by Julia Shupe
“There’s one more difference,” Gil said, and I turned. “Meghan Newton’s still got one leg.”
“That’s true,” Jacob acknowledged. “And another important difference.”
“I don’t know,” I disagreed. “Is it really that difficult to explain? Over the years, don’t people tend to hone and shape their skills? Carlton Tubbs screwed up with Meghan Newton. She was his biggest failure, or so I can imagine. Maybe he learned from that experience and got better.”
Jacob pressed the button to recline his chair. “It’s possible. Very possible.” He let his head fall to the cushion. “I don’t know if Meghan can help us, or wants to, but I think it’s worth a try. It’s the best we’ve got.”
“But,” Gil said, “How reliable will her story really be? Can we trust it? It’s like a game of telephone she’s been playing for twenty years. She’s told this story so many damn times that each time has to be slightly different than the last. I wonder if she even knows the truth anymore.”
“There’s definitely that,” Jacob said grimly. “But we still we have to try. This guy’s too similar to Tubbs to exclude Meghan. She’s an important part of the investigation. We can’t ignore the similarities. And if Tubbs is our guy, maybe Meghan will remember something useful this time, a small detail she left out the last time, or remembered after the trial and conviction. At this point, I’ll take anything we can get. We’ve got eighteen dead girls and not a pot to piss in. Carlton Tubbs is all we’ve got.”
Jacob was right. At this point, we needed all the help we could get. I knew from experience; in cases like this, even the smallest detail could prove to be significant. Details long thought meaningless or trivial could prove to be important under new circumstances. Besides, I was curious about Meghan. For a detective, Meghan was the rarest gem of all. She’d survived an encounter with a serial killer, though one might argue Carlton Tubbs didn’t fit the standard definition. He wasn’t officially a serial killer, but he’d been angling for the title, had he not?
I smoothed the wrinkles from my clean pair of khakis. After all these years, what would Meghan Newton be like? Had she really moved past what had happened to her? Could a victim of such a vicious attack ever find peace or happiness again? It was a very personal question to me. Since my mother was taken, the answer continued to haunt me. The psychology of victims, the post-traumatic stress disorders: if we ever found my mother alive—which was a stretch after all this time, I reminded myself—would she be a shell of her former vibrant self? Had she devolved from a functioning adult into a cowering child? And how did people compartmentalize violence? How had Meghan, for that matter? To survive, she must have found a way to cope with the ever-present madness, and I wanted to know what it was.
“Danny with Scott for the next few days?” Gil asked, jarring me from my current train of thought.
I nodded. “And trust me. Scott was overly happy to take him. Much to my chagrin, I might add.”
“And Linda?”
“She said she’d be fine by herself. Promised me she’d go to meeting or two, maybe even look for a job.”
“That’s good.”
“What about Abbie? Think you two lovebirds can stand to be apart for a few days?”
He lifted his shoulders. “Maybe she can, but I can’t.”
I gave him a smile that was more like a smirk. “You two make me sick. What you have isn’t normal.”
“Happiness isn’t normal?”
“You know what I mean.”
“Yeah, I do know what you mean, and you’re wrong. Happiness is normal and necessary, Ness. You need to get out there and find yourself some.” He peered Jacob’s way and raised a brow. “And him? You wanna take a minute to tell me about that? It’s pretty clear to me you guys knew each other in a previous life. What’s the story? Is it PG-13, or R-rated?”
I slapped his arm.
“Abbie’ll be fine without me,” he continued “She’s got cases building up on her desk, or so she says. Plus, Abbie gets it. She knows how this goes. She knows what demands come along with the job.” He looked at me pointedly then nodded toward Jacob. “That’s the nice thing about dating someone in the business. You should give that a little bit of thought.”
“But Abbie’s not in the business,” I objected.
“Being an attorney is the next closest thing. We book ‘em, she defends ‘em. Just saying—”
“I know what you’re saying, Dad. Trust me. But for the record, Abbie’s a family attorney. That’s not even in the same jurisdiction as criminal law.”
