Stain of Guilt

by Brandilyn Collins

  “We have this science project. We’re supposed to watch the stars at midnight and draw where different constellations are. There’s a list of ’em we need to look for.”

  “At midnight?” I didn’t believe my son for a minute.“Well, I tell you what. You’ll have to put it off for a night or two. And then you can do it here, by yourself. If you really have such a project, I see no need to do it with someone else.”

  “But, Mom, it’s a joint project! And it’s due tomorrow. We have to do it tonight.”

  “Stephen.” My voice sharpened. “It’s not getting done tonight, period. Not even here. I won’t have you so much as standing out on our own back lawn. If I have to, I’ll talk to your teacher myself and explain.”

  “He’s not going to listen to you.” Stephen hit his leg. “Man, Mom, you just—”

  “Can it, Stephen.” Jenna gave him a look to kill.

  My son, my son.A giant fist squeezed my heart. Why did he have to be so awful? So self-centered? Couldn’t he for once act like he cared about anyone but himself?

  Kelly looked like she was going to cry. Jenna patted her on the leg. “This will be over soon. With so many people watching out for this guy, he’ll be caught. And your mom’s going to be a hero again.”

  Stephen made a sound in his throat. “Yeah, well that’s great. Let’s just hope she doesn’t get killed in the process.”

  Kelly made a little strangled sound. I wanted to put an arm around her and cuff Stephen at the same time. What his thoughtless words did to his sister.

  Calm, Annie, stay calm.

  “I’m going to be fine, Stephen, now stop it.” I reached over to massage his shoulder. He drew away.

  “I’m scared, Mom.” Kelly scuttled around the coffee table to sit by me. I drew her close.

  “I know. It’s all kind of scary. But you told me how you pray, remember? You can pray hard about this.”

  Stephen gave a little snort. He turned his head away, looking out the front windows.

  “Believe me, I will.” Kelly eyed her brother, her disdain clear.

  I thought of Kelly’s words as I crossed the street a short time later to talk to Dave Willit. Down the road I could see the unmarked sheriff’s car, parked on the Willit’s side of the street and facing my direction. Without the deputy’s presence, I would not have been walking the short distance alone.

  Dave met me at the door, and I stepped into his foyer, the typical remorse nibbling at my heart.

  “Hi, Annie.” He smiled at me, his expression full of warmth. Dave’s face was thinner than before Lisa died; I knew he’d lost weight. Still, he remained a handsome man. Sometimes I could almost see a gossamer shroud of sadness about him. Yet at the same time he possessed a strength, an inner steadiness that I found vaguely disarming. I’d commented on it once, and he’d responded it was the strength of walking with God, surely nothing for which he could take credit.

  “Erin’s in her bedroom, doing homework. After you called I told her you and I were going to talk about the case you’re working on. I asked her to stay put.”

  “Good. Thanks.” I folded my arms, suppressing a shiver.

  “You cold?”

  “No. I just . . .”

  He looked at me, through me, into my soul. Though he said nothing, I sensed he knew of my discomfort in his house. That he wished he could erase it like a fallacious answer on a blackboard, but didn’t have a clue how to begin.

  Neither did I.

  He gestured for me to sit in the family room. My mind flitted back to a day ten months ago when we’d sat in this very place. These very chairs, in fact. Less than two weeks and yet a lifetime after Lisa had died.

  I licked my lips, staring at a piece of lint on the carpet. “I can’t bear to do this to you again, Dave. You or Erin. But I feel I should tell you what’s happening. Then you can decide how much you want to tell Erin. I’ve instructed Kelly to say nothing, but you know how best friends are. Hard to keep a secret.” I managed a wan smile.

  “You’re right about that.”

  With halting words, I told Dave everything. I’d meant to give him a gutted overview. But the more I talked, the more I wanted—needed—to talk. Even as I did I felt selfish, unleashing my problems and fears on this man. But his expression—his eyes holding mine as I spoke of the dead roses, my interviews, the call about Kelly, the phone trace—unwound it all from me like thread from a spool.

