The driver was keeping enough distance between them so that she couldn't see who was behind the wheel. Whoever it was must know that she was aware of the car. So why didn't the driver move closer? Make himself known?
Or would he, before she reached the safety of her home?
Marti stumbled over a lawn hose that was stretched across the sidewalk, dropped her chemistry book, and fumbled, trying to pick it up. Frantically she glanced back, but the car hadn't come nearer.
One more quiet street, one more curve. Mentally, she checked off the inhabitants of each of the houses she would pass. The Coopers—they had children in day-care who wouldn't be picked up until six. The Tuckers —aniolder couple. Mrs. Tucker had told Marti's mother they'd be traveling through Europe during September. The Martuis, the Cohens—both couples working in Houston. The Logans—would “Mrs. Logan be home? No. Mom had said that Mrs. Logan, on the advice of her doctor, was going to stay away from her house for a while, so Kir. Logan had taken her to visit her sister in San Antonio. If Marti shouted, no one would hear her. There was no one to help her. No one to see her. Just the row of empty houses with their blank windowpane eyes.
It hurt to breathe as she gulped short, shallow gasps of air. Marti walked quickly, running at times, constantly aware of the never-changing sound of the car that kept pace behind her like a hovering shadow. She twisted 6ftfen to look over her shoulder. Was it coming closer?
When she reached the Logans’ front lawn she broke into a sprint. Crying and whimpering with fear, she scrambled up the front steps of her house, grabbed for her front-door key, and dropped it.
The sound of the car's engine grew louder. She heard the car slowly getting nearer, creeping toward her like a cat ready to pounce on a mouse. With numb, wooden fingers she managed to retrieve the key, poke it into the lock, and turn it. She flung the door open, jerked out the key, slammed the door, and locked it just as the car pulled up in front of her house.
Terrified, Marti leaned against the door, gasping for breath as her heart thudded against her ribs. Who was it who had followed her? Who was out there?
Clinging to the door, she twisted to peer through the narrow strip of leaded glass panes that decorated the entryway. Vision through the glass was distorted, but Marti could see that the car had left. The street in front of her house was empty.
The glass was chill against Marti's damp forehead. The cold made it easier to think, as though it drew to itself little sharp-edged thoughts that popped from a sluggish mind as dense as thickening gelatin. Why should she be afraid of the driver of that car? There were a number of perfectly sensible reasons why the car should have been there. The driver could have been someone who was lost and trying to find an address. Maybe it was a real-estate agent, looking over the neighborhood. Someone playing a prank.
Or someone who wanted to follow her home.
When the telephone rang, jangling into the silence, Marti jumped and let out a screech, dropping her books with a crash onto the tile floor of the entry hall. Scrambling, stumbling, she ran to the den and picked up the receiver.
“Hello!” she shouted.
“Marti?” a woman's voice inquired.
“This is Marti.”
“This is Karen Prescott.”
“I—I didn't think I'd ever hear from you.”
“Why not? I said I'd give some thought to what you told me.”
“That sounded like a turn-off.”
“I meant what I said.”
There was a pause before Marti murmured, “I'm sorry. I keep saying the wrong things.”
“It's a common problem.” For a moment there was a touch of laughter, of camaraderie, in Karen's voice, and Marti smiled in answer.
Karen continued. “I'd like to come over to your house and talk to you, Marti. I've done a little preliminary investigatuig, and some information I've come. across has brought up a question.”
Marti gripped the telephone receiver tightly and tried not to shout into it. “What kind of a question? What do you mean?”
“Galm down,” Karen said. “It's not much to go OIL It's just something in the medical examiner's report that makes me wonder.”
“What are you talking about?”
“About the cause of Barry Logan's death. There seems to be a slight possibility,” Karen said, “that you could be right.”
CHAPTER • 4
Karen was wearing her uniform, a holstered gun at her hip. Marti had to pull her eyes away From the gun. It set Karen apart; it gave her such authority that Marti suddenly became shy.
“W-would you like something to drink?” she stammered, trying to think of the right thing to say as she led Karen into the den. “We've got some diet colas.”
“No, thanks,” Karen answered. “I'd rather get right to “business.” She sat on the nearest armchair.
Marti perched on the chair opposite and wished Karen didn't look so young. Karen was a oouple of inches shorter than Marti and not as slender, and with that short-cropped curly hair and freckled nose she could have passed for a high-school student. But there was something positive about the way Karen moved and sat and spoke. As their eyes met, Marti recognized the strength and directness of a woman who was used to being in charge, and she knew that she was being studied in turn. She began to relax. Maybe Karen wouldbe able to help.
Marti spoke first. “You said you believe me now about Barry.”
