by Alexa Grace
“Hi, Mrs. Lucas. I hope you remember me. I’m Bryan Pittman. I live just down the road—”
Tisha interrupted. “Yes, Dr. Pittman. I remember your being here the night our mailbox was set on fire.”
“Yes, I was.” He placed his hand on the back of Mollie’s waist. “This is Mollie Adams. She owns the cafe in town.”
Tisha nodded at Mollie, then sent a questioning glance to Bryan. Mollie spoke up. “I hope you don’t mind us stopping by. It’s just that I haven’t seen you visit the cafe in a while and I thought you might like some chocolate-chocolate-chip muffins.” Mollie held out the basket to her, pulling back the white napkin to reveal the baked goods.
Tisha paused and for a moment Bryan didn’t think she was going to ask them in. But she surprised him by opening the door wide and gesturing them to come inside. Leading them to the kitchen, she asked them to sit down at the small breakfast table as she brewed a fresh pot of coffee. Bryan’s eyes narrowed on Tisha noticing the dark smudges of exhaustion under her eyes and her quick, nervous movements as she gathered three mugs from the cabinet.
“I’m glad you stopped by. Bradley is away at a conference and Krystle, my housekeeper, is in Chicago, so it’s a bit lonely in the house.”
Bryan couldn’t be certain, but Tisha appeared more upset than lonely, making him wonder if the vandal had contacted her again. In addition, he could smell alcohol on her breath. “I haven’t talked to you since the mailbox incident. I want to assure you that Sgt. Chase is doing all he can to find your vandal.”
Placing a mug of hot coffee before each of them, Tisha sat down, her hands gripping her mug. “He can’t move fast enough for me. Bradley may be just blowing the whole thing off, but I think whoever is doing this is serious about wanting retribution. I don’t think he’s finished with us.” She turned to Mollie. “The last time I was in your restaurant, I was accosted by a large man. Do you remember that day? Did you see him?”
“Yes, I remember,” Mollie began. “I was heading toward your table with a broom when I saw him.”
“Is he a regular? Is he someone that you know? Would you be able to identify him if you saw him again?”
Mollie thought for a second. “He’s not a regular. Cam asked me about that. I’d never seen him before that day. Would I be able to recognize him? I’m not sure. I saw him from the side as he whispered something to you. I remember his looking hostile, maybe even angry. I wondered at the time if you knew him.”
“No, I’d never seen him before, either. Not sure I’d be able recognize him if I saw him again. I was too upset. I noticed him sitting at the bar, but couldn’t tell you what he looked like. But one thing I’m sure of is that he bumped into me on purpose. He meant for me to drop the coffee cup, make the mess, so he could pretend to help me clean it up.”
“Please forgive me for asking, but he did say something to you. What did he say?”
Tisha flushed as the memory hit her front and center. “He called me a monster-making bitch. He said he couldn’t believe I’d show my face in public.”
Mollie reached across the table to squeeze Tisha’s hand. “I am so sorry that happened. He had no right to say that.”
“He just said out loud what everyone else is thinking. What my sons did to those poor girls was monstrous. I need to buck up and get used to this kind of reaction.”
Shaking his head, Bryan spoke up. “No, you shouldn’t. Not for a minute do you deserve that hurtful attitude. I think it’s that your sons aren’t here anymore for them to hate, so people are going to hate you and your husband. It’s wrong. It’s not fair.”
“Nor was it fair for the seven families who lost their daughters, sisters, mothers, or wives. There are times when I want to contact them and tell them how sorry I am. But there is no way I can repay them for what they’ve lost. And I am the last person they would want to see or hear from.”
Mollie leaned toward Tisha. “They are not the only ones grieving a loss. You lost both of your sons. I’m a mother, and I can’t imagine losing my daughter. I’m sorry for your loss, Tisha. If you ever need anyone to talk to, I volunteer.”
