She opened the yearbook at the bookmarked page, and looked long and hard at Marcus Leeland's photo, memorized his features. There was not a doubt in her mind that this was the person who gave Mary Rose's pendant to Edna. Maybe he didn't even know it was hers, since he apparently slept with a number of women, but found it in his car sometime later and wanted to make up after some fight they'd had. It didn't really matter. Edna had to at least suspect her boyfriend's predatory nature. She would have seen the photo of Mary Rose in the paper and recognized the pendant. Maybe that's what finally woke her up and got her away from Leeland. Fear for herself. And to hell with anyone else.
So no one stopped him. I will, she thought. I will stop him.
Naomi had already found the crucial piece to her plan at the back of her closet shelf where'd she stowed it more than a year ago. Her mother had brought the gadget back from New York during some down time at a nurse's conference. Naomi had never found a use for it, until now. She read the instructions, ran a few test runs, and it worked great. A very special remote control that could allow her to operate her audio system from outside the studio. Everything was set.
First, I need to look in his face. Exorcise the boogeyman that had crept inside her psyche, and see him for the lowlife he is.
She dressed in jeans and a rust suede blazer, low heels, wore her hair loose. Free. It was important she appear undaunted, cool. Let him see she wasn't afraid of him. What if it's not him? a small voice asked. It's him, she answered.
Finding the pet centre closed due to an outbreak of what was termed doggie-flu on the sign in the window, Naomi drove guiltily to Lisa's. Lisa was so sweet and obliging, taking Molly in as if she were a long lost friend, asking no questions as to why she was cat-sitting again. She didn't even question that Naomi had no time for even a cup of tea. I'm going to owe her a lot more than a dinner, she thought. "I'll tell you everything when I get back, Lisa," she said, and thanked her profusely before getting in her car and heading for the body shop on Watson.
The weather man had been right. It was a beautiful day. Blue skies, warm temperatures, a few scattered clouds, just the lightest of breezes. The perfect day to go looking for a killer. She had missed the entire spring in a way, instead travelling through the coldest and darkest of winters. At least that's how it felt.
With a little luck, it would be over soon.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Eric Grant wasn't the one to do the write-up on the girl who was murdered, but when he read it he thought at once of Naomi Waters and what had happened to her birth mother. One woman dumped on the side of the road, the other in a field, twenty-eight years separating the murders. Mary Rose Francis just took longer to die. River's End was hardly the murder capital of the world. It was a quiet town, mostly. Was it possible? Was this the same guy?
He knew, of course, that had he not met Naomi Waters and heard her story, he wouldn't have made any connection between the murders at all. Marie Davis would simply be an unfortunate victim of the high-risk life she lived. And maybe that's all it was.
He thought about calling Naomi, but was afraid she'd hang up on him. What a wimp he was. Yet he had written, had apologized for acting like a jerk, for offending her, given her his email address and phone number, which she chose to ignore. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out she wasn't interested. Let it go, man.
But he couldn't get her out of his mind.
He wandered over to the office window, looked out on the front steps of the building, saw her as she'd been that day, as she was leaving the building. Standing out there on the steps in the bright sunlight that had turned her hair to black satin, looking frightened, confused as a lost child. He was sure he himself had worn the expression a time or two. And why wouldn't she be frightened? Her life, which was already ripped out from under her, had been about to be an open book for the residents of River's End to read at their leisure. And that included her mother's killer, who very possibly was still walking the streets of River's End. Maybe still preying on innocent women.
Naomi had guts. In the face of her fear, she was resolved to see this thing through to the end, no matter the consequences, and he admired that. In his own defense, he'd tried to talk her out of including her phone number and email address in the write-up. Yeah, you're all heart, Grant. Freakhead's a fitting name for you. Harold Barkley had good judgment. No, he didn't, he debated with himself. You're better than that. Just socially awkward.
