by Jo Robertson
Slater slid the seat as far back as it would go and pulled Kate onto his lap, her legs straddling him, her back against the steering wheel. Pushing the lever that collapsed the seat, he fell backwards, Kate on top of him.
“I don’t think I can make it into your apartment, little huntress. You’ve caught me in your web.”
“Is that some kind – of mixed – metaphor?” Kate’s breath hitched, as his hands roved under her jacket and shirt to release the clasp of her bra. He lifted the shirt out of the way and nuzzled her breasts with his lips. Her heart thundered beneath his ear.
“I want you now, right here,” Kate whispered, her voice a strangled cry. The two of them were a tangled mess jammed into the unaccommodating space of his truck’s front seat.
His hands slipped beneath the lace of her panties to grab the smooth flesh of her buttocks just as the rough tapping of a hand on the driver’s car window jarred them back to reality. The bright pinpoint light of a flashlight glared in their faces.
Oh, shit.
Chapter Thirty
They rutted like animals in heat. They didn’t even care that the cop interrupted their sweaty sex, didn’t mind that someone else saw what they were doing in the front seat of the man’s truck. That the whole world could see them screwing.
Smith had waited in the shadows of the bougainvillea bushes that flanked the trees at the south edge of the parking lot – the lot of the building where K. Myers lived in apartment number one. He was cold and wet and pissed off that he couldn’t help watching the woman, following her, making sure it was – was her.
He was obsessed with her again, with finding out what the witch-girl woman was up to. He’d been forced to wait hours for her and the dark giant to return. Then, instead of going straight into the apartment, they’d been all over each other. Doing things with their hands and their mouths, their tongues.
Things he wanted to do every time he hunted. Every time he searched for the right girl, the one who’d make it right. But each time, he couldn’t. He failed and had to resort to – to other measures. He knew vaguely that those other things weren’t supposed to be enjoyable, but a kind of frenzy came over him, and he couldn’t stop, couldn’t help it.
It wasn’t right, wasn’t fair, he raged silently, that the animal-man and the bitch-woman did those things. That it was so easy for them. Not fair that they enjoyed it and didn’t have to carefully plan and work at it like he did. No, not right at all. Smith was going to make K. Myers pay for that.
And then he’d make the animal-man pay.
The thought brought him comfort and he edged his way toward the downstairs window, the one he was sure belonged to the girl-woman’s bedroom.
He stared at the security lights around the small parking lot, three of them, high off the ground. He knew there were cells in them that automatically came on at dusk and off again at dawn. He’d have to figure out how to disable them. Shouldn’t be too hard. A utility truck, late morning when everyone was at work. He’d bet no one would even notice they were out, and anyone who saw him would assume he was at work replacing the light cells.
Smith looked with longing toward K. Myers’ bedroom window. If she’d left the curtain open, even a crack, he could watch the man and woman. He’d bet they were still at it.
#
“Oh no,” Kate moaned, whether from embarrassment or frustration, Slater wasn’t sure. She angled her face away from the light and buried it in his shoulder.
“All right, break it up in there,” the deputy began. “Oh, God, Lieutenant Slater, sorry sir, I didn’t know who it was.” He turned off the light. “Uh, I didn’t recognize your truck, Lieutenant, sir. I’ll, uh – leave you two alone.”
The deputy quickly climbed into his patrol car, made a three-point turn, and sped out of the parking lot.
“That’s a sure-fire mood changer,” Slater said.
“My god, what were we thinking of?” Kate rearranged her clothing as she reverted quickly to cool and self-possessed.
“Guilty as charged.”
She climbed off him, buttoned her jeans, and hurried into her apartment. Which is where they should’ve started all this in the first place, he thought. What were they, a couple of horny teenagers?
But when she reached the door, fumbling for her keys, the humor of their situation must’ve fully struck her because she started giggling and didn’t stop until she reached the bedroom. Her mood was catching, and he laughed at the irony of their trying to keep their relationship a secret, only to have been caught by one of the deputies under his command.
