Shattered

by Donna Ball

  Laura let her fingers rest on her collarbone, just below the mark of the garrote. “I'm glad to hear that.”

  Long looked at Guy. “I think it would be better, Mr. Dennison, if you left the investigation of this case to me from now on.”

  Guy looked as though he was about answer sharply, then tightened his lips and said only, “Just catch the son of a bitch, will you?”

  “We're doing our best, Mr. Dennison.” He nodded at Laura. “Try not to worry, Ms. Capstone. We'll call you if we need any more information. In the meantime, just—try not to worry.”

  Laura stood to walk him to the door. “Thanks for your help, Deputy. And like the man said— just catch the s.o.b., will you?”

  Carol returned with the tea just as the door was closing behind the deputy. She began setting out cups and saucers with a grim efficacy that was belied by the fact that her hands were shaking so badly that the china was in danger of becoming chipped. Laura came over to her.

  “Carol, leave it,” she said, laying a hand upon her arm. “It's been a rough day for both of us.”

  Carol stopped fussing with the cups and straightened up, but she didn't turn around. “You could have been killed,” she said in an odd, tight voice. “Just one more on his list.”

  Guy said, “Carol, don't.”

  Carol turned to him with a forced tight smile. “Of course. There's a serial killer on the loose with a grudge against you. He's probably taken our daughter and he just tried to strangle my best friend, but that's no reason to upset everyone is it?”

  The silence was tense and painful. Carol pressed her fingers against her temples and drew in a long slow breath. “I'm sorry,” she whispered. “Laura, I'm sorry. This wouldn't have happened to you if it weren't for me—for us—and I'm sorry.”

  Laura came over to her, and the two women embraced. It was a singular moment that left Guy feeling awkward and excluded, yet seemed to restore something vital between the two women.

  Laura stepped away and took both of Carol's shoulders, looking into her eyes. “I thought it was Kelly,” she said. “When I heard the voice—I believed it was Kelly. And maybe Guy's right, what she said about the tower...”

  Carol looked quickly at Guy. He said, “The tower, that's what she said just before the connection was broken. Remember what I used to call her?”

  He saw the hope dawn in her eyes, just as it had in his. “A signal,” she said, half whispering. “It could have been a signal, to let us know it was really her...”

  She looked back at Laura, and Laura smiled her encouragement. The two women held the moment, each offering comfort to the other. Then Carol said gently, “You're okay?”

  “Scared shitless,” said Laura flatly. “But that's a good thing. I won't be so stupid next time.”

  Carol said, “I'll stay with you tonight. You shouldn't be alone. I know how it feels—”

  But before she had finished the first sentence, Laura was shaking her head. Her hands tightened on Carol's shoulders and she pushed her gently away. “No, you're not staying. I don't want you to stay. I want to have a good cry, a cup of that tea, a long hot bath, and one of those sleeping pills they gave me at the emergency room. Don't expect me to be early in the morning.”

  Carol said reluctantly, “I don't want to leave you.”

  “I want you to leave me. Besides, I was thinking this might be a good time to call Winston. Damsel in distress, and all that, you know.”

  Carol looked unhappy. “If you're sure...”

  Laura looked at Guy. “Will you take her home?”

  Guy came over to her. “Look,” he said, “I don't think you're in any danger, but use some sense will you? Lock up when we're gone. And if you really do have a boyfriend you can call, call him.”

  Laura arched an eyebrow. “I always have a boyfriend.”

  Guy surprised her for the second time that night by leaning forward and kissing her on the cheek. “Thanks for acting stupid,” he said. “But next time—don't.”

  Laura's smile was stiff. “You can bet on that.”

  Guy slipped an arm around Carol's shoulders. “Let's go home, sweetie.”

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Guy walked her inside, turning on lights as he went. “I see the locksmith got here,” he said, examining the locks on the windows.

  She nodded. “They're not very busy this time of year. Actually, they're not very busy on the beach any time of year. Odd, isn't it, all these expensive homes with locks a child could break into?”

