Stain of Guilt

by Brandilyn Collins

  I closed my eyes, feeling the impact of the words. The guy next door. That was as good a description of Bland as any. The man you’d talk to over your fence. The man you’d overlook in a crowd.

  A man who led a secret life no one would ever suspect.

  I glanced at my watch.“Thank you for your time, Sergeant. I need to be going so I can pick up my kids from school.” I pushed back my chair and rose.

  He stood too, arching his shoulders in a quick, decisive motion. “No problem, I’m glad to give you as much time as you need. Far as I’m concerned, you’re doing me the favor.”

  He ushered me to his door, but stopped at the threshold. “I suppose you know we’re keeping a tight lid on this television show. Surprising a fugitive is crucial, especially in this case. So we absolutely don’t want the local media to hear about it. Bill Bland’s probably on the other side of the country, but city news can be followed from anywhere.”

  Of course I knew this. I’d talked to the American Fugitive producer that morning about my assignment, and he also warned me about the importance of surprise. But the way Sergeant Delft put it . . .

  I hugged my notebook to my chest. “‘Especially in this case’?”

  Delft surveyed me for a moment. “Like I said, Bland needs to feel he’s in control. He lost that control for a while twenty years ago, but no doubt thinks he’s gotten it back after evading the law all this time. So what’s he going to do when that control’s shattered again? I’m hoping he’s not watching television when the show airs. I’m hoping your update is right on target, and leads pour in immediately, so we can send in law enforcement to surround him before he knows what hit him.”

  Right on target. Just a little pressure, Annie. “You think he’ll hole up and fight? Kill someone?”

  The sergeant narrowed his eyes. “I think Bill Bland will do anything to save his own skin, Ms. Kingston. Last time he was willing to take down four people. People that he knew and worked with. So you tell me. After twenty years on the run—just who, and how many, do you think he’d be willing to take down now?”

  Chapter 4

  Policeman.

  He clicked off the Internet.

  His eyes fastened on the uniform. The man stood across the store, talking to Al, the owner. Who was it? A glare on his office window smudged the man’s face.

  He got up. Pretended to stretch his legs. Stared.

  Officer Ted Dallings. Local cop. Reminded him of Zackary Bright in Twitch.

  Dallings laughed. So did Al.

  Friendly conversation.

  His muscles relaxed.

  He sat back down at his computer. One eye on the cop, he reconnected to the Net. Local news site in Redding. He read the headlines. There’d been nothing early this morning, but sometimes updates filtered in during the day.

  Still nothing.

  Off the Internet. He erased the history of the visited site.

  “Hey, you getting ready to call it a day?”

  He turned. Two-chinned Billy. Jovial. Clerk at the store. “Soon.”

  Did Dallings leave? He flicked a look through his window.

  “Well, I’m headin’ out. Hey, you want to try that new restaurant with me for lunch tomorrow?”

  “I could.”

  “Heck, man, I know ya could. But do you want to? Wouldn’t wanna twist your arm.”

  Nobody twists my arm.

  “I choose to go with you, Billy.”

  The man shook his head and grinned. “You ‘choose to go,’ huh. Well, now, and ain’t you made my day.”

  Yes. He could do that to people.

  Chapter 5

  “ Stephen, I told you no.”

  Being around my son was such a joy these days. We’d argued ever since I picked him up from school. By the time we reached home I nearly shook with anger.

  “Why?”

  “How many times do I have to tell you?” I pulled my car into the garage and turned off the engine. “I can’t trust you or your friends.”

  “You don’t know my friends.”

  “That’s part of the problem. I vaguely know their names. I vaguely see them hanging around when I pick you up from school. And frankly from what I see—”

  “Don’t tell me you don’t like the looks of them!” Stephen grabbed his backpack, shoved himself out of the car, and slammed the door. “You don’t know anything about them so how can you possibly judge?” His last sentence was loud enough to pierce through the closed car windows.

