by Debra Webb
Rowan awoke from a dead sleep.
She opened her eyes and blinked at the darkness.
What had awakened her? For the first time since her father was murdered she’d been sleeping deeply and without the usual array of bizarre dreams.
Whimpering echoed through the darkness.
Freud.
Adrenaline seared through her veins. She sat upright and threw the covers back. Reaching in the darkness, she felt for her glasses, tucked them into place. “C’mere, boy.”
His whimpers grew louder. Rowan reached out, twisted the switch on the bedside lamp and then blinked at the harsh glare of light in the darkness. Freud sat at the door, his paws and nose against the crack where the door met the frame.
Maybe he needed to go out. She had sent him out before going to bed last night. Perhaps he hadn’t done his business. It was possible someone had given him a snack that didn’t agree with him. People did that sometimes. They didn’t stop to think that the candy bar they had decided not to finish might not be good for a dog.
Rowan got up, slid her feet into her sandals and headed for the door. On second thought, she turned back to the bedside table and picked up her weapon. As much as she didn’t want to need it, she wasn’t taking the risk.
Usually Freud stayed on the second floor during visitations and funerals. In the beginning she had occasionally allowed him downstairs, but then a guest had given him a piece of candy from the vending machine in the lounge. Rowan hated the idea of locking him in the living quarters during those long hours when there were back-to-back services, but she might have no other choice.
She opened the door and he bolted from the room, his nails clicking on the stairs as he rushed down to the second floor. Rowan followed considerably slower. She turned on the light in the living room. Freud pawed at the door.
“Okay, okay.” She reached to unlock it. Her fingers stalled on the latch. The door wasn’t locked.
A jolt of uncertainty radiated through her. Had she forgotten to lock the door? She tried to remember, but couldn’t quite recall. Locking up was one of those instinctive, mindless things she did by rote.
She opened the door and once more Freud took off, the rapid succession of click-click-clicks like a bag of coins scattered across the wood floor as he rushed downward. Slowly, Rowan descended the main staircase. “You have to wait for me to open the back door anyway,” she called after the eager animal.
At the bottom of the stairs she turned on a light, and then another in the rear hall. But Freud wasn’t waiting for her at the back door as she’d expected. In fact, that door wasn’t locked, either.
It wasn’t even closed.
Her heart rocketed into her throat as she stared at the open door, the darkness from outside crowding against the lights she had just turned on.
Her fingers tightened around the weapon as she lifted it so that the barrel pointed outward. She stood perfectly still and listened. The large grandfather clock in the lobby ticked...the sound growing louder and louder in time with the trepidation building inside her.
Outside in the farthest recesses of the fenced yard, Freud barked and barked. She thought of the small purse and the photo that had been left in the tulip tree. Was the deliverer of that message out there again?
Her pulse skittered. Drawing in a deep breath was nearly impossible.
One thing at a time, Ro.
First, there was absolutely no possibility that she had left this door unlocked, much less open. Whether she vividly remembered the steps of closing and locking it, she had done so. She would never have gone upstairs without checking it first. Absolutely no way.
Her first instinct was to hurry to the front windows and see if the Winchester PD cruiser was out there, but that would mean taking her eyes off the door. Her second impulse was to search the house.
Instead of following either of those reflexes, she walked to the door, dread strumming through her with every beat of her heart, and flipped the switch that turned on the outdoor lights. Bright beams of gold streamed across the yard, highlighting Freud pacing around the tulip tree like a soldier on guard duty.
Had Julian or one of his minions left her something else to ponder? Some other clue in his debauched game? Why would he risk getting so close again? He had to know she would turn the evidence over to the police. An official vehicle was sitting right outside her house.
The challenge. Oh yes. He liked the challenge.
Her weapon held at the ready, she walked out onto the porch and stared as far as the light would allow her to see. Freud sniffed and barked and trotted back and forth near the tree. It was too dark, and at this hour she was certainly not going out there to see what had been left for her—if anything—this time.
“Freud! Come!”
For a moment he ignored her, his own instincts overriding his training.
“Freud...come!” she repeated more sternly.
This time his head swung toward her and he trotted back to the house. She quickly closed the door and locked it, this time double-checking her work before feeling comfortable. After giving Freud a scratch on the head, she headed back to the lobby. She wanted to see that the city cruiser was still in the parking lot. Had the officer heard Freud barking?
She glanced around the room, peered up the stairs that went to the living quarters, thought of the door that had been unlocked on the second floor. Maybe she did forget to lock one door, but both?
Not a chance.
A chill raced over her skin. Someone could be in the house at this very moment. She glanced down at Freud. But if that was the case, why wasn’t he barking?
Because whoever was here or had been here was someone he knew...a scent he recognized. There was no other explanation.
And if the officer was still parked out front, why hadn’t he looked to see what was going on with Freud barking frantically at his hour? She glanced at the clock in the corridor between the receiving area and the lobby. 2:30 a.m.