He caught up with her in the bathroom where they ended up in the shower and finished what they’d started. Afterward, they tumbled onto the bed, and this second time, they paced themselves, arched their bodies to a tempo that felt both new and familiar, and finally drifted off to sleep, bodies spooned against each other.
As he was ready to slip over the edge into peaceful oblivion, Slater heard Kate repeat the question, but he couldn’t understand her mumbling.
Something about the man with the giant hands?
#
“Do you believe in God?”
Slater glanced over at Kate to check the seriousness of her question. They sat in bed, eating a late evening snack of cold cereal.
He took his time responding because he didn’t know the answer. Before his son was jerked so abruptly from his life, he would’ve said yes unequivocally.
“I’m not so sure I believe in much of anything.”
Kate put her spoon inside her cereal bowl, placed it on the nightstand. “Are you saying you don’t believe in anything, like God, or truth, justice, and the American way?”
He laughed. “I believe in you.”
“Seriously, do you believe in God, Slater?”
“Right now, after being with you, I believe in everything.”
That wasn’t much of an answer and he wondered what prompted Kate’s question. The truth was he no longer believed in any kind of divinity, or at least any divine intervention. Since he’d lost the most precious thing in his life, he didn’t put trust in anything but himself.
He turned the question back on her. “What about you?”
She thought a moment. “I want to believe there’s a God, but in my work, I see the worst depravity of humankind. It’s pretty hard to see God’s hand in the creation of animals like our killer. And if it’s intelligent design we’re talking about, there’ve been a lot of stupid engineering mistakes.”
She twisted her lips. “I guess losing my faith went along with losing my sister. What about you?” she pressed.
Now was the time to tell her, he thought. She’d been honest with him about her sister’s death, the entire horror of her youth. She was entitled to his candor. But somehow he held back that last piece of himself. Why was he so reluctant to tell her about Julie and the boy? Had he allowed the wound to fester these ten long years or didn’t he trust her to stay long enough to hear his deepest sorrow?
Later in bed, Slater held Kate tightly and stared through the curtained window into the dark wintry sky until he heard the soft, rhythmic breathing that indicated she’d fallen asleep. He made a decision. He’d tell Kate about Max and Julie when he knew where their relationship was headed, not now when their minds needed to focus on a killer and everything was so unsettled between them.
Even after ten years, the senseless agony of loss was a grievous blow.
Sometime after they’d fallen asleep, the call from Matt Bauer came in on Slater’s cell phone. The sharp tone jarred them awake.
“Slater? Sorry to wake you, but we got something back on the blood in the Pontiac.”
“The Pontiac?” He’d almost forgotten the car, had been sure the blood found there would match the Johnston girl.
“A match to Jennifer?”
“Not exactly, sir. The blood type in the trunk matched the Johnston girl’s, but inside the vehicle there were some minute spatters of another blood type.”
“S
o the killer got careless and left evidence in the car.” From his peripheral vision he saw Kate eye him quizzically.
“That’s what I thought. Also, the blood type was O-positive and matched the blood type from the Mathews girl’s pants.”
“Good work, Matt.”
“Uh, I tried to call Dr. Myers, but she’s – uh – not picking up.”
“She’s probably sleeping.” Slater lifted both eyebrows up and down in a Groucho Marx simulation while Kate shoved at him. He hung the phone up and reached for her.
“Why the wiggly eyebrows?” she asked.
“Just amused that Bauer is half way to being in love with you.”
“He’s not,” she protested, slapping his chest.
“Can’t say I blame him much.” He traced gentle swirls down her arm. “Good news on the Pontiac. Blood spatter matched the type found on Alison Mathews’ slacks. Son of a bitch killed them both.”
“Did you think otherwise?”
“Not really. The interview with Stuckey’s sister is tomorrow. Maybe we’ll get something.” He tugged her closer.
