing the small cell.
“Your lawyer will be by to see you in a while, but I thought I’d let you know that your bail hearing’s tomorrow morning.”
That got Skeet’s attention. He jerked upright and jumped to his feet. “Tomorrow? I’ve been sitting here waiting all day. I’m not staying in this shithole another night.”
Tom shrugged. “Sorry. The judge has a busy docket. That’s the best he can do.”
Skeet brought up a fist and swung, but not at Tom, who was out of reach in the corridor. The punch smacked into an iron bar. Skeet yelped in pain and cradled the hand against his chest with the other.
“You ready to cooperate yet?” Tom asked. “We can wait and talk when your lawyer shows up if you want to.”
“Go to hell.”
“You’re up against some serious charges here.” Tom took a step closer and immediately regretted it. Skeet gave off a sour odor of perspiration and stale beer. “I’d advise you to start thinking about how you can make things go a little easier. I expect your lawyer will tell you the same thing.”
“You think you can find a jury in this county that’ll put me in prison for going after the Lankfords? It’s not gonna happen. Everybody despises them and their murdering son.”
Tom wasn’t in the mood to argue that point again. “I’m wondering where you got the idea to throw red paint on their porch and steps. Did you use up your whole supply of deer blood at my house?”
Skeet’s expression had turned wary. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“We both know you did it, so let’s stop playing games. Throwing blood and paint on people’s porches, spreading stinking garbage everywhere. That’s crazy behavior, Skeet. You know that, don’t you? Sane people don’t act that way. And shooting at the Lankfords, my god. Does that sound like a reasonable thing for anybody to do? You could be sitting here on double murder charges right now, and for what?”
“I wasn’t trying to—Ah, hell.” Skeet turned away, scrubbing a hand across his mouth. He took six steps to the far end of his cell, turned and paced back to the bars. He jammed his fists into his jeans pockets. “I was drunk, okay? We were all drunk. And I was mad and wanted to do something about it.”
“Is that your excuse for all the other times too?”
Skeet rocked back and forth on his heels, stared at the floor, and didn’t answer.
After every other crazy thing Skeet had done, Tom was more than willing to believe he was capable of murder. But if Skeet had killed Shelley, hidden her body for a month, then dumped it in a ravine, he hadn’t acted alone.
“I’m not talking anymore without my lawyer,” Skeet said, regaining a little of his belligerence.
“Fine.” Tom had plenty of other things to do. “See you later.”
When he returned to his office he found a call-back message from Detective Fagan waiting. They had talked briefly an hour before and Tom had asked him to go to the home of Perry Nelson’s parents and find out whether their son was there. “Got some news” was all Fagan’s message said. Tom phoned him back.
“The father’s at work, and I had to go round and round with the mother.” Fagan’s voice sounded tight with anger. “But I finally got an answer out of her. Nelson’s not there. He got out of the hospital Friday morning, then he borrowed his mother’s car and said he was going to see a friend and took off. They haven’t seen him since.”
“God damn it. They didn’t report it to the hospital?”
“Oh, no, no, they don’t want to get their darling boy in trouble. The mother says he’s off somewhere with a close friend, having fun, and he’s entitled to a little freedom without the police harassing him. She doesn’t see any reason to help us track him down. I’ll tell you, I’ve never come so close to throttling a woman.”
“What friend?” Tom asked. “Did she mention somebody by name?”
“It’s some guy he met in the hospital, but she claims she doesn’t remember his name. I’m outside the house right now, but I’m going back in to see if I can get more information out of her. If she’ll let me back in. Look, I made some calls and put out a BOLO, but from what you told me, I don’t believe Nelson’s still in this area. Our department’s faxing you a picture of him, and I’ll e-mail you a description and the license number of the car he’s driving. Just to be on the safe side, you’d better start looking for him in your neck of the woods.”
***
She’d forgotten Michelle’s Darjeeling tea bags. At the front door, Rachel thrust the canvas tote bag filled with supplies for Michelle into Ben’s hands. “Here, take this to the car for me, and I’ll be right out.”
Her cell phone rang as she walked down the hallway to the kitchen. Tom. Finally. Please, please, tell me Perry Nelson is safely locked up.
“I’m afraid it’s not good news,” Tom said when she answered. “Nelson’s on the loose. He’s been out since Friday morning, and his parents haven’t seen him since then.”