An ungodly hour for a dog to be outside barking like mad under any circumstances. As she started forward once more, her gaze landed on the door to the walk-in cooler. It was ajar.
A mixture of fresh alarm and frustration arced inside her. How had she done something so stupid? There were no flowers in the cooler tonight, but having it run all night could damage the compressor.
Maybe the person who had unlocked her back door had done this, too.
Keeping her weapon leveled for firing, she walked toward the door. There were far too many coincidences to brush one or all off so easily. She took a breath, opened the door and flipped on the light. The room was empty save for a couple of petals from one of the arrangements with roses. When she would have closed the door, she spotted a flat object on one of the shelves.
With Freud on her heels, she moved across the refrigerated box, keeping an eye over her shoulder. The rows of shelves were empty other than the single object that she now recognized as a mirror. It lay glass side down, and the intricate metal case on the back was one she recognized. Her mother’s, the one that had lain on her dressing table for as long as Rowan could remember. She picked it up and turned it mirror side up. Her heart stumbled. Words were written in what looked like black permanent marker.
We’re waiting for you, Rowan.
She almost dropped the mirror. Carefully, she placed it back on the shelf, turned and stormed out of the cooler, closing the door behind her. From there she didn’t stop until she reached the front entrance in the lobby.
The cruiser sat in the middle of the parking lot just as it had been when she went to bed. The funeral home’s front lights, including the streetlights, were on, sending a pale glow over the parking area from the front entrance all the way to the street. Obviously whoever had come into her house had entered through the back door. She wanted to search the place from bottom to top and back, but she did not want t
o do it alone.
Rowan hated, hated, hated feeling out of control and...afraid.
“Don’t be stupid.” She was not going to pretend she didn’t need help. Julian was a killer, the worst kind. She would be a fool not to be afraid of him.
Taking a breath, she unlocked the door and walked out. She patted her thigh so Freud would follow. She didn’t generally allow him to exit through the front entrance. She worried about him getting hit by a car in the parking lot or ending up on the main street that ran in front of the funeral home. It was best if he believed the front entrance was for people only.
But tonight—this morning actually—was different. She needed him at her side.
She approached the passenger side of the cruiser, her weapon aimed at the ground. She could vaguely make out the officer’s profile behind the wheel in the dark vehicle. She waved just in case he glanced up and saw her coming his way. If he had dozed off, she certainly didn’t want to startle him and end up getting shot.
Leaning down, she peered in through the passenger window and raised her free hand to rap on the glass. Air trapped in her throat and her gasp echoed in the darkness. The front of his uniform was awash in blood. His head had fallen awkwardly forward, but the ugly gash around his neck was visible even in the near-total darkness.
Blood had spewed onto the steering wheel, soaked into his shirtfront and pooled in his lap and on the gray interior.
A scream rent the air.
It wasn’t until Rowan stumbled backward and landed on her butt that she realized the sound had come from her.
She instinctively grabbed at her waist in search of a pocket. No pocket. No phone. Her cell phone was still upstairs where she’d left it.
Freud whimpered in concern.
She stared at him. Tried to collect herself to think what to do.
Make sure the man is not alive. She scrambled to her feet, rushed to the vehicle and reached for the door handle.
No.
Don’t touch it.
She didn’t want to obscure any prints the killer might have left...but she had to be sure. She used the tail of her nightshirt and two fingers to lift up on the handle. The door opened. Blood had oozed down the inside of it. Carefully, she checked his carotid artery. No pulse. Skin was cool.
Defeat sank into her bones. He was dead.
Then she ran. Her bare feet slapping against the asphalt, her fingers locked around her weapon. There was a courtesy phone in the lobby. She rushed to it, couldn’t remember Billy’s cell phone number, so she called 911.
Then she went back outside and stood in the middle of the parking lot, near the fallen officer’s cruiser, and waited. Freud waited next to her.
She wasn’t going back inside until the house had been searched.
She closed her eyes and wished away the horrific picture in front of her.
* * *
Billy’s truck was the third vehicle to arrive at the scene. A couple of police officers who had been only a few blocks away outside the courthouse were the first to arrive. Then the ambulance. And finally, Billy.
Burt was on his way. Yellow tape stretched around the parking lot. Local reporter Audrey Anderson was already on the sidewalk in front of the funeral home. Rowan stood in the lobby, Billy’s jacket around her, another officer standing a few feet away. She had surrendered her weapon to the first officers who had arrived but Billy had returned it to her shortly after his arrival.
Billy and yet another officer were searching the house and backyard. He’d instructed her not to move, and for the first time in her adult life she had obeyed a command that went against her certainty that she could handle anything. She had no desire to walk about the house or to look in all the dark corners for fear of what she might find.
As she watched out the window, Burt arrived, followed almost immediately by the crime scene van and then two other police cruisers. Her knees went weak, and Rowan somehow managed to get her bottom into a nearby chair. She didn’t know the officer who had been murdered personally, but she knew his family. The entire town would mourn this tragic loss. She had brought this horror to Winchester.
