“When I went back to my room to get dressed, Pete was sitting on my bed.”
“And?”
“And he … came at me.” She shrugged. “It’d been building for a while. A lot of touching, a lot of grabbing when he thought my mom wasn’t looking.”
His face closed up, folded around itself to hold in whatever it was he was thinking or feeling. “Did he know about Tom? That the two of you were involved?”
She nodded. “Yes. He told me that he knew I’d been sneaking him into my room. That I was a whore just like my mother.”
“Could he have been the one that attacked Tom—killed Kelly?”
“No.” She shook her head against the pillow.
“Why? Maybe it was him. He was Kelly’s boyfriend. She would’ve let him in, no questions asked,” he said, but she just shook her head again. “It makes sense—”
“The man who attacked Tommy and killed Kelly is the same man who took me,” she said.
“Right. As much as I hate to say it, maybe Jed Carson isn’t our guy—”
“Trust me—it’s not Pete,” she said in a tone that left no room for argument.
“How can you be so sure?”
Because I killed him. “I just am.” She pulled her hand out of his and rolled over to face the wall. She’d already said too much.
Fifty-four
Michael purchased their tickets and secured a rental car with a fresh set of ID. Michael Koptik was wanted for questioning in at least two murders—possibly three if you counted the dead girl at the hospital—and he’d be willing to bet they’d found a way to connect that one to him too. Today he was Mathew Stern, a plant manager from Plano, Texas.
When asked for her ID at the ticket counter, she’d produced a valid Nevada driver’s license under the name Serena Vincent. He had no idea where she’d gotten it, but he was sure it was not the only set of false ID she had. Sometimes being paranoid paid off.
When they landed she ducked into the first bathroom they came across while he stood outside, surrounded by duffle bags, waiting for her. He started to worry that maybe he’d have to go in and get her. Before he could think too much about it, his phone rang. It was Tom.
“Hey.”
“Carson’s back,” he said. “He and Wade came in about seven. They usually meet up for breakfast before heading to the station. They’re here now.”
Sabrina walked out of the bathroom and picked up her duffle, then stood there and looked at him like he was the one holding them up.
“Alright. We should be in town in a few hours.” He hung up, look-ed her over. “You okay?”
She picked up her duffle and slung it over her shoulder. “Peachy. Let’s go.” She started walking, and he fell into step beside her.
He glanced at her. “That was Tom. Carson’s back in town.”
She shook her head but kept walking. “It’s like he wants me to know it’s him.”
“Maybe he does—maybe he wants to force a confrontation early.”
“Well then it’s a good thing I’m in the mood to give him one.” She looked sick to her stomach. Each stride that took her through the airport and out into the world seemed to weigh on her, drag her down. She was pale, the ashen color of her face making her look almost frail. She may have been in the mood for a fight, but she was in no condition for one.
On impulse he grabbed her arm and pulled her into an alcove under the escalator. She didn’t pull away, just stared up at him. Like she trusted him. Believed in him. She wasn’t the first person to make that mistake. Everyone who’d ever looked at him like that had ended up dead. It was enough to make him want to ram his head through the wall.
He squeezed her arm and shook his head. “Nickels is right. This isn’t a good idea—”
“What?”
“Yeah, I can’t believe I just said it myself.” He leaned forward, looked her in the eye. “Think about it, he knows we’re coming—wants you here. Why didn’t he just make a play for you in San Francisco?” He spoke in a rush, squeezing her arm tighter and tighter.
“Because he has plans for me. Didn’t we just establish that?” She looked down at her arm and then back to his face. The brown plastic lenses did nothing to hide the glint in her eyes. “You’re hurting me.”
He ignored her complaint. “Right. Plans.” He nodded, pulled on her arm. “Come on, you’re going back—”
“What? You want me to run? I’m sorry, have we met?” She yanked her arm out of his grip and glared at him, continued on before he could speak. “If you want to tuck tail, go ahead but that son of a bitch killed my grandmother. He’s not getting away with that.”
“Who said he would? I’ll go alone. He’ll be dead by lunch time.” He could see himself doing it—walking into the JPD, putting a bullet in Carson’s head. He’d probably have to kill Wade and Zeke too, but he didn’t really care. He’d burn the entire town to the ground before he let anything happen to Sabrina again.
“You don’t know for sure that it’s him. Think about this for a minute, will you?” She sighed, rubbed a hand over her face. “All we have is circumstantial evidence. Nothing solid that says Carson is our guy.”
“Right now, I’m okay with that.”
“I’m not. We have to be sure. I have to go so we can be sure.” She shook her head. “Besides, he wins either way. He dropped a pile of dead bodies on my doorstep. If I go home, I’ll be arrested. If I run, he succeeds in separating me from everyone I know—just like last time. He’ll find me eventually, and if he doesn’t, there’s always Riley. If he can’t get to me, he’ll get to her, and I won’t be there to protect her.”
