With obvious reluctance, Spike left whatever it was he’d found on the lawn and followed his mistress to the front steps. Mara unlocked the front door, but did not go immediately inside. She crossed her arms and stared up at the night sky for a long moment, thinking of her own child, wondering once again where in this vast world she was at that exact moment, and who, if anyone, was standing for her.
On the television screen, the earnest five o’clock news anchor droned on and on, his delivery as flat as his crew-cut hair. Mara turned the volume down to answer the ringing phone.
“What’s for dinner?” Mara’s sister, Anne Marie McCall, dispensed with a greeting and cut to the chase.
“I was just asking myself that very thing.” Mara grinned, delighted to hear Annie’s voice.
“How ’bout a little Chinese?”
“You buying?”
“And delivering.”
“You’re home?”
“I’m on my way.”
“What time will you be here?”
“Thirty minutes, give or take. I’m just leaving the airport. If you call in a take-out order at that little place on Dover Drive, I’ll swing past and pick it up.”
“Perfect. What do you want?”
“Surprise me.”
“Done. I’ll see you soon.”
Pleased with the unexpected prospect of Annie’s company, Mara found herself whistling while she hunted up the menu. She called in the order, then set about clearing the kitchen table of all the mail that had accumulated over the past several weeks while Mara had worked on the Feehan case. That case having been heard just that morning, Mara could pack up the materials she’d reviewed and return them to the courthouse in the morning. She wondered where Kelly Feehan had gone that night to drown her sorrows, her parental rights having been severed by Judge McKettrick until such time as Kelly successfully completed a rehabilitation program and obtained legitimate employment, at which time she could file for visitation rights. The odds that Kelly would follow through were slim to none, but the option was there. It had been the best the judge could do for all involved.
While the decision was clearly in the best interests of the children, it still gave Mara pause to have played a part, however small, in another mother being separated from her babies, even though she knew full well that Kelly had brought her troubles upon herself. She’d wanted to shake the young mother, shake her good and hard, for having put herself and her children in such a situation.
You had a choice, Mara had wanted to shout at the sobbing woman as her children left the court room with their grandparents. We don’t all get a choice. . . .
Mara scooped dry dog food into Spike’s new Scooby Doo dish, then gave the dog fresh water. She turned up the volume on the television, hoping to catch the weather forecast for the morning. She’d been looking forward to her early morning twice-weekly run with several friends and was hoping that the earlier prediction of rain had been revised.
“. . . and in other news, we have a somewhat bizarre story of two women who have the same name, who lived in the same town, and who met with the same fate exactly one week apart.” The anchorman spoke directly into the camera. “Jason Wrigley is standing by at the Avon County courthouse with the story. . . .”
Headlights flashing through the living room window announced Annie’s arrival. Mara had just begun to open the front door when a face appeared on the screen.
“This is Mary Douglas,” the reporter was saying as he displayed a picture of a white-haired woman in her early sixties.
Mara watched in fascination as he held up a second photograph of another woman and said, “And this is Mary Douglas. What do these two woman have in common besides their names?”
The reporter paused for effect, then faced the camera squarely, both photographs held in one hand, the microphone in the other.
“Both of these women lived in Lyndon. Both women died in their homes in that small community, in exactly the same manner, exactly one week apart, the body of the second victim having been found earlier this afternoon. Local police have admitted that they are clearly baffled as to motive.”
Video played of a prerecorded press conference.
Spike ran to the door and barked when he heard Annie’s heels on the walk, but Mara’s attention remained fixed on the television.
“. . . without divulging the manner in which the women were killed, we’re investigating the possibility that the first killing was an error. That the second victim may have been the intended target.”
The police spokesman paused to listen to a question from the floor, then repeated the question for those who had not heard.
“Do we feel it was a contracted killing, was the question. I can only say at this point that anything is possible. It has been suggested that perhaps the killer had only known the name of his victim—no description, no address—and that after killing the first victim and perhaps seeing some news coverage or possibly reading the obituary in the newspaper, he realized that he hadn’t killed the right woman. According to friends and family of both victims, neither Mary Douglas had an enemy in the world. Both women were well liked, both lived somewhat quiet lives. So with no apparent motive, we can’t rule out any scenario yet.”