This was Addington. She felt certain of it. She sensed it in the deepest recesses of her soul. Fifteen years ago he had slit the throats of five victims while they sat in their cars. His slasher phase, the FBI had concluded. Quantico’s esteemed Behavioral Analysis Unit had completed endless reports on the man and he still remained an enigma. He could not be placed into a particular category...could not be profiled in the usual way.
Bastard.
She hoped she had the opportunity to watch him die by lethal injection. If she had ever wanted anything more she had no memory of it just now.
Billy appeared through the Staff Only door and walked over to where she sat. Looking completely exhausted himself, he collapsed into a chair beside her.
She drew in a breath and asked, “Did you find anything?”
He shook his head. “Only the mirror. The evidence techs will take it in for analyzing. I’ll make sure they’re really careful with it, Ro.”
Her head bobbed up and down. She wanted to thank him but she didn’t trust her voice. Feeling weak or overwhelmed and afraid was not the norm for her. But then, nothing had been the norm since her father was murdered. She felt out of sorts, out of place...and so alone. Billy had tried hard to make her feel at home and to be a good friend, but somehow she couldn’t seem to get herself together.
“What about the tree?” She had explained how Freud had behaved as if there had been something or someone in or near the tree.
“Nothing.” He shook his head. “It’s possible he was picking up the lingering scent of whoever left the bag and photo for you.”
She hadn’t considered that possibility. “I guess so.”
But someone had been here and that someone had murdered a Winchester police officer. The reality made her sick all over again.
“I put in a call to a locksmith to change all the locks. I can’t find any indication the locks have been tampered with, so I’m going to assume Addington somehow got a copy of the key.”
Another deep breath. Maybe he was right. Maybe she wasn’t losing her mind and Julian had done all of this...but why kill the officer and not her? “I had one in my desk drawer at home in Nashville. Daddy made me keep one. I suppose he could have taken it when he was over for dinner.”
The idea churned mercilessly in her belly.
“He could have made himself a copy weeks or months ago,” Billy suggested.
She nodded, fought the uncharacteristic tears. She was generally far stronger than this. “I’m so sorry about Officer Miller.”
Another person was dead, and she was responsible. Logic told her it wasn’t her fault but that didn’t prevent her from feeling the guilt. She was the one who had allowed Julian into her life. Now he’d followed her to her hometown.
“I am, too.” Billy’s arm went around her. “But his murder is not your fault, Ro, and I won’t have you taking this on your shoulders.”
“My door was unlocked.” She took a moment to compose herself. “I wish he had come into my room and confronted me...instead of doing this.” She pressed her fingers to her lips to hide their trembling, feeling heartsick.
“Come on.” He stood and pulled her to her feet. “You need to pack a few things. You’re staying with me for a while.”
She shook her head. “I can’t do that. I have work to do here. Mrs. Phillips will be back at the end of the week and... I have to be here.”
He shrugged. “Then I’m staying with you.”
The mere concept hit her like a punch to the gut. “No.” She shook her head. The last thing she needed was more fodder for the gossip mill, but more important, she did not want him ending up like her father...like Officer Miller. “You are not staying here.”
He stared at her, h
is eyes too knowing. “I understand you’re afraid something will happen to me—the way it did your daddy and the officer who was protecting him and now Officer Miller. I really do get it. But I can’t leave you alone, Ro. Not after all this. Even if we weren’t friends, I have an obligation as chief of police to provide protection in situations like this.”
No way. No way. No way. She shook her head again. “No, and unless you need anything else from me, I’m going upstairs. I need... I need...” She shook her head again. “I just need not to see or talk about this anymore.”
“Rowan DuPont, you are being unreasonable.”
She ignored him, kept walking.
Unreasonable or not, she refused to be responsible for anyone else dying.
When she reached the second floor landing, she couldn’t help but stare at the banister from which her mother had been dangling all those years ago when she came home from school.
Julian had known about Rowan’s dreams. She had shared with him how in the dreams her sister would plead for her to come into the water...to please come, she was waiting for her.
He was using all the secrets she had shared against her now. Putting her off balance, making her second-guess herself. He was a master manipulator. He had studied the human psyche...had worked with patients for decades. He not only knew all the buttons to push, but also understood how to amplify the reaction.
She turned away from the banister and marched to the living quarters that were her home. Freud trotted along beside her. At least now she understood why he hadn’t barked at the person who had come into her house.
Because Freud had recognized the scent of the monster who had once been his master’s close friend.
Eleven
Wednesday, May 8
Sleep had eluded Rowan the rest of the night. Every time she drifted off she would see that poor man’s face and his slashed throat. At some point in the wee hours before dawn, she’d done an internet search on him and learned that he had left a wife and parents behind. Over and over she had reminded herself of Billy’s words. This was not her fault, and on an intellectual level she understood as much, but in her heart where intellect did not rule, she felt tremendous regret and guilt for his death.