Twice he'd managed to upset her, make himself an irritation, and she cut him out like cutting out of a shirt a starchy label that rubbed your skin raw. She'd likely hang up the second she recognized his voice, and who could blame her. First he tells her how lucky she is to have Lillian Waters adopt her when it's clear she's going through a major crisis in her life. Hell, the woman had been lied to her entire life, understandable or not. And then I run into her, at the police station and instead of trying to redeem myself, I treat her like a child. Worse, a hysterical, gullible woman.
Hell, he'd hang up on himself.
And you can't blame it all on Harold Barkley. When he was a kid living at Greyland's Home for Boys, Barkley, two years his senior, never let up on him. The residue of all that, the names and taunts, the bullying, clung like vile-smelling fungi. Crazily enough, Harold later became one of his biggest fans, had stood in line at his first book signing, grinning from ear-to-ear proudly because he knew the author. He told everyone in line he inspired the title, "Freakhead", which he had. Nothing but pride. Life was nuts. Ya just never knew. To paraphrase Forrest Gump who said it far better than he ever could have, '… a box of chocolates'.
But Harold was the least of the hell of Greyland's Home for Boys, which they finally closed down two years ago, after his book came out. There were some things he would never put in a book. Anyway, who'd believe it.
Writing the book had helped a lot, diluted the power of the memories, though not entirely. Sometimes he regressed, and occasionally still had nightmares. Now that he was working on the novel, though, he found he was more at peace, doing what he was supposed to be doing with his life. What he'd always told himself he would do. Even on the darkest days, he'd held to his dream.
A new dream shimmered now, like a mirage, beckoning him. He picked up the phone to call her, then re-cradled the receiver like a teenager chickening out on asking a girl out on a date. But he refused to let her get away just because he was a scared chump. It wasn't in his DNA to do that. Besides, he was genuinely worried about her.
He knew he gave the appearance of being self-confident, but it was mostly sham. A cover. Oh, he knew he was a pretty decent writer; hadn't he won a couple of awards for his work? But sometimes that old insecurity he tried so hard to hide could come across as cockiness, betraying what was really in his heart. When you start out with sand under your feet for a foundation, things never really do feel solid under them, no matter how much time passes or how successful you get. And no one could tell him different.
He dialed her number. Got the machine, and left a message. He was still rambling when the machine cut him off. Shit!
He hung up, staring at the phone as if it had set out to conspire against him. He could send flowers, he thought, roses, but something told him his timing would be off by a mile. And also that roses weren't her favourite flower. Something smaller, more exquisite … a wildflower of some sort.
She needs help right now, not flowers. He remembered that she'd had an appointment with Sergeant Graham Nelson the day he ran into her at the police department. He could give Nelson a call, use his reporter status to fish out any fresh leads in the Mary Rose Francis' case. He didn't know him well, but they'd talked. He seemed like a decent enough guy, and had a reputation as a good cop. Grant dialed the police department. He'd check out this latest killing, too. See what information he could pick up. Maybe enough for a follow-up story. A Killer Among Us. Not that bad. If not original.
He identified himself to the officer who answered, but when he asked to sp
eak with Sergeant Nelson he was told the Sergeant had suffered a mild heart attack and had taken an early retirement. Had he not been out of town, he would have known that.
No one else seemed to want to talk to him about any case, cold or otherwise, except to say that the investigation into the Marie Davis case was ongoing. But he got a sense there wasn't a whole lot of activity being given to either case.
"You got a number where I can reach Sergeant Nelson?" he asked, without much hope of getting one. But surprisingly, the cop on the phone told him Nelson was recuperating at his. "He's in the book," he said. "A.J. Nelson. And speaking of books, you wrote a damn good one, there, Mr. Grant. I got a cousin spent some time at Greyland's…."
Grant listened, was pleasant. But, anxious to talk to Sergeant Nelson, he cut the call short, agreeing cheerfully to drop by the station and autograph the guy's book. Good friends in the right places were necessary in his business. Besides, he appreciated his readers and couldn't afford to alienate one of them.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Eric ascended the brick walk and rang the bell of the small, white house, with its profusion of greenery growing in white-painted window-boxes. The man who answered wore grey cords and a dark blue striped shirt, and looked like you'd expect a man to look whose body had turned on him. Physically fragile, a tad jowly with the loss of weight. But his steely-blue eyes were sharp and clear, and his colour was good, and he seemed genuinely glad for the company.