“Mara . . . ?” Annie called from the doorway.
The face on the television was taut with concentration as he spoke of the victims.
“Yes, then we think he sought out the second Mary Douglas and killed her, though we do not know why either of these women would have been targeted, for that matter. . . .”
“Mara . . . ?”
“This is bizarre,” Mara shook her head.
“What is?” Annie set the bag she carried on the coffee table.
“This news report . . .” She was still shaking her head slowly, side to side. “Two women named Mary Douglas were murdered one week apart. Killed in the same manner, though the police aren’t saying how they were killed.”
“Wow. Doesn’t that give you the creeps?” Annie frowned. “That the name is so close to yours? Mary Douglas. Mara Douglas . . .”
“A little, yes,” Mara admitted, “But what makes it really freaky is that there’s a woman who works in the D.A.’s office at the courthouse—she’s administrative staff—named Mary Douglas.”
“Was she . . . ?” Annie pointed to the television.
“One of the victims? No, thank God. I was holding my breath there for a minute, though. She’s such a nice person—a real ray-of-sunshine type. Friendly and a good sport. Not a day goes by when each of us doesn’t get at least one piece of mail meant for the other.”
“You don’t work in the D.A.’s office.”
“Right, but very often the mail room will mistake Mary for Mara, or vice versa, and we get each other’s mail. And if something is addressed to M. Douglas, it’s anyone’s guess whose mailbox it ends up in.” Mara watched the rest of the segment, then turned off the television. “I feel sorry for the families of the two victims, but I can’t help but be relieved that the Mary Douglas I know wasn’t one of them.”
“Odd thing, though,” Annie murmured as she pulled off her short-sleeved cardigan and tossed it onto a nearby chair. “Two victims with the same name. That can’t be a coincidence. . . .”
“Intrigued, are we?”
“Hell, yes.”
“Itching to know more?”
“What do you think?” Annie carried the fragrant bags of egg foo young and chicken lo mein into the kitchen.
“Maybe you’ll get a call.”
“Well, it’s early yet. Only two victims. Have they given out any personal information about them?”
“The first victim was a retired school librarian. Sixty-one years old, lived alone. No relatives. By all accounts, a lovely, pleasant woman without an enemy in the world.”
“And the second victim?”
“Attractive woman in her midfifties, two grown kids. Yoga instructor at the local YMCA. Husband died two years ago.”
“Boyfriend?” Annie leaned against the door frame, her expression pensive.
“They didn’t say. According to the news report, she was well liked. Active in the community, spent a lot of time doing charity work. They haven’t been able to come up with a motive for either of the killings.”
“There’s always a motive. Sometimes it’s just harder to find. They need to do a profile on the victims.”
“I was waiting for that.” Mara watched her sister’s face, knew just what she was thinking.
As a criminal profiler for the FBI, Annie’s experience had taught her that the more information you had about a victim, the more likely you were to find the perpetrator of the crime.
“Can’t help it. It’s my nature.” Annie waved Mara toward the kitchen. “Come on, dinner’s going to get cold. Do I have to be hostess in your house?”
Mara got plates from the cupboard while Annie removed the little white boxes from the bag and arranged them in a straight row along the counter.
Mara nodded approvingly and handed her sister a plate. “Buffet is good.”
They chatted through dinner, but Mara could tell her sister’s attention was wandering.
“Hey, I’m talking to you.” Mara waved a hand in front of Annie’s face.
“Sorry.”
“You’re thinking about those women. The Marys.”
“Yeah. Sorry. Can’t help it.”
“You’re wondering if the FBI will be called in.”
Annie nodded.
“And if so, if you’ll be assigned to the case.”
“Sure.”
“You know where the phone is.” Mara pointed to the wall.
“Maybe I should just . . .”
“Of course.”
“And actually, I have my own phone.” Annie reached in her bag for her cell phone, then paced into the small kitchen while the number rang.
Somewhere, deep in FBI headquarters, the call was answered.
“This is Dr. McCall. Anne Marie McCall. I’d like to speak with John Mancini. Is he available?”
Damn, but didn’t that just beat all?
The man spread the newspaper across the desk so that he could read the article that continued below the fold.
He shook his head, bewildered.
Unbelievable. He’d screwed up not once, but twice!