“We don’t even know the story of what happened to Mary Stuckey. Was she alone when she drowned? Did she have friends? A boyfriend maybe? Who was the last guy she was with?”
“Tomorrow,” he repeated.
Later he climbed out of bed and stood in front of the living room window, staring out at the limbless trees that jagged against the night sky. The killer was out there, waiting for his next victim. Would they stop him in time?
#
The email message from Sheriff Marconi came to the desk duty officer late in the day when a skeleton force worked the precinct an hour before shift change. Randy Townsend, a brand new deputy of only three months, manned the desk.
The message originated from an internet protocol address in Scottsdale, Arizona. Marconi had no family or friends there, but since Townsend was relatively new to Bigler County, he was unaware of this. The text was brief:
taking short vacation, will return by end of month, slater in charge. marconi.
Townsend relayed the message to Slater by cell phone, alleviating the detective’s concern over the Sheriff’s unexplained departure. Slater didn’t aspire to his boss’s job, but he’d be glad as hell when Marconi retired, and he no longer had to put up with his irresponsible behavior.
Disgusted, but not shocked that the head of Bigler law enforcement would take time off during a major investigation, Slater posted a brief message on the squad room’s bulletin board: Sheriff Marconi on vacation.
No one except Townsend ever saw the actual email, which he deleted from the office computer.
Had Slater known where Marconi was supposed to be vacationing, he might’ve speculated that the Sheriff had no ties at all to the state of Arizona. The Sheriff had a passion for hunting and fishing in Utah and California, but had never visited Arizona in his entire life.
Chapter Thirty-one
Xavier Marcus Marconi preceded his nephew into the house. “About that information you asked me to look up – ”
Smith froze, remembering the email he’d sent his uncle from work, asking him to check the license number: 2HYM748. Jesus, why had he made the mistake of involving his uncle? He hadn’t known the last name of the girl in Idaho, just her first name, but once he’d seen the purple-eyed woman at the gas station, he had to know the truth.
K. Myers.
His hand shook as he closed the door behind him.
When Marconi turned to face him, Smith realized how foolish it’d been to rely on Mark. Stupid bastard wouldn’t just look it up and let it go. No, he’d want to find out why Smith was interested in the woman who drove the yellow Volkswagen convertible.
Mark would push and push until there was only one way out of it all – an explosion. Smith imagined Vesuvius erupting and molten lava flowing down, down onto his uncle and his stupid, nosy questions.
His uncle pierced him with his beady-eyed eagle stare. “Where’s the kitchen? I’ll get myself that drink.”
Smith gestured to the left. This wasn’t going to work. How was he going to get rid of his snoopy uncle before he found something? How was he going to avoid the prying questions?
Marconi’s sharp eyes took in the spacious room, bare of furnishings, gloomy and dusty. “Haven’t cleaned up around here yet?”
“I’ll get that drink for you,” Smith answered, scurrying ahead of his uncle and opening the heavy, old fashioned refrigerator that sat in the corner of the kitchen. He pulled out a soda and thrust it at his uncle.
“No beer, just soda pop.”
“That’ll do.” Marconi poked around the kitchen, his sharp eyes lighting on every nook and cranny. Smith grew dizzy and forced himself not to look at the large hooked rug covering the floor beneath the table set. In the corner. Under the frig.
He told himself Mark couldn’t possibly find anything. Smith did all his work in the basement, and his grandfather had designed the secret entrance so well no one would ever find it.
Marconi leaned against the kitchen sink, drinking his soda, studying his nephew with cunning, suspicious eyes. “How come you wanted me to look up that license plate?”
“No special reason.” Smith tried to put on a sheepish face. “I thought the woman was pretty, that’s all.”
Uncle Mark leveled him a look like his grandfather used to when he knew his grandson was lying. “That so? Did you know she works in my house?”
At first Smith thought his uncle was referring to domestic help, but then he figured out what he meant. She was a cop? Judas Priest, what had he gotten himself into? All he could do was shake his head dumbly.