The retired cop gave him an easy grin and opened the door wider. "I'm glad you called. C'mon in, Eric. My sister Angie is out doing a few errands. I practically had to arm-wrestle her to take her fingers off my pulse and get on with her life. Angie's a dietitian. What'll you have? Vegetable-ginger juice? Herbal tea…? Angie grows her own herbs and spices. You probably noticed some of them in the window boxes. Anytime you'd like a slip. I noticed a helicopter buzzing around over the house this morning, probably thinking she's growing weed." He grinned fondly.
Eric settled on instant coffee, decaffeinated.
They sat in the small, tidy living room in front of the TV, which his host had switched off, and they talked about the case. And their mutual concern for Naomi Waters. The sergeant said she was like a horse with blinders. "But I also think that girl has a good sense of direction," he added.
Eric was glad he'd phoned. The guy was going stir crazy and missed his work. He probably wouldn't have invited him to his house and be talking so freely to him but for that.
Chapter Forty
Naomi drove slowly down Watson Street, checking the numbers on the houses. 632 was about halfway down, a few doors up from a dry cleaning shop. Most of the homes were wooden, not falling down exactly, but definitely on the way. The address was a two-story grey building with white trim, and relatively new siding. In better shape than some of its neighbours.
She parked a short distance past it, on the opposite side of the street. From here she could see the auto body shop up ahead, same side of the street. Big blue letters spelled out "Mac's Auto Body". He works close to where he lives, as she figured. He's probably there now. Her heart was pounding, and her hands on the wheel were damp. A heady brew of excitement and fear roiled inside her.
She sat in the car for several minutes trying to work up her nerve to face him. Up ahead, a half a dozen kids were playing dodge ball in the street, and she remembered that school would have let out for the summer.
Two young women, about her own age, passed her by going in the opposite direction, pushing baby carriages. They were laughing at some shared joke. Watching them walk away in her rearview mirror, she felt a pang of envy. They had family, were enjoying their lives, not chasing down killers. Worse, one who had sired them.
Never mind. All the pieces appeared to be falling into place, almost faster than she could process them. If she was wrong about this, she'd know soon enough, and no harm done. She'd just ask how much it would cost to dab up that scratch on her bumper. A legitimate reason for being there. Perfectly reasonable question.
She'd know by his face, just like she knew by Edna's face that she was lying about the pendant. Her breathing was shallow and she blew out a long shuddery breath. She wiped her hands on a tissue from her pocket. Would he smell her fear, like the animal he was? She took three more deep breaths, exhaled each slowly, then turned on the ignition. I'm fine.
She circled the block, came down Watson on the other side of the street and parked in front of the shop. She cracked open the window, could hear someone banging on metal, inside the garage. The office was adjoined. She got out of the car and went in.
An elderly man wearing a red plaid cap was sitting thumbing through a car magazine. He looked up when the door opened and nodded pleasantly. She managed a smile and a 'hi' in return. Her heart was racing so fast she thought she might pass out. She swallowed and found she had no saliva. Get it together, she commanded herself. She put on a neutral expression. After all, she was supposed to be some kind of actor. So act.
When the young man came into the office from the garage, wiping his hands on an oily rag, she told him about the scratch on her car. Then, she said quickly, before he could offer to check it out, "I'd like Mac to take a look at it, if he's not too busy."
"Yeah, sure. Just a sec. I think he's just finishing up. Your car'll be a couple a minutes, Mr. Howard," he said to the elderly man with the magazine.
Over the sudden howl of what she guessed was a machine that tightens lug nuts on a wheel, though it could have been anything, he opened the door and called out his boss's name. The howl ended abruptly, then began again as he closed the door. "Just puttin' the tires back on 'er," he told the man.