  “It’ll all be over with soon, though. I’m going to do the drawing right away and . . . they’ll find him.”

  These words had become a mantra. Perhaps if I said them enough I’d believe it was true.

  Dave rubbed his jaw and gave his head a little shake. “You continue to amaze me, Annie.”

  Huh?

  “Believe me, I can understand how scared you are. And angry.” Dave’s gaze grew distant for a moment. I could feel the white-hot coals of his memories. “Yet here you are, clenching your teeth this second time until you see another murderer snatched off the streets.”

  “I don’t feel like I have much of a choice,” I half whispered.

  “That’s what I mean. You just forge ahead and do what needs to be done.” He ran a hand over his eyes. “You can count on me helping you in any way I can. I know it’s all terrifying. But I’ll be here, I’ll do whatever you need.”

  His sincerity pierced through me. “Thank you.”

  We talked about details. How Jenna would be taking the kids to school tomorrow, with the unmarked sheriff’s car following. How we would also pick them up. That one of us would watch the girls cross the street at all times until Bland was caught. Dave said that he would tell Erin, because her not knowing while picking up the vibrations of something amiss would only frighten her more. I related exactly how much Kelly knew. He promised to tell Erin no more than that. For now the unmarked car would remain our secret.

  When we could think of nothing more, we sat silently, each lost in our own thoughts.

  He cleared his throat. “Annie, I’ve been wondering . . . May I ask where you are with God? Last summer, you told me you’d promised to seek Him.”

  Another difficult topic. “True. That’s why I’ve been coming to church.”

  “But you haven’t yet decided to accept Christ into your life, right?” He pulled back. “I’m sorry if I’m asking you—”

  “No, no, that’s okay.” For what this man had been through, and my part in it, he deserved to ask me whatever he wanted. “I’m just . . . I’ve come a long way. I used to not even know if I believed in God. But I do now. And I’ve listened carefully to all the sermons so I can understand. Christianity is a new concept to me, you know? I wasn’t raised in church at all.”

  “I know.”

  “So now I can accept that Christ died for me. That when He came alive again He conquered evil. I mean, I don’t really understand how this all works in a cosmic sense.”

  Dave smiled. “Neither do I. Or we’d both be God.”

  “Suppose so.” I rubbed my palms together. “And I understand that if I ask Christ to forgive me for all the wrong things I’ve done, He will. And then I’ll belong to Him, and I’ll go to heaven.” I smiled self-consciously. “There. How’d I do?”

  “Great.” Dave fixed me with a look like a proud teacher to a student.

  “Good. Well. I . . . guess I have it then.”

  He waited a long beat, but I said no more.

  “Can you tell me what you’re waiting for? You have to admit Jesus is handing you a pretty good deal.”

  “I do. But . . . Okay.” I forced myself to face Dave. “It’s the ‘belong to Him’ part. I’ve heard over and over that He wants to be Lord of my life. In a way, that’s kind of scary. Because if Christ is Lord of my life, then I’m not. My decisions aren’t my own anymore. What if He wants me to do things I don’t want to do?”

  Kindness creased Dave’s face. “That is frightening to think about.” He focused on the seam of the couch cushion, rubbed it with a finger. �
��But since we’ve gone this far, do you mind if I respond?”

  “No, go ahead.”

  “Okay. Let me ask you a question, but it’s not one to answer aloud. When you look at your life,Annie, this life that you are running under your own steam—is it working?”

  I glanced away, the question seeping into my soul.

  “See, for my own life, I know I couldn’t do half as good a job as God does, because He’s the one who created me. He knows my talents and weaknesses better than I do. It’s like the Bible says when it talks about the potter knowing better than the clay how to form the jar.”

  The words jingle-jangled, distant sleigh bells in my head. The sound was joyous and fresh—and vexing.

  “Well. I’m grateful for your courage to speak your mind, Dave. Lots of people wouldn’t. I promise I’ll think about all this. Okay?”