As they drove away from the house, Bryan turned to Mollie. “Something’s wrong back there. Tisha was wired before we arrived. I feel it in my gut that something is off. There’s something she isn’t telling us.”
Chapter Thirty-eight
Charity
Disconnecting the call, Cameron realized that was the first time Bryan had ever shared a gut feeling with him. Bryan was a physician, very left-brained and analytical, so hearing from him that he had no facts to back it up but thought something was off at the Lucas house, Cam paid attention. But there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it when he was still in Indianapolis conducting suspect interviews. He put in a call to Gail and told her to keep watch over the Lucas place until he returned, which meant checking the house as she drove assigned routes and went out on calls. It wasn’t much, but with staff and budget constraints, it was his only option he had.
He was parked outside a small, gray-shingled home with white trim, and a white picket fence surrounding the front yard. Charity Cassity promised she’d meet him at her house around five-thirty, but it was six before she pulled her white Honda Civic into the drive. Unlike the others, she was not a fan of Detective Wayne Griffin. In fact, she told Cameron if he was bringing Griffin with him for the interview, he could just stay at home. Charity Cassity was not a woman to keep her anger at the police and bitterness about her daughter’s murder a secret. In fact, she was quite vocal, which made Cameron curious about whether or not that anger extended to Bradley and Tisha Lucas.
Charity got out of her car and stood at the front door, impatiently gesturing for him to come inside, so Cameron picked up a file folder and headed toward the house.
Once she got him settled in the living room, she asked him if he wanted a Coors. After hearing his explanation of not drinking on duty, she shrugged her shoulders, and headed toward the kitchen, leaving Cameron a moment to look around. The room was small and tidy, with a brown sofa and chair. Next to the television was a bookcase filled with paperback novels and photographs that he assumed were of her daughter, Sara. In one photo, the girl smiled in her cheerleader outfit, in another she posed next to her mother outside her school.
Charity returned and stood beside him. “Sara was beautiful inside and out. That is, before drugs grabbed her by the throat and wouldn’t let go. Her behavior got worse and worse, and I was at my wit’s end. When I came home one night and found her horizontal on my sofa with her boyfriend on top—I lost it. I kicked them both out, and that was the last time I saw my eighteen-year-old daughter alive. The next time was when she was lying on a table at the morgue and I had to identify her.”
Charity handed a cold bottle of water to Cameron, and then sat down and took a long drink of her beer. She nodded at the file folder next to Cameron on the sofa. “What’s in that? Information about my daughter or the little pricks who killed her for fun?”
“What do you know about Devan and Evan Lucas?” Cameron asked, noting how her facial expression darkened at the mention of their names.
“I know they were rich and entitled teenagers who thought nothing of grinding out my daughter’s life as if she were a cigarette they were through with. I’m glad they’re dead. Who knows how many lives were saved the day those two met their maker.” Charity lifted her beer for another swig.
“What about their parents? What do you know about them?”
“I doubt they’ll be getting any good parenting awards. What the hell were they thinking, giving their sons everything but their time? I heard the other day, that the father provided the boys a work van, as well as the storage unit where they had their fun with their victims. Seriously? Why would two teenaged boys need a storage unit? Didn’t their parents want to know that? I keep asking myself how the boys were raised. I heard the father is retired military. Did he teach his boys to kill at an early age? Maybe started them off with
small animals and moved up from there?”
Cameron moved his shoulders in a shrug. “I don’t know about that. Just wanted your perspective.”
Her eyes drew together in an angry frown. “So you want my perspective? Well here it is. I wish those two over-privileged teen losers were still alive so I could have the pleasure of torturing and killing them like they killed my Sara. Don’t think for a minute I wouldn’t do it. My daughter was all I had. Now, thanks to them, she’s gone.”
Cameron leaned forward, placing his arms on his legs. “And their parents? What about them?”
“Are you asking if I think they bear responsibility for what happened to Sara? Yes, I do. Definitely. There had to have been signs that something was off with their sons. Were they too busy socializing to see them? Or did they see the signs and chose to ignore them?”