  I took in his scowl, almost perpetual these days, and the coldness in his dark eyes. His hair, spiked straight up with gel. The low-crotched jeans and oversized T-shirt. The way my son looked, people probably judged him as a troublemaker. With a sigh I opened my door.

  “I’m tired of hearing you two fight.” Kelly made a tsking sound as she slid out of the backseat. “That’s all you ever do anymore.”

  “Well, it’s not my fault.” Stephen jerked his heavy backpack onto his shoulders. “If she’d only let me do something once in a while.”

  Kelly shook her head and disappeared through the door into the kitchen.

  I pulled myself from the SUV, gathering my purse and keys. If my son were more trustworthy I would leave them in the car for convenience. But lately I trusted him very little. It seemed entirely within possibility that he’d sneak off with the car again at night. Or even steal money from my purse. Seemed to me a twenty-dollar bill had been missing lately, on more than one occasion.

  “Stephen, I give you as much freedom as I can, under the circumstances. And I’d let you do more, if you acted more responsibly. But what am I supposed to do when your grades are practically all Ds? When you steal my car to go joyriding with your friends in Redding? When you come home smelling of pot?”

  He sneered at me. “Oh, Mom, you wouldn’t know what pot smelled like if—”

  “Can it, Stephen!” I shot up a hand, my spine stiffening. “I am not going to have this conversation for the tenth time. No, you cannot use my car tonight to go out with your friends.”

  His face reddened. “I’m sixteen years old! I’ve got my license!”

  “Just because you have it doesn’t mean you can use it. Especially with my car.”

  “Then buy me my own.”

  I threw him a disgusted look and made for the door.

  “So what am I supposed to do?” He flung the words at my back. “Stay out here in the country all weekend? Play video games by myself?”

  We weren’t exactly in the country. But, given the problems I’d had with Stephen in the past year, I was thankful we’d moved from the San Francisco Bay Area to Grove Landing, about fifteen minutes’ drive outside Redding. In the Bay Area, Stephen could easily slip out of the house at night to meet up with friends. Out here, surrounded by forest, he couldn’t pull off such nighttime forays as easily.

  I turned around. “What you’re supposed to do, Stephen, is bring your grades up. Stop doing drugs. Start acting in a way that makes me trust you. And bring home friends that don’t look like scrunge off the streets.”

  Even as the last sentence left my mouth, I regretted it. Voicing my sentiments of Stephen’s buddies would only alienate my son all the more.

  Stephen stopped in his tracks, cold hatred flowing from him like dry ice. “Fine, Mom.” His voice was low, hard. “You don’t like my friends, you don’t like me. And I don’t like you. And I really don’t like living here. So why don’t you let me go live with Dad, huh? You’d be a lot happier without me around.”

  At the dreaded words, the fight drained out of me. For months I’d seen this coming. I knew once the intent was spoken it would hang between my son and me like pecked and rotting fruit on a tree. I leaned against the door, one hand on the knob, my mind thrashing for a response. The truth was too much for Stephen to bear, although deep inside he surely recognized it. His father would never consent to taking him. Vic’s young wife had made it painfully clear she would not raise someone else’s child. Especially mine. As if I�
�d ever done anything to her.

  “Stephen. I wouldn’t be happier with you gone, and you know that. I just wish we could . . . get along.”

  He glared at me, lips pressed.“Well, that’s nice of you.”

  Before I could say another word, he pushed my hand off the knob and jerked the door open. He stomped through the kitchen and great room as I trailed into the house. As I lay my purse on the counter, I heard him clump down the stairs to his basement-level bedroom.

  Kelly stood at the pantry, backpack at her feet. I watched her pull out an open bag of chips and start munching. She regarded me with semi-indignation, apparently still ticked over Stephen’s and my thousandth argument. I pulled out a chair at the table and sank into it. My son’s anger was hard enough. Kelly’s irritation on top of that was too much.

  Vic, why did you leave me all alone to raise two kids?

  “Mom?” Kelly walked over to peer at my face. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah. Fine.” I tried to smile, but it came out lopsided.