Before she was ready, the man she knew as Marcus Leeland came through the same door as his employee had entered, a Tim Horton's coffee in his hand. She felt as if she'd just stepped into an elevator and dropped twenty floors.
There was a brief flicker of surprise in his eyes when he looked at her. That was all. Had she not been watching so intently, she would have missed it. He was a far better actor than she.
His smile, as he handed the man his keys, revealed square white teeth. Veneers, she thought. The receding hairline in his high school photo had disappeared beneath a thick head of dark blond hair. He was in his mid-fifties, over six feet, a good-looking man, but for the evil he exuded. The coldness in those grey eyes. Or was it just because she knew the darkness that lie behind them? Behind the smile.
The man had paid his bill and left. Marcus Leeland turned his full attention on her.
"That your car out there, Ma'am?" he asked, gesturing through the window. "The blue Cavalier?" He spoke softly, with an intimacy that made her skin crawl.
"Yes. It's just a scratch on the bumper."
He drained his coffee, crushed the cup in his hand and was about to toss it in the green trash barrel by the door, when he changed his mind and shoved it into his jacket pocket, confirming everything for her. His expression didn't change. "Just a scratch, huh."
He wasn't about to let her get hold of anything with his DNA on it.
He was enjoying himself. She'd just upped the ante on the game. A game at which he was the expert.
"Well, let's go take a look at 'er, then."
He walked too close behind her, deliberately close, so that she could feel his warm breath on the back of her neck, smell the dark, sour heat and paint-smell of him and she thought she might be sick to her stomach. Breathing through her nose, forcing herself to stay calm, she raised her head just a little higher in a show of bravado, but she knew he wasn't fooled. Only amused.
"That scratch has been there awhile," he drawled, when they were on the sidewalk, those eyes peering straight into her soul. "Year, maybe."
"I uh, my mother was sick. It happened in the hospital parking lot. I just never got around to…." She was rambling. She gave a helpless shrug, stopped talking.
"Sorry about your mother," he said. He quoted her a reasonable price and asked if she'd like them to do the
work now. "Won't take more 'n half an hour."
Sorry about your mother. Not, I hope she's feeling better. He knows she didn't get better, that she died of cancer. He read it in the paper. He knows I live alone. Of course he does. He'd been to my house. Planned to burn it down, with me and Molly in it.
"No, it's okay. I really just wanted to get a couple of estimates."
"Uh, huh. Sure, no problem."
She saw the trace of a smile come into those cold eyes that were the colour of rotting ice. When she drove away, she saw him in her rearview mirror, still standing on the sidewalk, hands in his pockets, watching after her.
Chapter Forty-One
Naomi didn't allow herself to take a full breath until she was half a mile from the dark, frightening aura of Marcus Leeland. Glancing at herself in the rearview mirror, into eyes looked shocked, skin pale as ash. Her gaze flicked nervously past her own reflection to check behind her, only too aware that he might have followed her from the body shop. But there was no one behind her.
He knows I know who he is, now. He knows I'm onto him. I've entered his game.
He'd make his move now soon. Tonight? She breathed deeply, let it out. It did little to calm her nerves, which didn't begin to settle down until she pulled into Lisa's drive. Barely in the door, she blurted, "I've seen him, Lisa. I've seen the man who murdered Mary Rose."
"Naomi, honey, you're shaking and you're white as a sheet. Sit down, sit down, let me pour you a nice hot cup of tea."
Molly looked at her then went back to the saucer of whatever Lisa had given her, apparently not missing her all that much.
Once Lisa was seated across from her, Naomi told her what happened, only keeping the name to herself. It was best if Lisa never heard it, never had that name rattling around in her brain. Even coming here she worried that she might be putting her in danger, although she knew he hadn't followed her. She was very careful about that. She must be diligent every second. She was reasonably sure he had followed her out to Debbie Banks' house without her knowledge, but it wouldn't happen again.
The Abduction of Mary Rose Page 18