  “Good. That’s all I can ask.”

  With an apologetic shrug I pushed to my feet. “I’d better be going. I need to start drawing now, work as long as I can tonight. Thank you again for talking to me.”

  “You’re welcome. And thank you, Annie, for all you’re doing.”

  Dave ushered me to the door and stood in his threshold like a soldier, watching me walk across the street until I slipped into my house with a small wave.

  Chapter 20

  Six-thirty p.m.

  He drove with his left hand, checking the map in his right. Lack of sleep zinged a forced adrenaline through his veins. He hadn’t eaten for hours. No matter. “With focus, human needs are overcome.”

  Jack Hurst in Cry of the Slain.

  There was the road.

  He turned right off the small highway and saw homes ahead. Grove Landing. A second turn, and he was on Barrister Court. He did not know the house number. But one newspaper article had mentioned her huge log home at the end of the cul de sac. Beyond the street lay forest.

  Wait.

  His foot pulled off the gas.

  Up there, on the right. A man sitting in a car, between two houses.

  He could only see the back of the man’s head. Looked like the guy was watching Annie Kingston’s house.

  Why?

  Who was this man?

  Scenarios and possible reactions ticker-taped through his mind.

  This man would see him as he drove past.

  He cursed, then pulled over. Held up the map, pretending to consult it while glaring at the man through the tops of his sunglasses.

  See that? The guy’s head turned slightly. Maybe checking the rearview mirror. Maybe watching him.

  Fire raced beneath his skin—his premonition of danger.

  This was no ordinary man.

  This had all the markings of a protector in an unmarked car. Private security guard? Plainclothes law enforcement?

  The man’s right arm moved, as if seeking something on the passenger seat.

  Reaching for pen and paper to record his license plate?

  Instinct smacked him in the chest. He lowered the map, pulled back out on the street. Hit the button to roll down his right window. Stopped alongside the mystery car, gesturing.

  The man stared out his open window.

  “Sorry to bother you.” He spoke in an English accent. “I seem to be quite lost. I thought this road went through and could point me back to the highway. Apparently not.”

  The man surveyed him. “Where are you trying to go?”

  Such tension in the man’s shoulders, suspicion in his voice.

  “Back to the freeway actually. I’m staying at the Holiday Inn on the south side. Do you know it?”

  The man tilted his head. “Yeah. Go back the way you came from. Turn left, then when you come to the end of that road, left again. That’ll head you back toward Redding.”

  “Thank you, much gratitude.”

  He eased away. Rolled up the window. Felt the man’s eyes upon him as he turned around on the street. He passed the car again. Smiled. Waved.

  The man raised a hand.

  Law enforcement. Definitely.

  He headed toward Redding.

  A scene flashed in his head. The tortured faces of his wife and sons as police cars surrounded his home.

  Like Bremer Slate’s downfall in Death Moon.

  No.

  No.

  He narrowed his eyes. He would ditch his car. Take off the blond toupee. Use his backup ID to get a rental car. Put on the black wig.

  He’d spent twenty years hiding under law enforcement’s nose. They would not stop him now.

  Chapter 21

  Adistant side of my brain registered the sound of water running from the master bedroom suite. Jenna must be taking a shower. What time was it? Ten? Eleven? I couldn’t bother raising my head to check the office clock. I’d taken my watch off when I started hours ago.

  The kids would already be in bed. Jenna informed me at dinner that she would see to that. I was to hit my office, close the door, and plunge into my drawing task, which I itched to begin. And once I did, I wanted no interruptions.

  If I could find the endurance, I planned to work all night.

  Except for the vague sound of water in pipes, the house felt eerie in its silence. My own breathing, the swish of my sleeve, the moving of materials—all seemed amplified. But I noticed this intermittently, as if my mind surfaced from the depths to breathe, then sank once more. Down in the murky waters of concentration, I focused on Bill Bland until I could almost touch him, feel him, smell him. The professional artist within me re-created his face. The projector in my head revisited the scenes of the murders in vivid color.