  “Well, people don't move to the beach to keep themselves locked up like they would in Manhattan. The vacation mentality, I guess.”

  He sounded tired, as tired as she felt. But they kept talking because it was better than being alone with their thoughts.

  “I got an extra key for you,” she said. “It's on the kitchen counter by the door.”

  “Thanks.”

  They looked at each other for a moment. Then Guy said, “It could have been you tonight.”

  Carol shifted her gaze, unconsciously rubbing her throat. “The thought occurred to me.”

  “I keep telling myself Laura's always been the flighty one, that you never would have done anything so stupid, but you would have, wouldn't you?”

  Carol smiled faintly. “I would have been the first in line.”

  Guy nodded. “I guess I would have done the same thing if I had gotten the call. If there was the slightest chance it was Kelly.”

  “Laura thought it was Kelly's voice,” Carol said, and she didn't have to re-emphasize what that meant. Vindication for her own belief, renewed hope ... possibilities, however faint and unlikely, but possibilities nonetheless.

  Guy nodded his understanding, and again a small, tired smile touched Carol's lips. “Funny what a difference a near-tragedy can make,” she said. “On the way back here I was ready to give up, ready to believe we'd never see Kelly again. Now, just because someone else has heard the voice besides me—even though it's the same voice you and the police heard on the tape, even though there's no more evidence now than there was then that it belongs to Kelly—now I'm convinced that, even if she did fall into the hands of the same killer as those others, she somehow escaped and now she's trying to reach us... It just gets so hard being the only one who believes, sometimes.”

  Guy slipped his hand around her neck, caressing gently. “It takes courage,” he said,“more courage than I had when you needed me. I'm sorry.”

  “I think you've said those words tonight more times than you have since I've known you.”

  He dropped his gaze. “Yeah. Something else I should have learned earlier.”

  He started to remove his hand, but she entwined her fingers through his. “We both let each other down, Guy,” she said. “Let's not do that anymore, okay?”

  After a moment, he smiled. “You got a deal.”

  He leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek. Then, hesitating only a moment, tenderly on the lips. When he looked into her eyes, there was no resistance or objection there, just quiet expectation. He moved to her again and they kissed as they used to kiss, with open mouths and mating tongues and pressing hands.

  He whispered, “I don't like to leave you alone, sweetie.”

  And she said, softly, “Then don't.”

  He held her, his face pressed into her hair. “We can't turn back time, Carol.”

  He felt her heart beat against his ribs. “Maybe ... for tonight, we could make it stand still.”

  Hands entwined, they walked upstairs.

  Later, wrapped in the embrace of arms and legs and the glow of lovemaking that was as familiar as coming home and just as desperately, heartbreakingly welcome, Guy whispered, “I still love you, you know. I think I always will.”

  Carol rested her palm against his cheek, tracing familiar contours and textures with the tips of her fingers. “That was always the problem with our divorce. We never fell out of love with each other.”

  He turned his face to her hair. “Ah,
sweetie,” he sighed. “What are we going to do?”

  She felt his breathing, the heat of his body and the beat of his heart as though they were her own, and there was no surprise to it. There was a part of her that had only been waiting for this moment, that had always known it wouldn't be far away. Understanding that filled up a part of the emptiness that had been aching within her for too long.

  “Better,” she answered, turning her face to his. “This time ... we're going to do better.”

  ~

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Walt Marshall was working on his boat when he saw the stranger pull up. Walt had six boats, all in various states of repair—except for the new Sea Ray, of course, which he hadn't yet had a chance to take out of the harbor. This particular one was a 1965 mahogany Cris-Craft, with brass trim and all the extras, which he was painstakingly restoring to mint condition. He was in the process of stripping down a previous owner's ill-conceived paint job when the stranger got out of the pickup truck and, closing the door softly, looked around in a way Walt didn't like.