“I said you could be right.”
“It's the same thing.”
Karen shook her head. “No, it isn't. There's a big if inwhat I said.”
Disappointed, Marti blurted, “If you don't believe me, then why are you here?”
For a moment Karen just stared at her, then quietly asked, “Do you know anything about the way police conduct an investigation?”
“I guess not.” Marti was suddenly embarrassed.
“It's a matter of dealing in facts. Collecting them. Adding them up. That's what I'm doing. That's what you asked me to do. Right?”
“Yes.”
“Then let's get with it.”
Marti nodded, wishing she could rub away the heat that had spread through her face. “I'm sorry,” she mumbled. She saw Karen's expression soften.
“It's okay,” Karen said.
Marti smiled ruefully. “I keep apologizing. I don't mean to be rude. I guess I don't stop and think. If we could only prove that Barry—”She took a long, deep breath and added, “There's only one part of me that seems to exist anymore. I don't expect you to know what I mean.”
“But I do,” Karen answered.
She spoke with such conviction that Marti murmured, “Why?”
“When I was twelve,” Karen iaid, “my best friend was on her way to my house on her bike when stewas killed by a hit-and-run driver. I became obsessed with trying to find the person; I studied cars in parking lots, looking for dents in the bumper. I stared at fees on the street. hoping-I guess—that there would be some sign to label the killer, I wanted the person to be ecaught, and it was all I could think about.”
She stopped, and Marti asked, “Did you find the driver?”
“No,” Karen said, “and neither did the police. Then when you came into the station and told me your story, in a way it was like seeing myself twelve years ago.”
Aching, Marti wanted to reach out to Karen, but instead she simply mumbled, “Thanks for telling me.”
“I'd planned to,” Karen said. “I thought it might help if you knew.” She continued to look at Marti for a brief moment, then briskly brushed a strand of hair from her forehead, once more becoming businesslike. “Okay— now for the information I have for you. Today was my day off, so I went to the coroner's office in Houston and read the autopsy report.”
“An autopsy? On Barry?” Marti's right hand automatically went to her throat, and she felt a little sick. “Isn't that when they—? Why'd they have to do that to Barry?”
“It's mandatory in any case of unnatural death.”
As Mart
i shuddered, Karen leaned forward and placed aband on her arm. “This is going to be rough on you. Fd make it easier if I could, but Ican't I'm sorry.”
Marti sat up a little straighter. “As you said, this is what I asked you to do. Go on.”
Karen gave a brisk nod. “Ail right. First of all, they found no trace of drugs.”
“Barry didn't do drugs. Why would they even look for drugs?”
“Because many people who end their lives are under the influence of drugs or alcohol. Normally, they proba. bly could handle their depression, but the drugs cloud their thinking and can send them over the edge.”
Marti gripped the arms of her chair. “Could that be why Robin …why Al—?”
“Judging from information in their files, I'd say drugs may have been a factor,” Karen said. She paused for only a moment. “I studied their autopsy reports and went over their files carefully, so before you ask the next question, I'll tell you that I don't think there's any doubt that they took their own lives. But as for Barry—”
Marti tensed.
“There was a bruise at the back of Barry's head. I won't read you the medical report, because it's long and detailed and technical. What it corner down to is that the bruise occurred while Barry was still alive, and it was severe enough to have caused a concussion. It was the only bruise on his body.”
“They can tell when Barry was bruised?”
“Yes. Now, let me ask you a question. Do you know if Barry had a fall? If he'd been in a fight? Was there any way you know of that he could have received that bruise on his head shortly before his death?”
“No.” Marti suddenly gasped. “Wait a minute! Are you thinking that he might have had a fight with the person who killed him? Is that it?”
“There were no signs of a fight. In fact, there were no signs of forced entry, no evidence that anyone other than Barry had been in the house.”
Marti snapped up as though her spine were a rubber band and paced back and forth from her chair to the fireplace. Like a recurring fog, her dream slid through her mind. The shadow creeping up on Barry. The shadow she couldn't stop. She twined her fingers together tightly to keep them from trembling. “I know what it might mean,” Marti said. “Barry let someone he knew into the house, and that person knocked Barry unconscious by hitting him on the back of the head, then staged the suicide scent.”
“Take it easy. We're talking about possibilities only.”
Marti stood in front of Karen, her hands still clenched. “What does the coroner think?”
“The medical examiner in the coroner's office who did the autopsy wrote up Barry's death as a suicide.”
“But the bruise—”
“I talked to the man, but he felt the bruise was irrelevant, and he had no intention of changing his report. There were powder burns on Barry's head near the bullet's point of entry; his fingerprints were on the gun; and the paraffin test showed nitrates on his right hand, which proved he was holding the gun when it was fired.”