“I’ll protect her.” The promise was an empty one. He only had a few days’ reprieve before he’d have to leave her. He thought about the chip in his back, about what seven digits and a whim could do to him. Before all this, knowing he could die any second wouldn’t have bothered him. Now his actions could get her killed. He was the last person she needed in her life.
She just shook her head. “No. I’m going. Sorry, but my grandmother and your sister deserve more than that.”
He looked at her, saw the determined gleam in her eye that he both admired and despised. She was going to Jessup and there was nothing he could do to stop her. He slumped against the wall, dropped his duffle at his feet. He felt beaten, like he’d already lost her. Anger and confusion crawled around his head, churned together with the realization that losing her would do to him what Frankie’s death hadn’t quite managed, what nothing else had been able to do:
It would kill him.
Fifty-five
There was a pretty woman with caramel-colored hair sitting behind the counter. She was filling sugar dispensers, and Sabrina had a sudden flash of herself doing the exact same task, standing in the exact same spot. Next to her was a little girl, no older than four or five, sitting on a stool. She had soft brown hair and Tommy’s eyes.
Tommy’s head popped into the service window, gaze directed at Michael. He disappeared for just a moment before pushing his way through the door. He came toward them, pulling off his apron as he did. His face hadn’t changed. The dusky pale gold of his skin was still smooth; the sharp, angular lines of his jaw and nose still spoke proudly of his Apache heritage; his blue-black hair held no gray. And for just a moment, she had the feeling that she was as she’d been, that she was the person she was supposed to be and that it had all been a terrible nightmare.
Tommy indicated a booth toward the back of the diner, away from the crowd. Michael slid in first, and she sat across from him. Tommy dragged a chair to the table, turned it around to straddle it.
“They found Lucy,” Tommy said without preamble. “Sue Ellen Rouser went by this morning to pick up some stuff Lucy donated for the church rummage sale. She used the key to let herself in—she was in the basement.” He turned to Michael. “I’m sorry. I’m so—
”
Michael reached out, clapped a hard hand on Tom’s shoulder. “Stop. Just stop. You did everything right, everything I asked.”
She thought of Lucy, left in the dark. About what she knew had been done to her. It was almost too much—almost more than she could bear. She wanted to cry. She wanted to run. Instead, she did what she always did. She pulled away from the pain and grief nested deep inside her chest. Took a deep, insulating breath and buried the emotions that dogged her.
“Where’s Carson now?” she said.
Tommy looked at her. His expression was mild, but his eyes on her held the stinging wrath of a whip. He didn’t know who she was, she was sure of it. Not even Lucy had been able to recognize her after the doctor had gotten through with her face.
“At Lucy’s, probably covering his tracks.” They all thought Carson was guilty, would bet their lives on it, but she had to force herself to look at this objectively. They needed proof. Hard proof, and they weren’t going to find it without digging.
She decided to open a new vein of questioning. “What about Melissa Walker? Carson had a thing for her?” she said, feeling ridiculous for asking about things she already knew and horrible for drudging up painful memories for them both.
“A thing?” Tom let out a disgusted laugh. “I guess you could call it that. He followed her everywhere, hounded her every step. Never gave her a moment’s peace,” he said.
“He knew about the two of you?” she said.
His gaze sharpened for a moment. “Yeah, he knew. After she’d been gone for a few weeks, he started spouting off about how she was calling him, telling him she realized she loved him, wanted him to come be with her. He took off a few months after she did.” Tommy said this like he believed it, like he knew it was true. Before she could say anything, he continued. “He came back to Jessup three months after she disappeared.”
She’d left Jessup in April—a few months would’ve meant that Carson had left sometime that summer. “And you believe she left you for Carson.” She could hardly get the words out. This wasn’t something she’d heard before, something Michael had failed to mention.
“Well, she wasn’t exactly around to prove otherwise.” He leaned forward. “I asked her to marry me, and she said yes. Not more than a few hours later, I was stabbed, bludgeoned, and left naked on the side of the road. I was laid up for weeks, and she just took off on me.” He leaned back and scoffed. “The least she could’ve done was leave my mother’s ring behind.”
The ring—her ring—hidden by her shirt, burned a hole in her chest.
It was too much—the memories of the way things had been, the way Tommy was looking at her now. She stood—amazed she could without passing out.
“Will you excuse me?” she said. She headed for the parking lot, making herself measure her steps, slow and even, weaving her way through the dining room—picking up and carrying with her the stares of everyone she passed.
Fifty-six
Sabrina knew people were staring at her, but she kept moving—pressed on, stopping only when she reached their rental car.
She leaned against the front fender, pressed her palms together, wedging them between her knees to hide their shaking. Drawing in a wobbly breath, she closed her eyes for a moment, trying for just a few seconds to shut out the world around her.
Her phone rang. Strickland. She hit Ignore. It rang again three seconds later.