He frowned. “You’re missing my point—”
“No I’m not.” I took a deep breath while endeavoring for a safer topic of conversation. “Gil, this case is a first for me. Chasing a killer who crosses state lines? Someone who’s been evading the authorities for years? To be perfectly honest, I’m surprised to be a part of this team.”
“Why wouldn’t you be part of this team? We did great work together on the Serpent killings. And, Ness, that wasn’t our first rodeo.”
“You’re right. But David Beecher was a Florida native. He wasn’t all that difficult for us to track down.”
Gil heaved a sign. “We proved ourselves worthy. And in the end, for this job, that’s all that matters.” He nodded toward Jacob, who thankfully seemed to have fallen asleep. “Or maybe you’re here because he likes you.”
“That’s depressing. And stupid. And actually, condescending. I like to think I’m here because I’m good at my job, that I add some kind of value to the case I’m working on.”
“See? Then I was right the first time. You proved my point. You should be proud of yourself. We both should. We worked hard on the Serpent case. David Beecher wasn’t your garden-variety killer.”
“Touché.” Grinning, I elbowed his side.
“But he wasn’t. He was harder to catch than you remember him to be. This time, at least, we already have a suspect. Hell, we’ve got more than a suspect, I’d say. Carlton Tubbs is likely our man. This thing could wrap up in a matter of weeks.”
“Yeah, but only if we find him,” I cautioned. “And only if the evidence fits.”
“It fits.” Gil crossed his arms, dropped his head, and closed his eyes. “When it comes to Tubbs, I only know what I’ve read, but the evidence certainly seems to fit.” He waived a lazy hand through the air. “Not that it matters, though. Profile, shmofile. In a few short hours, we’ll have everything we need. We’ll be talking to the one person who knows Carlton Tubbs’ darker side better than anyone else in the world.”
Chapter 13
The Shadow Man
Carlton slowly came back to himself. It was the cold seeping through the tiles that finally brought him around. Where the hell was he? It was dark in here. It was almost pitch black. He could barely see his hands, though he was holding them up, in front of his face. Ahead was a long row of beds, and at the end, a dim and jaundiced light, leading to a row of unisex bathrooms. He was in the girls’ sleeping ward, standing, swaying, about to topple over. How long had he been here? And why? His legs were stiff, locked at the knees. Probably the cold, he said to himself.
“You better get going,” Smith whispered from the dark. “Now. Move your legs. Before someone sees you.”
Carlton spun in a tight circle. What the hell? Smith? In here? He peered into the darkness, chills racing up his arms and legs. How had Smith gotten in here? The orphanage doors were locked down at night. Curfew was strict, and started at eight.
“Smith?” he whispered into the dark.
No answer.
Scanning the room, he slowly turned in a complete circle. He was the only person standing upright, and as his vision slowly adjusted to the gloom, he could determine exactly where he was. He was standing at the edge of a girl’s bed, Casey Johnson’s bed, to be exact. She was new to the orphanage, having arrived little more than two weeks ago, and every night since, she had cried like a baby. He peered at her body, so small and delicate, curled up tight
like a ball. Her sheets were twisted into a claw-like grip.
He bent closer to her face. She wasn’t that pretty when compared to some of the others. But that wasn’t what had drawn his attention. She was new, and different, and weaker than the others. She hadn’t yet grown a protective shell. Innocence always caught Carlton’s eye. Virtue and purity intrigued him. Her thin blond hair framed her face like gossamer webbing. Like doll’s hair it was, and he reached out to touch it. He captured a lock and ran it through his trembling fingers. Her hair, by far, was her very best quality.
Beneath the covers, she flinched and then gasped. Carlton stiffened then slowly relaxed. She hadn’t awakened. She was just having a nightmare—not unusual in this kind of place. Kids were always having nightmares in here. It was part of the gig, a right of passage, so to speak.
“Get out of here,” Smith whispered, his voice harsher than before.
Carlton spun, waving his hands in the air, swatting at the shadows like they were swarming his face. “Smith? Are you here? I can’t see you.”