  During the busy season Walt didn't have time to keep up with the comings and goings of everyone who cruised by the marina. People tied up, paid their fee, bought their fuel and supplies, sometimes stayed, sometimes didn't, and Walt didn't much care. But right now there were less than a dozen people with business here this time of night, and Walt knew every one of them.

  He figured it was some kid looking for mischief. It was after midnight and he wouldn't expect anybody to be around. The way the boathouse was situated, at the end of the pier with a straight-shot view of anybody coming or going, was ideal from Walt's point of view; not so ideal from the stranger's. He could have no idea he was being observed. And from the furtive way he was moving, that appeared to be exactly what he wanted.

  Walt put down his stripping rag and wiped his hands on a towel, starting to go out and challenge the young imp. But then he stopped. The stranger moved away from the truck then, and started down the pier toward the docked boats. As he moved, he stepped into the outer circle of one of the mercury-vapor lamps that lined the pier, and then quickly ducked back into the shadows again—but not quickly enough, and Walt caught a glimpse of something he really didn't like.

  He turned back toward the shop, where he kept his gun.

  ***

  Derrick had seen Patsy at the hospital when he brought Laura Capstone in, and he knew she would want to know the whole story. She got in about eleven-thirty, which was, as it happened, only a few minutes after he did. He could tell by the dark circles under her eyes and the stiffness of her movements that she was having a hard day, and he wanted her to go directly to bed. She wouldn't hear of it, of course. He made her sit down and put her feet up while he made popcorn and hot chocolate, and she grilled him about the latest developments in the case.

  “Good heavens.” Her eyes were wide when he finished. “Derrick, you're dealing with a serial killer. An honest-to-God, headline-making serial killer.”

  “We hope he doesn't make headlines,” Derrick said grimly, “at least not yet. But between Guy Dennison and the Anderson girl's parents, I don't know how much longer we're going to be able to keep a lid on it.”

  He put the bowl of popcorn in her lap and the two mugs of chocolate on the coffee table on which she rested her feet. He sat down on the sofa beside her and swung her white-stockinged feet into his lap, massaging them gently.

  Patsy said soberly, “If there's a serial killer on the loose in a community as small as St. T., I don't think you want to keep it quiet, Derrick. All these young girls here on spring break...” He felt her suppress a shudder. “It's like penning up a hungry coyote with a herd of sheep.”

  “Yeah.” His own voice was heavy. Absently, he reached for the popcorn, thinking out loud. “But we're real close, now, Patsy. And what he did tonight, trying to lure Mrs. Dennison out to Lighthouse Point to kill her, that proves that he's getting desperate. He made a big mistake today, letting Ms. Capstone get away.”

  Patsy said in alarm, “You don't think he'll come after her, do you?”

  Derrick shook his head slowly. “No. She couldn't see his face, he must have known that. All she could tell us was that he had dark hair.”

  And as soon as he said it, he knew something about that was wrong. Patsy picked up on it immediately. “That mug shot of Saddler,” she said alertly. “He had blond hair.”

  Derrick studied the popcorn in his hand, frowning. “Easy to change the color of your hair. And it was dark in that shack. How well could she see?”

  Then she said, “Isn't it kind of unusual for a serial killer to change his M.O.? I mean, if any of what you've put together so far is true, he has a definite pattern—he likes young girls who wear that strange necklace on the leather thong. Laura Capstone—or Carol Dennison for that matter—doesn't fit that profile at all.”

  “Why,” wondered Derrick out loud, uneasily, “would a man who's established a pattern of kidnapping, raping, and killing young girls suddenly take to stalking a middle-aged woman—and man?”

  “Well,” offered Patsy, though he could tell she was unconvinced, “there's the fact that Guy Dennison put him in jail.”

  “Shit,” Derrick exclaimed suddenly, and sat up straight. “I knew there was something that bothered me about that! That girl who disappeared from here last year, the Conroy girl—we've been assuming that she was part of the pattern. But Saddler was in jail last year. If she does fit the pattern ... damn it, that file won't be here until late tomorrow, earliest. We could have been on the wrong track all along!”