A blast of cold fear blew through Rachel. Stopping in the kitchen doorway, she grasped the door frame for support. “So I was right. He’s been doing all these things.”
“I’m afraid it’s not that simple,” Tom said. “The hospital director told me Nelson was definitely in the hospital on all of the dates when the stalker got into Michelle’s office. He couldn’t have done it, Rachel.”
“But he’s here!” Rachel beat her palm against the door frame. “And he’s done things here. He called me less than an hour ago.” While she repeated her brief telephone exchange with Nelson, Rachel walked to the kitchen window and peered out into the gathering darkness. How close was Nelson right now?
“I’ve put out a bulletin with his picture and description,” Tom said, “so the State Police and our guys will all be looking for him. Fagan’s still talking to the mother. I want you to stay at the hospital with Michelle until I tell you it’s okay to leave. I’ll get Uncle Paul to come to the house and look after things there.”
“Okay.” Rachel restrained herself from peppering him with questions. She didn’t need to know everything he was planning, didn’t want to slow him down. “I’m leaving now with Ben. I won’t be able to use my cell phone in the hospital, but please get a message to me if you have any news.”
She fetched half a dozen tea bags for Michelle, then retraced her steps to the front door. Frank had already curled up and fallen asleep on a living room chair. Cicero had retreated to his big cage in the den and pulled the door shut behind him, ready to settle down for the night. Tom’s uncle, who had Billy Bob with him, would be there soon. Everything would be all right at the house. But that knowledge didn’t lift the crushing sense of dread that sat on Rachel’s chest, heavy as a boulder.
She switched on the front porch light, locked the door behind her and started toward Ben’s low-slung black Jaguar, crouched on the driveway as if it were about to pounce on her Land Rover’s back. She didn’t see Ben. Pausing on the walk from house to driveway, she scanned the yard and the fields beyond. Ben enjoyed the hour when the day ebbed away and night crept in, and she expected to see him standing somewhere, watching the sky fade from blue to black.
She didn’t spot him anywhere, and she wasn’t in the mood to go searching for him in near-darkness. “Ben?” she called. “Where are you? I’m ready to go.”
A faint sound made her spin around, back toward the car. “Ben?”
The sound came again, a low moan.
Rachel ran to the car, rounded its front end. She found Ben sprawled on the driveway, face down, arms splayed above his head as if he’d tried to break his fall. The canvas bag lay next to him, Michelle’s hairbrush and shampoo spilling out.
Rachel gasped and dropped to her knees. “Ben, can you hear me?”
With one han
d she fumbled in her jacket pocket for her cell phone, with the other she touched the dark blotch on his neck. Her fingers came away wet. Blood.
A strong arm closed around her waist and yanked her upright. She opened her mouth to scream, but no sound escaped before a hand clamped a reeking cloth over her face.
Chapter Thirty-eight
This time the state mental hospital director dug in his heels. “I can understand why you wanted information about Mr. Nelson’s whereabouts, but I have to draw the line at this. I can’t give you a list of patients who were released months ago. I see no justification for your request.”
“This information could help us locate Nelson,” Tom said. “He’s with a friend, somebody he met in the hospital.”
“Then I don’t think you have anything to worry about. I don’t know the details of all our patients’ interactions, who’s friendly with whom, but I do know that Mr. Nelson’s treatment team regarded the formation of a friendship as an excellent sign. He had finally reached out to someone, and that milestone was a long time in coming.”
“If you’ll just look at his records, or ask somebody on his treatment, and get me a name—”
“I’m sorry, but no, I can’t do that. I’ve told you too much already. You’re on the wrong track. Mr. Nelson is no longer a danger to anyone. Now it’s time I left for the day, so I really have to cut this short. Goodbye, Captain Bridger.”
When Tom dropped the receiver into its cradle on his desk, Dennis Murray turned from the window. “No luck?”
“No.” Tom leaned back in his desk chair and raked both hands through his hair. “Are the State Police cooperating?”
“Yeah.” Dennis took a chair in front of the desk. “I got a quick okay on road blocks, and they’re on it now. I faxed over Nelson’s picture. Anything else we ought to be doing?”
Bleeding Through: A Rachel Goddard Mystery (Rachel Goddard Mysteries) Page 26