  I’d started with Bland’s driver’s license photo—the most recent picture I had. In fugitive updates, acceptable practice includes enlarging the best picture you’ve got of the suspect, if that will help increase accuracy. I used the basic grid system. A driver’s license picture was ridiculously small to start with, requiring me to draw the gridlined face numerous times until I could increase it to the necessary size. But I would take no chances. This update would be the best I could possibly make it.

  Laying tracing paper over Bland’s photo, I made a small-scale grid, then traced his features upon it. Next I created a larger grid on a second sheet of paper, redrawing the face onto it, using the smaller grid as guidelines. Bland’s features were soon four times as large as on his license photo. Repeating this step again, I increased the picture another 400 percent. Now his basic features were the size I wanted.

  From my days as a courtroom artist I’d learned two important principles.

  One, people’s faces are not perfectly symmetrical.

  Two, proportions are the key to recognition.

  Bland’s traced features, as they appeared twenty years ago, helped solidify his unique proportions. The challenge in creating an update was in knowing which of these proportions would remain the same and which would modify with age.

  Now I worked on aging Bland’s face, using the tinted paper and graphite pencils. Little by little the image in my head was emerging. The wrinkles in his forehead and around the eyes. The deeper groove underneath his bottom lip, created by the nervous habit of lifting his chin. The softening of his already nondescript jawline.

  The projector whirred in my head, and flash—I could see

  Bland’s face as his chin jerks up and sinks down, his lower lip pushing into the top one. Bland stands in the Tarell’s hallway, greeting his employer with controlled intent, moments before the meeting begins . . .

  Flash to

  a close-up of the same mouth twenty years later, speaking into the phone, ordering a dozen dead roses . . .

  Time ticked by, and Bland’s features emerged. My heartbeat sent a whoosh through my ears. My pencil scratched against paper. Outside, Grove Landing lay in darkness, the blinds of my office shutting out the night. I’d closed them long ago. Somewhere in the Redding area, Bill Bland lurked. I knew my house was under surveillance, but the thought of those windows at night, like one-way mirrors, had driven me to
pull the slats tight.

  The longer I worked, the more close the air in the office felt, as if a woolen blanket of oppression descended from the ceiling. Every motion, every sound I made, seemed magnified. A strange sense stole over me, as though Bland and I were two actors onstage, our movements spotlighted, black emptiness between us. That darkness was growing smaller, smaller as we neared each other . . .

  The nerves in the back of my neck began to tingle.

  Help me do this right, God. Please.

  Minutes passed. I felt my heartbeat. The warmth of my fingers clutching the pencil. The dryness of my throat. For some time I’d needed a drink, but hadn’t stopped to get one. My apprehension of the unseen Bill Bland and my concentration on the man appearing on my paper blended together, fusing me to my chair, to that time and place. Energy fizzled through me, overriding muscle aches and tiredness. I knew then that I would work all night, that I would not—could not—rest until my task was done.

  Chapter 22

  Night—the darkness his cover. The forest smelled musty.

  He pulled back a camouflage sleeve to check his watch. Its face glowed a sickly green through the goggles. Almost midnight.

  He waited in the woods beyond the cul-de-sac. He watched. His backpack lay on the ground a few feet away.

  An unmarked car still sat on the street. But a different man. Much bigger. Different vehicle. They’d changed shifts an hour ago.

  House under surveillance. And burglar alarm likely.

  Best entrance—back lower-level sliding door.

  He would seek the moment of weakness. Like Darell Fleck in Twin Mortal.

  The Kingston house was dark, except for those first-floor windows. Bedroom? Office? Annie Kingston up late, working on her drawing?

  No. She would not be ready to start it so soon.

  A faint sound. Off to his right, from the back of the house.

  He watched.

  A figure stealthily walking up the side yard.

  His muscles gathered. Backup security? Had he been spotted?

  He slid behind a large tree.

  The figure rounded the house’s front corner, headed down the sidewalk. Male. Baggy jeans. T-shirt. Spiked hair.