“Do you think they owe some sort of retribution? Payback for the atrocities their sons committed?”
“I hope the Lucas parents are living their own private hell. That’s justice for me. I pray that they think every day of their son’s victims and their families and what a hell-on-earth we’re living. They deserve to suffer just as much.”
“Mrs. Cassity, I need to ask you where you were on a couple of dates in April.”
“Why? Why are you here anyway? What did you say you were investigating in Shawnee County?”
“I’m looking into several acts of vandalism to the Lucas property, as well as threatening letters written to them.”
“And you think I have the time or inclination to do that? Not with my work schedule. I work fifty to sixty hours a week, and sometimes weekends. I volunteer to work overtime since I don’t have a life and need the money. I imagine you’ve got the name of my employer in that file folder of yours. Give them a call. Besides, I’m getting all the payback I want. I got a call from April and Dwayne Black’s attorney. They’re filing a lawsuit against the Lucas couple and are pretty sure they’ll win. That’s why I’m joining them. It may turn into a class-action lawsuit. I hope so. Because if anyone owes a debt to their sons’ victims, it’s them.”
Cameron got Charity’s whereabouts for the dates of the vandalism, as well as names and numbers of those who could back her up, even though he doubted she’d done anything to Bradley and Tisha Lucas. She was too busy hating herself and the rest of the world. Not exactly a nominee for “Parent of the Year” herself.
On the drive back to Morel, he thought he was no closer to finding the person harassing the Lucas couple than when he started the case. He had to catch a break, and soon. Like Bryan, he had a bad feeling about things. He had one more suspect from the support group, Tom Engle, and he felt like time was running out.
Chapter Thirty-nine
Second Night Alone
By nightfall, Tisha’s paranoia had surged to an all-time high. Pacing like a caged animal, she checked the locks on windows and doors every fifteen minutes. Could she have missed one? Did someone get in the house last night, or did she unpack the photographs and line them on the mantel herself? Why couldn’t she remember? Maybe she was going crazy. Maybe this was what happened to mothers of murderers.
Tisha made a trip down to the basement. Making her way down the steps, she discovered that Bradley had stacked a dozen or so boxes neatly in a corner. When she turned on a light, she discovered next to the box was a folding chair. That was odd. Bradley was neat to the point of fastidiousness. She was certain he was the last one in the basement. Why would he leave the chair unfolded near the boxes when the other three folding chairs were in a closet? Searching the rest of the basement, she found nothing, so she returned to the stack of boxes. Each box was stacked neatly on top of another, just as Bradley placed them. Examining them one more time, she chastised herself about agonizing over such a silly thing. That’s when she noticed something that made the hairs on the backs of her arms rise. Fighting the urge to turn and bolt, she crept closer and picked up each box and put it aside. Bradley had used clear packing tape to protect the items inside from dust. But as she examined them, she realized the packing tape securing each box was cut down the middle. Not if his life depended on it, would Bradley Lucas ever leave storage boxes like this.
Tisha bolted up the stairs, slammed the door behind her, and pulled a bottle of Merlot out of the kitchen cabinet. Cursing Bradley, she thought he’d deserve it if she got a good divorce attorney. Unfeeling sonofabitch. Leaving his wife alone for four days. Tossing back a glass of wine, she gathered her courage and then went up to her bedroom to fetch the gun Bradley said he put in the bedside table drawer. How hard could it be to point the Sig Sauer and pull the trigger? Taking the gun with her, she checked the locks again on each window and door.
After three glasses of wine, she slipped into her nightgown and into bed praying for a deep, restful sleep that lasted until morning. Carefully placing the gun back in the drawer, she lay down, pulling her soft comforter up to her neck.
Nightmares riddled her sleep, each more frightening than the last, but all with the same theme. The huge man in the flannel shirt from the cafe was in the house, chasing her from room-to-room, as she fought the compulsion to look back at him. A thread of hysteria weaved its way through her brain and she sought a place to hide. But everywhere she turned, he was there, standing in the shadows in a murderous rage.