She snapped. “FYI—when someone ignores your phone calls, that means they don’t want to talk to you,” she all but barked into the phone, her tirade met with a second or two of silence.
“Oh, is that what that means? I always just thought it meant you were a stubborn bitch,” Strickland said, biting back.
She squeezed her eyes shut. “I don’t have time—”
“Yeah, I hear ya. Nothing says sense of urgency like a dead girl with your name written on her arm.”
Shit. “Who caught the case?”
“Robbins and Carr. Hospital surveillance picked up the car that dumped her. A dark, late-model sedan. Didn’t catch the plates or a look at the driver, so your name on her arm is pretty much all they have to go on. Oh, and the fact that the charge nurse positively identified you and a man matching O’Shea’s description as being what she thought were relatives. Said he was wearing a SFPD shirt. They’re looking to bring you both back in for questioning.” He went quiet for a second. “They’re some talk of the murder weapon used to kill Sanford. That there’s a chance it has your prints on it.”
The bat. Somehow, in the middle of this waking nightmare, she’d somehow managed to forget that there was actual forensic evidence that could land her in prison.
She had to call Nickels, warn him. Once the lab came through with DNA and prints, a warrant would be issued for her arrest. She’d left the state pending a murder investigation. If Richards or Mathews found out that Nickels had helped her—
“Vaughn.”
“I have to go.” She moved to hang up the phone.
“Goddamn it, don’t hang up on me.” His angry tone stopped her cold.
“I’m trying to do what’s right by you.”
“I’m a grown-ass man, and I don’t need you to protect me—I need you to trust me. For once … just trust me,” he said.
She sighed. “I do.”
“Prove it. Body count is at three. Start explaining.”
She hesitated, but only for a second. “Call Val—she’ll explain everything.” She hung up and sent a quick text to Val.
When Strickland calls, tell him everything.
The bell on the diner door dinged again. She looked up to see Michael walking toward her. He carried a pair of boxes, one beneath each arm. “You okay?” he said, leaning against the car next to her.
“Yes.” She looked to the box under his arm. “What’s in it?”
He dropped one of them on the hood, slid it across until it bumped into her hip. “The package from Val probably won’t get here until tomorrow. Until then, this is your new best friend.”
Fifty-seven
The gun was beautiful—made her pair of SIG P220s look like a couple of Saturday Night Specials. A Colt Super .38—matte chrome with an extended grip. Government issue. No serial number. In the box next to the gun were extra clips and a suppressor. She stared hard at it for a few seconds, waited for fear to grip her like it usually did when she found herself confronted with the person Michael had become.
Instead of fear she felt something else. Something fierce. Vengeful.
It felt good.
She didn’t ask where they were going. She already knew. Their plan had been to stop by the diner on their way to the house Lucy had lived in. She figured Michael knew the way.
She filled him in on what Strickland had told her. The description of the car that dumped the girl at the hospital had him quiet. Too quiet.
“What is it?” She looked down at her hands, needed something to do. She started loading clips from the box of ammo on the seat between them.
He bounced a look between her and the road. “I’ve gone through every police report filed in Jessup for the last twenty years.”
“So?” She kept feeding the bullets into the clip, each kiss of metal against metal making a click, click, click.
“The file on what happened to Bauer is thin. Not much more than a few crime scene photos and the autopsy report,” he said.
This was about her father. “And?”
“In evidence is a notebook—one of those flip-top jobs cops keep in their pockets.” She knew what he meant. She used to use one before she switched to the voice-recorder app on her cell. An old-school cop like Billy Bauer would still carry one.
“Anyway, the last entry was just a quick notation—dark blue, Chevy four-door,” he said, turning off the main road onto a single-lane dirt strip that led off into the trees. It was hardly m
ore than a dirt path, choked and cluttered with untrimmed trees and bramble.
“What kind of car does Carson drive?” she said, her voice tight, each word punctuated with a click, click, click.
“I’ve never seen him drive anything but the JPD Blazer, and nothing else is registered in his name.” They’d reached the end of the drive, so he killed the engine. “That doesn’t mean he doesn’t have another car stashed somewhere. It’s an easy thing to do.”
She nodded. “You’re right. Let’s go ask him.”
Michael could see the house as it once was. The front door Sophia had insisted on painting a bright, splashy red. The slate blue shutters—the tire swing in the front yard Sean made for him.
“This was my parent’s house,” he said. “When we started all this last year, I asked Lucy to move in, take care of things for me when I was away.”
“And she was closer to her friends this way. You took care of her.”
“We took care of each other,” he said even though the words felt like a lie.
They left the car, barely cleared the gate before Carson stepped out onto the porch. He puffed out his chest and used his grip on his gun belt to hitch up his khakis. “One more step, O’Shea, and I’ll have Zeke haul you in for trespassing. It’d be just like old times.”
Carved in Darkness Page 22