  Patsy looked at him with sudden comprehension. “Derrick, you don't think—”

  The phone rang. Derrick picked it up on the second ring, still frowning.

  It was the night dispatcher. “We got a call from the marina,” he said, “about a prowler who matches the description of that guy Saddler. I've dispatched three units and the sheriff said for you to meet them there.”

  “Son of a bitch,” Derrick said, on his feet, “I'm on my way.”

  He couldn't believe it was all over before he got there. The marina was lit up like a landing strip, blue lights flashing, uniforms everywhere. One of the night deputies was leading away a man in handcuffs, and none too gently either. Long got a good look at his face as he passed: It was Saddler.

  And he had blond hair.

  Sheriff Case was standing beside a blue pickup truck with two flat tires, talking to a big man with a half-chewed cigar in his mouth. When he saw Long, Case beckoned him over.

  “I'll tell you the goddamn truth, Deputy,” said the sheriff, “if the public don't stop doing our damn jobs for us, we might just have to go into another line of work. This is Mr. Walt Marshall, proprietor of this fine establishment. I believe you might've been out this way not too long ago, left a flier with a picture of Mr. Saddler on it.”

  It had been one of the first stops Long had made when he got the mug shots in. Guy Dennison lived here; he wanted to make sure everyone who worked at the marina had a good description of the man who was stalking him. He remembered Marshall well, a big taciturn man who had glared at him over the stump of that cigar and made Long glad he wasn't Saddler, if it meant coming up on the wrong side of this man.

  It looked as though his observations on that occasion had been prophetic.

  “Recognized him right away,” Marshall said matter-of-factly. “Saw him heading toward Guy's boat and knew it couldn't be anybody else. I called you folks, but hell, you're five minutes away at top speed. He would've been long gone by then. So when he came back out and got in his truck, I shot out his tires.”

  He paused, chewing on the cigar. “Could've shot him, too, I guess, but I figured you'd want to talk to him first.”

  Long looked at him for a moment, but was unable to determine whether or not the man was serious. He suspected he might not really want to know.

  “Our men pulled up about that time,” supplied Case, “so no harm done. It was a clean arrest.�
�

  “Well,” said Long, “I guess that's good news then. And”—he looked at Marshall—”I guess you have a permit for that gun.”

  Marshall just glared at him. Case chuckled, then turned to accept a slip of paper from a young officer. He glanced at it, then tucked it in his pocket. “Truck is stolen,” he said. “So are the plates. Big surprise.”

  Long looked around. “Where's Dennison?”

  Marshall shrugged. “His car's not here. I figured he's not either.”

  Long glanced at Case. “I'll check out the boat.”

  Case nodded, then turned back to Marshall. “It'll be Deputy Long who takes your statement, if you'll come down to the office some time in the morning. Do you remember about how long it was from the time you first saw Saddler to the time you called us?”

  “Three, four minutes. I thought he was just some kid looking for kicks at first. They do that sometimes, come out here looking for a place to screw or just hang out. Hell, I've caught one or two trying to take one of these babies out for a joy ride. I didn't think it was no more than that ‘til I saw where he was heading, and got a look at him.”

  “Good spotting.”

  Marshall shrugged. “I figured he'd show up here sooner or later. Say, did you find out what he was carrying?”

  Case started to shake his head, then looked at Marshall, frowning. “What do you mean? He was carrying something?”

  “Yeah, a knapsack or something.” Marshall was frowning, too. “He had it under his arm when he went down the ramp to the boat. But he didn't have it when he came back.”

  The two men looked at each other as understanding dawned, slowly and horribly. Case turned.

  Everything from that moment was in slow motion. Blue lights spinning sickly, slowly, obliquely out of focus. Saddler's face, looking up from behind the window of the squad car. Derrick Long, stepping onto the deck of Guy Dennison's boat, knocking on the cabin door in a perfunctory manner, reaching for the latch…