He ran long, thin fingers across the top of his closely cropped head, laughing softly in spite of himself.
Good thing I don’t work in law enforcement. Sloppy investigative work like this would’ve gotten me canned. And better still that I wasn’t getting paid for the job.
Not that he’d ever done work for hire, of course, but even so . . .
What, he wondered, was I thinking?
He picked at his teeth with a wooden toothpick and considered his next move. He really needed to make this right.
He folded the paper and set it to one side of the desk. He’d have to think about this a little more. And he would. He’d think about it all day. But right now he had to get dressed and get to work.
He’d been lucky to find a job on his second day here, even if it was only washing dishes in a small diner on the highway. It was working out just fine. He got his meals for free on the shifts he worked and he made enough to pay for a rented room in a big old twin house in a run down but relatively safe neighborhood in a small town close enough to his targets that he could come and go as he pleased.
Of course, he’d had only three targets in mind when he arrived.
The fact that he’d missed the mark—not once, but twice, he reminded himself yet again—would prolong his stay a little longer than he’d intended. His rightful target was still out there somewhere, and he had to find her—do it right, this time—before he could move on.
And he’d have to be a little more cautious this time around, he knew. Surely the other M. Douglases—there had been several more listed in the local telephone book—might understandably be a bit edgy right about now. It was his own fault, of course. He’d gotten uncharacteristically lazy, first in assuming that the only Mary Douglas listed by full name, the kindly woman who lived alone on Fourth Avenue in Lyndon, was the right Mary Douglas. Then, to his great chagrin, hadn’t he gone and repeated the same damned mistake? He’d gone to the first M. Douglas listed, and in spite of having confirmed that she was in fact a Mary, she was, alas, still not the right woman.
Not that he hadn’t enjoyed himself with either of them—the second Mary had been especially feisty—but still, it wasn’t like him to be so careless.
He was just going to have to do better, that was all. Take the remaining M. Douglases in order and see what’s what. Check them out thoroughly, until he was certain that he had the right one. The next victim would have to be the right victim, else he’d look like an even greater fool than he already did.
He shuddered to think what a panic a third mistake could set off among the other M. Douglases, and though that in itself could be amusing in its own way, well, he didn’t really need the publicity, what with the inevitable horde of reporters who would flock to the area. After all, this wasn’t supposed to be about him. This was all about someone else’s fantasy.
Oh, he’d fully understood that it had all been a lark as far as the others—he thought of them as his buddies now—were concerned. It was supposed to have been just a game, just a means of whiling away a few hours on a stormy winter day, locked in a forgotten room with two other strangers. But then the idea had just caught hold of him and clung on for dear life, and damn, it had caught his imagination. What if he went through with it? What if he played it out? What would be the reaction of his buddies? Would they, each in their turn, pick up the challenge and continue the game? Would they not in turn feel obligated to reciprocate? To continue on with the game, whether they wanted to or not? Wasn’t it a matter of principle? Sort of a new twist on the old, eye for an eye . . .
His fingers stretched and flexed, as if remembering his Marys.
He smiled to himself, trying to imagine what the reaction of his buddies would be when they realized what he’d done. Shock? Horror? Pleasure? Gratitude? Amusement?
It sure would be interesting to see how it all played out in the end.
As for him, well, Curtis Alan Channing wasn’t about to strike out a third time.
He snapped off the light on the desk and tucked the little notebook into the pocket of his dark jacket and headed off to work. He wanted to be early today, to give himself a little time to go through the phone book and jot down a few addresses and numbers before clocking in for his shift. He needed to set up a little surveillance schedule to focus on the right target. This time, there would be no uh-oh when he turned on the TV or opened the newspaper. There simply would be the sheer satisfaction of having completed his task and completed it well, before moving on to the next name on the list. Which he would most certainly do in short order.
After all, it was his honor that was at stake.
This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming paperback edition of Dead Wrong by Mariah Stewart. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.
A Ballantine Book
Published by The Random House Publishing Group
Copyright © 2003 by Marti Robb
Excerpt from Dead Wrong by Mariah Stewart copyright © 2003 by Marti Robb
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.
Ballantine Books and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
Until Dark is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
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eISBN: 978-0-345-46996-0
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Mariah Stewart, Until Dark
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