Bolting from her hiding place, she rushed from the threat until she was back in her bedroom, warm under her comforter, safe—until she opened her eyes. There he stood at the end of her bed, the violence in his eyes making her body stiffen in shock. A primal scream tore from her throat as she shot from full sleep to wakefulness. Tisha flipped on her lamp. There was no one in her room. Pulling herself up, she sat against the headboard with the lights on, her eyes shut, and her knees drawn up to her chest—frozen in that position until the morning light.
Chapter Forty
Tom
Tom Engle lived with his father and two-year-old twins on a small farm outside Morel. He’d agreed to talk to Cameron after he finished his shift as a grain truck driver. As Cameron pulled into the long lane leading to the house, he passed an older man in a truck with two small children in the front seat.
Cameron got out of his vehicle and looked around. It was an older farm house, but cared for, with a small pasture in back where a brown spotted pony and two goats chewed on hay. The yard near the house resembled the Black’s, with toys littering the closely cut lawn. The smell of animals, manure and freshly mowed grass filled his nose as he knocked on the front door. Tom Engle answered, quickly opening the door for Cameron to go inside. He didn’t know what he expected Tom to look like, but he was greeted by a tall, lanky young man with a calloused handshake. His skin tanned from working outside, deep creases outlined his blue eyes.
“Nice place,” Cameron commented as Tom led him back to the kitchen, where they stood next to a red Formica table with vintage chrome chairs. It was a country kitchen with red gingham curtains at the windows, white lacquered cabinets, and butcher-block counters.
“Thanks. Dad bought it not long after Marie died. He wanted to get the twins out of the city and the crime that surrounded us where we lived.”
“Don’t blame him. Was that your dad leaving when I came in?”
“Yes, he took the twins for ice cream. He said they were well-behaved today and ice cream was their reward. I’m lucky he’s retired and can take care of them during the day. I sure couldn’t afford a sitter or day care right now.”
“Understand.”
Cameron was about to get started with the interview when Tom interrupted. “How about something cold to drink before we get started?”
“Water or a soda will work. Still on duty, so no alcohol for me.” Cameron pulled out a chair and sat down as Tom rummaged in the refrigerator.
“How about a Pepsi? Pepsi was Marie’s favorite soft drink. Guess Dad still hasn’t broken his habit of keeping the refrigerator filled with it. He might forget to buy eggs or milk, but he never forgets the Pe
psi.”
Tom placed the soft drink in front of Cameron and then popped the lid on his own. “You said on the phone that you wanted to ask me some questions. Did you want to ask me about Marie?”
“Yes, we can start with that.”
“Marie was a runaway when I met her, though I never told my dad. He would have returned her to her parents. They beat her raw and there was no way she’d go back. We fell in love so I took her off the streets and married her. It wasn’t long after that she had the twins, Marianne, named after her mother, and Oliver, which is my dad’s middle name. The birth of those babies were like Christmas gifts and birthday presents all rolled into one.”
“Sounds like you were happy.”
“We were. Then I lost my job and Marie started stripping at a joint in Indianapolis, a real dump. I hated that damn job. But what could I say, I couldn’t find work, and she brought home good money that we needed to care for the babies. Marie was a good wife and mother. She would have done anything for her family.” Tom looked down at the table and ran his finger around the rim of his soft drink can.
“Is that where she was working when the Lucas twins abducted her?”
Tom nodded, his eyebrows pulled together in an agonized expression. “Everything that happened that night was all my fault. She didn’t have a vehicle and I was supposed to pick her up when her shift ended. I couldn’t get the fucking truck to start. When I finally got there, I was over an hour late, and Marie was gone when I arrived. The bartender told me the last time he saw her she was waiting outside for me. That must have been where she was when they snatched her. Outside waiting for me.”