  “Stephen’s a jerk sometimes.” She plunked the bag of chips on the table.

  I made no reply.

  “Is Aunt Jenna coming up this weekend?” Kelly sat in a chair to my right, turning to face me. Clearly she was trying to take my mind off Stephen.

  “No. She’s got to finish a consulting project.”

  “Oh.” She crossed her ankles and wiggled a foot. “Erin’s supposed to spend the night tonight. Remember?”

  I nodded. “That’s fine.”

  Sudden rap music clamored through the heater vents. Stephen had turned on his stereo—to a volume equaling the squall of his mood. I repressed a sigh. I hated that music.

  “But if you two plan to spend the day together tomorrow, maybe in the later afternoon you can go over to Erin’s house. I have to go into Redding for an appointment.”

  Kelly shook a strand of long brown hair away from her face. “For what?”

  I hesitated. A part of me still cringed whenever I talked to Kelly about my new career in forensic art. The residue of last summer, when I’d drawn my first composite, still coated our memories.

  “I have to interview a man for that drawing I’m doing for American Fugitive.”

  She grinned, surprising me. “That is just so cool, Mom, you working for that show. Erin thinks so too.”

  “Erin? Kelly, you haven’t told anyone else, have you? You promised you wouldn’t tell anybody. Remember, it’s really important that this show stay a secret until it airs.”

  “Um-hum, okay. But will your name be on TV, like, you know, at the end with the credits?”

  If only that was the worst of my worries. “Probably, but I’m not positive.”

  “Well, the producer called you yesterday, right? Didn’t you ask him?”

  The blissful innocence of the young. I leaned over and drew a knuckle down her cheek. “No, I didn’t.”

  Stephen’s music throbbed.

  “They must be paying you a lot.” Kelly’s brown eyes shone.

  I raised my hands in a shrug.

  “Well, aren’t they?”

  I regarded my beautiful daughter. “It’s enough.”

  In truth it wasn’t. A million dollars wouldn’t be enough. I just couldn’t shake my anxiety about this case. Besides, I’d hardly embarked on my new career for the money. I didn’t need an income. With the stocks and cash Jenna and I had inherited from our father, a successful criminal defense attorney, neither of us ever needed to work again.

  A slight frown knit Kelly’s brow. “What’s wrong? You don’t seem very happy about doing the drawing.”

  Uh-oh. Kelly was sensitive. She could pick up on my moods in a heartbeat.

  “This isn’t going to be dangerous, is it?” she pressed. “I mean, it’ll just be like the other drawings you did this year, not like . . . like when Erin’s mom . . .”

  “Of course not.”

  She held my gaze as if not quite sure whether to believe me.

  “Really, Kelly, it’s not dangerous. Don’t worry about it.”

  “Okay. But just don’t—”

  The doorbell rang.

  Kelly’s head swiveled toward the great room. “That’s Erin.” She pushed from her chair and trotted out of the kitchen.

  I listened to her footsteps across the hardwood floor, to the happy greetings of the two friends. Normally, Erin carpooled home with us, but today she’d left school early for a dentist appointment. Just as well—she missed the argument between me and Stephen. Now, Erin launched into immediate conversation with Kelly about their school day, and had Kelly heard that Tom and Selena were going out?

  Going out. The girls were only in eighth grade. I couldn’t get used to that term being used by junior highers.

  “Hello, Erin.” I entered the great room to give her a hug. She looked cute in a pink shirt that set off her light skin tone and pale blonde hair.

  “Hi.” She clung to me for a second, as she tended to do. As always, my heart gave a little lurch. We spoke of her mother’s absence rarely, but the thought was ever between us.

  “Oh, I like that song.” She jutted her chin toward Stephen’s lair.

  “Well, I don’t. I’m going to make him turn it down. I’ve got work to do.”

  My work called me with the fateful beguiling of the ancient Sirens. I needed to strand myself in the office, read the notes from my interview with Sergeant Delft. And I needed to review some of the interviews with Edwin Tarell to prepare for my meeting with him tomorrow.