He waited for a response then forced his legs to move. Why was he standing in the middle of the girls’ ward? Why was he leaning over Casey Johnson’s bed? What had he done? If the house-mom caught him, he’d get detention for a week. With his luck, probably even longer. And that was something he didn’t have time for. It would ruin Smith’s carefully laid plans.
He tiptoed toward the splash of wan light. He couldn’t get caught. Not tonight of all nights. Tomorrow was his big day—his and Smith’s together. They’d been making these plans for months.
When he reached the boys’ ward, he tiptoed to his bed, and slipping inside, tried to create a pocket of warmth beneath the sheet. Flat on his back, he stared up at the ceiling. Was he ready for tomorrow? Was he prepared to take the next step in this journey? Did it really even matter if he was, or if he wasn’t? Whether he was ready or not, tomorrow was happening. On this, Smith had been firm. For the past few weeks, Carlton had watched him prepare for every possibility. They’d spent all of their time in the fort, making plans, reviewing the time line they’d meticulously sketched on pieces of old rotted cardboard. They’d been watching the cheerleader from their tree for months. Tiffany Kaplan: they’d even learned her name.
His mouth went dry. His palms itched. His scalp prickled.
For months, they’d been watching her, and writing down her routine, committing it to memory and reciting it to each other. And Monday, they’d asserted, was the best day to make their move. Tuesdays, her father got home too early, and Wednesdays her mother—a stenographer at the local courthouse—was off from work. The rest of the week proved much too irregular. Routine, Smith had counseled, would ensure their success, and on Mondays, Tiffany’s routine rarely varied.
Carlton stared into the swirling darkness. Today was Sunday, or was it early Monday morning? He tried to swallow but his tongue was suddenly too thick for his mouth. He peered through a gap in the curtains, at a deep and starless night beyond the glass. He was frightened, terrified, though he hadn’t told Smith. Smith always seemed so calm. Nothing seemed to get under his skin. He’d been whistling last night when they visited the fort, smiling from ear to ear as they reviewed the final version of the plan. And the plan, Carlton reminded himself, was simple. It was basic. But still, he thought, a lot could go wrong. There were variables he didn’t yet trust: the younger sister, the nosy neighbor, and Smith, of course, with his duffle bag of tools. Over the past few months, Smith had collected a frightening assortment of instruments.
Collected? Carlton huffed. More like stolen from the local hardware store.
But what, Carlton wondered, was he planning to do with them? The bag was one thing they hadn’t discussed. They’d planned their entrance, up to the last second, and plotted Tiffany’s capture by role-playing with each other. To access to her home, they’d use the key that was hidden beneath the potted lemon tree, and together, they’d hide in her room and catch her unawares. Smith would stand behind her bedroom door. It just made sense. He was bigger than Carlton. He would seize her from behind, hold her down, and tie her arms and legs to the bed.
It was Carlton’s job to hold the pistol.
And that, of course, had been the clincher. It was why—after all the hemming and hawing—he’d finally agreed to the plan. Had Smith not lifted his father’s old service weapon, Carlton wouldn’t be doing this at all. Even with the weapon, much could go wrong. His bowels went liquid when he considered the myriad ways they could fail.
In addition to the pistol and the tools in the bag, they’d packed a length of rope, and a scarf with which to gag her, though Smith had said he wasn’t worried about the noise. Tiffany liked to listen to loud music. Several times, while hidden in the tree, they’d watched her mother come to her room to turn the volume down, but Mondays, when Tiffany was alone, she turned it up.
And there were a hundred smaller, less significant details they’d written in their notes in the fort. Talking through different scenarios had been a lengthy process. It had taken several months to get it right. They’d argued at times, and agreed at others, but had never once discussed what they’d do once they trapped her. Maybe that was why Carlton’s stomach was in knots. Though he wouldn’t admit it to Smith, he had mixed feelings about that part. Part of him—the biggest part—was aroused by the mental images, by the many terrible and wonderful possibilities. He was excited, and frightened, and more than a bit nervous, but he wasn’t the least bit sorry. Tiffany was a snot. She deserved what was coming. He could see that just by looking at her. Tomorrow, Carlton would teach her a lesson. She was a snot and a prude, definitely stuck up. Most—if not all—attractive women seemed to share those traits.