“You didn’t know she was a cop?”
Smith screamed inside his head. You stupid asshole! Would I have asked you if I’d known she was a cop? Do you think I’m an idiot? A cop, oh Jesus, a cop. What had he done?
“Why don’t you give me a little tour?” Mark asked, changing the subject. “This is one helluva large place. What’s upstairs?”
“Just the bedrooms, closets, storage rooms, the attic.”
“That where you sleep?”
“Yeah.” His hands were trembling, and he quickly hid them behind his back.
“Why don’t you sleep down here? Ain’t there a master bedroom or somethin’ downstairs?”
“I like it upstairs. It’s warmer there.”
“Hmm. They sure don’t make houses like this anymore, good solid structure, great insulation.”
Smith took the can from his uncle’s hand. “Look, I’m feeling queasy again. I need to lay down.”
“Oh, sure. I’ve gotta be going anyway.”
Marconi walked toward the front door, but paused with his hand on the knob. “You call work first thing in the morning, you hear?”
“Okay, sure, I will.”
Marconi opened the door and stepped through, then stopped. “One more thing. I was lookin’ through some old department files the other day.”
“Oh yeah?” Smith answered, not knowing where his uncle was going with this line of conversation, but not liking it at all.
“I come acrost a case. Girl drowned out by Beale’s Lake. ‘Member the one? Right before you took off.”
“That was a long time ago, Mark. How the hell would I remember something like that?”
Uncle Mark’s beady eyes squinted up at his nephew. “Well, you orta. Wuddn’t you friends with that girl?” Mark turned to go. “Well, it’s sumin’ to think about, ain’t it?” He reached the bottom of the porch steps this time before he turned back again.
“I just remembered something else. Didn’t this old house usta to have a basement? Your granddad mentioned he’d built it for dressing game. Good idea for a hunter, very handy. How do you get to it? Does it have an outside access door? A hatch or sumin’ like that?”
Smith’s heart sank. There was no getting around it now. He’d have to show his uncle the basement room. If he didn’t, it’d look suspicious, and once that happened, th
ere was no turning back. Could he pretend ignorance of the basement?
Uncle Mark wasn’t too smart, but he was clever with an animal instinct. He remembered the basement. He knew about the woman and the license plate. He suspected something about the drowned girl. Why else would he have mentioned it? Soon he’d recall everything he needed to know to fit the puzzle together, and he’d learn about the special room in the basement. Once he got to thinking, he’d remember the rest of it.
Smith couldn’t afford to let him leave now.
“Come on back in, Mark, and I’ll give you a tour of that basement room. Grandfather was really proud of it.”
#
Three hours later Smith rested in the spacious main room of the old house. Excited and exhilarated by his uncle’s visit, he contemplated his next moves. How to handle this latest problem caused by Mark’s annoying interference?
Smith’s uncle was an overweight, dried-out cop whose climb to the top position in the Sheriff’s Office showed how ineffective the whole system was. His uncle’s insufferable nosiness was the only good-cop attribute he had, and it’d led them both to this predicament. The man had always underestimated his nephew and he’d been ridiculously easy to overcome.
So much for the capabilities of the police. Compared to them, Smith was brilliant. Cops walked a thin line between the law and the lawless, and would be criminals themselves if they weren’t so stupid.
Mark, the jackass! Now Smith would have to fix this. Never mind, he thought, a surge of confidence running through him. A little bump in the road, nothing to stop him. He felt confident enough to repair the damage.
During his life the watcher had spent many weekends either preparing for a hunt or cleaning up after one, and this was no different. By the following afternoon, he’d rerouted the email address from Arizona to explain Uncle Mark’s absence. A simple matter and virtually impossible to trace back to the original sender, it bought him time. If they did trace it, well, there were a lot of computers, and Smith was just a lowly mail clerk who had no access to computers at all. The search would dead end at Paxton-Bell.