  The girls bounded up the wide curving staircase, headed for Kelly’s room. Erin toted a lavender overnight bag. I forced my feet toward the steps to the lower level. Stephen’s music pounded my ears the moment I opened the stairwell door. I headed down to the rec room, teeth gritted. The raspy voice and heavy base malleted through my chest.

  Stephen sat hunched over his computer, typing with fury. No doubt pouring out his ills online to his friends. The sliding door leading to our large back deck stood open, letting in a slight breeze. And flies. He’d neglected to close the screen. I walked over and slid it shut, barely noticing the beauty of the forest beyond our yard. The noise made it impossible to think.

  “Stephen—” I slapped off the stereo. Instant peace assaulted me.

  “Hey!” His head snapped up, dark brows nearly colliding in their frown. “Why do you come down and do things like you own the place?”

  “Because I do.”

  He flexed his jaw.

  “Look, you can turn your stereo back on, just keep it down. I’m trying to work—”

  A phone rang distantly one floor above—a different musical tone from our home line. My personal business number, in the office. Probably a call about the case.

  “Oh, drat.”

  I scurried across the rec room and up the stairs. Before I was halfway up, Stephen’s music jolted on. The phone rang again. “Turn that stereo down!” The music lowered a few decibels as I hurried into the great room and closed the door behind me. The girls’ voices filtered down from above, then were drowned out by Kelly’s favorite punk rock band. Wonderful. Her bedroom was right above my office.

  The phone rang for the fourth time as I snatched up the receiver. “Annie Kingston.”

  “Hello, Ms. Kingston. It’s been awhile since we talked. This is Adam Bendershil from the Record Searchlight.”

  Oh no, don’t tell me . . . Adam Bendershil was the crime reporter from our local Redding newspaper. I leaned over the desk, trying to convince myself that this was just a coincidence.

  Chapter 6

  “I understand you’re drawing an updated face of Bill Bland for American Fugitive.” Adam got right to the point. “I wanted to ask you a few questions.”

  Kelly’s stereo clamored and Stephen’s throbbed. I pushed away from my desk, trying to form an evasive answer, but I could hardly think.

  “Just a minute, okay? It’s, uh, kind of noisy here.” I left my office and crossed the great room. Stepped outside onto
the front porch. Across the street, Erin’s dad was weeding the flower bed by his sidewalk. He did not look up.

  “Ms. Kingston?”

  “I’m here.”

  What do I tell him? Should I just deny everything?

  “Good. I understand the kind of drawing you’re doing is called a fugitive update, is that correct?”

  “How do you know about this?”

  A pause. “I talk to people in law enforcement all the time. That’s my job.”

  “But who told you about this?”

  “I can’t divulge my source. Sorry.”

  “Adam. You can’t print this story. Do you have any idea how it could hurt the case?”

  “I don’t see how it could hurt at all.”

  Kelly’s window cranked open above me, her music spilling out onto the street. At the sound, Dave looked around from his weeding.

  “Oh, really. Well, just imagine the public reading your article. And just imagine that somehow Bill Bland hears about it. How nice for him—advance warning so he can disappear from whatever life he’s set up.”

  Dave raised a gloved hand in my direction. I waved back distractedly.

  “I don’t see how that would happen, Ms. Kingston. You think Bland is still hanging around Redding after all this time?”

  “No. But as you very well know, news is online these days. I do think somebody on the run might be checking out the crime stories in the area where he killed two people—especially with an important anniversary coming up.”

  “Wow. You give the guy that much credit? Most murderers don’t think that much.”

  “Most murderers don’t manage to outrun the law for two decades.”

  Silence.

  “Ms. Kingston, I’m going to run this story, with or without you. That’s my job. I’d appreciate you helping to make the facts as accurate as possible.”

  As a courtroom artist for ten years, I’d worked alongside many reporters. I knew all about their job. I also knew that they’d cross many a line to get a story before some competitor.