In the bed closest his, Oliver Gooding rustled his sheets. The movement made Carlton flinch. He’d almost forgotten what had happened just now, back in the girls’ ward, in the dark, with Smith. Hadn’t he just heard Smith’s voice? And it wasn’t the first time something like that had happened. Smith would later deny it, of course, but Carlton was sure was there. Why wouldn’t he just admit it? He’d been sneaking around the orphanage again, like he was curious about Carlton’s life. He must have found an entrance in the basement, or a crawlspace he was using to move through the walls. Carlton couldn’t imagine how he was pulling it off, but lately, he was always there, like he’d burrowed a hole in Carlton’s head and built a complex system of tunnels through his brain.
For Carlton, lately, Smith was everywhere. And if they weren’t together, Carlton could hear him in his head, a cackling laugh, or an exasperated sigh, the one that meant Carlton was a wuss. Like a metastasizing cancer, Smith had slowly taken over Carlton’s life. Without knowing it, Carlton had handed him the keys to the so-called car, and Smith, of course, had eagerly accepted them. He was in control now. He was in the driver’s seat. Whatever Smith wanted, Carlton was at his mercy to do.
But the most interesting thing was this: the things Smith wanted were the things Carlton fantasized about. That was the strangest part of all. It was like his friend was a gift from heaven—or hell, if you wanted to be honest about it. At times he was frightening, but always intense. Unpredictable didn’t begin to describe his personality. But he was also exciting and daring, always pushing Carlton past his comfort zone. He liked to test boundaries, live on the edge. Their relationship was a powder keg, but also an elixir. Did Carlton like him, or did he in fact hate him? Did he want to kill him, or become him? Carlton was jealous of Smith’s tenacity, of his ability to point something out and always get it.
Tomorrow would be a landmark for the two of them, a test of their loyalty, a tipping point in trust and commitment. But it was also something more; something Carlton was having trouble putting his finger on. There was a certain level of expectation, a hovering cloud of hope and anticipation. Smith had confessed a very personal dream. He’d been brave. He’d trusted—without fear of judgment, and tomorrow, it would be Carton’s turn to reciprocate. It was the quid pro quo o
f all time. This final act was a test of his allegiance. And it was a test he didn’t intend to fail.
As Carlton stared into the cold dark room, a sudden chill raced up his spine. Would he fail in this task, or rise to the occasion? Would he have the resolve, or would he allow the moment pass him by? The last thing he wanted was to disappoint Smith. As much as he sometimes hated his friend, Smith was all he had left. He couldn’t lose the only person in the world who accepted him. Besides, wasn’t this something he’d always wanted? The act itself? Hadn’t it always been a dream?
Staring into the darkness, he allowed the rhythm of the children’s snoring to lull him into a light and restless sleep. Tomorrow, his manhood would be tested. It was the beginning of something, and the end of something else. Tomorrow would irrevocably change him.
Chapter 14
“She stood us up,” Gil growled.
“No. She didn’t.” Jacob held up a hand. “She’s here. Just give her a minute. She knew what time our flight was landing. Remember,” he added, turning to face us. “This can’t be easy for her.”
“This can’t be easy for her? Are you kidding? For her, by now, this is practically routine. When she tells this story, she’s punching a time clock.”
I set my hands to my hips. I couldn’t disagree. On this, I sided with Gil. It wasn’t that I didn’t empathize with Meghan; I just wasn’t convinced this was worth our time. It had been thirty years since Meghan’s ordeal, and memories, over time—even the worst kinds of memories—tend to fade and blur. Facts fuse with fiction. How much of Meghan’s story could we trust? Could we expect any new information? Listening to the original tapes might be better, I thought, or cracking open the old case files.