“His right hand,” Marti repeated.
“I remembered. You told me Barry was left-handed.”
“Can't we just tell everybody what we found out? Can't the police start looking for Barry's murderer?”
“No,” Karen said. “The district attorney's office can't make a case without a wrongful death report from the coroner, which means our small police department can't expend the time or money it takes to work on the case.”
“That's not right. It's not fair. Just because one person decides that—” Marti began to pace again.
Karen stood and intercepted Marti, holding her by the shoulders. “Calm down,” she said. “I didn't come here to tell you to forget it. I came to find out as much as I could from you. We may uncover something that could give us a lead.”
“You're going to keep investigating?”
“As much as I can. As you could see when you visited the station, we're not that busy in Farrington Park. I have a routine patrol to drive and a certain number of calls to follow through on. Most of them involve abandoned vehicles or suspicious persons or house doors left open—mostly situations that turn out to be nothing to worry about. Occasionally there's a traffic accident, a break-in, maybe a shoplifter caught in die mall. It's a necessary job, but on the whole not a terribly demanding one.”
“So now this investigation will be part of your job?”
Karen shook her head. “I was just giving you some background, so you'd understand. My point is that this case was assigned to Sergeant Bill Nieman, not to me, and since the case has been closed, there'd be no way I could get official approval for any full-scale investigation. Because there are some unanswered questions here, I've decided to try to take some time on my own to see what turns up.”
“If you do this in your spare time, won't your family object?”
Karen shook her head. “I have no family in Houston. I live alone.” Her words were matter-of-fact, but for just an instant Marti saw a shadow in Karen's eyes and recognized it as the same loneliness she felt.
“Want that diet Coke now?” Marti asked.
Karen smiled. “I guess I do.”
As they walked out to the kitchen Marti said, “It makes it a little easier, knowing that you're on my side.”
“I investigate,” Karen said. “I don't take sides.” But she smiled again.
They sat at the kitchen table, where they could look through the sliding glass-doors to the expanse of neatly clipped saint augustine grass, which was bordered with sprawling azalea, Indian hawthorn, and hibiscus shrubs, all past the blooming season. A weathered, faded pink geranium drooped in its pot near the edge of the patio, and heat waves shimmered from the top of the shining metal gas grill.
Karen raised her can of cola. “Here's to air-conditioning,” she said.
Marti rested her elbows on the table and slid the icy, beaded can against her cheek. “Right about now Barry and I would be going swimming. He has a pool in his backyard, you know. We used to see who could swim more laps.”
“Don't do this to yourself,” Karen said. “I'm going to need you to think clearly, not emotionally.”
Marti's voice came out like a sob, “How do you get past the emotion?”
“I don't know. But you're going to have to try.”
Marti placed her can of cola oil the table and wiped her hands on her jeans. “Is it hard to be a cop? Is it hard tobepugh?”
For an instant Karen looked hurt and even younger. She shrugged. “I don't think of myself as tough. I just try to do my job,” she said.
“Well, I didn't exactly mean—”
“Police have to deal with a lot of hurting, frightened people” Karen said. “It takes just an instant for someone tobecome a victim, for lives to be destroyed. Often, when I was working a beat in Houston, I'd see things that would tear me up inside. But I'd save the tears until I was alone. When my partner and I had work to do, the work had to come first. There wasn't a choice.”
“Tell me about your partner,” Marti said. “Was she young, like you?”
“He. He is young, and he's a good cop.”
“A good friend?”
Karen's cheeks grew pink, and she quickly said, “We're getting sidetracked, and we've got work to do.” She pulled a small notepad and a pen from her shirt pocket. “If you're ready, let's get to the questions. At this time we'll work under the assumption—I repeat, assumption— that someone did kill Barry. If this were the case, then, judging by the evidence, most likely it would have been someone he knew. You're probably better acquainted with the people Barry knew than anyone else. So tell me, who were Barry's enemies?”
Marti put her hands to her forehead and squeezed her eyes shut, trying to think of everyone Barry knew. Finally, she gave a long sigh and collapsed against the straight back of the kitchen chair. “Barry didn't have enemies. Everybody liked Barry.”
“You said he was on a tennis team. Any angry rivalries? Someone who thought Barry had cheated him?”
“No. Everybody knew that Barry wouldn't cheat anyr one. He was a good player, and fair. And he wasn't that competitive. He was more likely to laugh it off if he lost.” Marti scowled. “Wouldn't that be kind of weird? To have someone who lost a tennis match want to kill the winner?”
“We have to try every angle,” Karen answered. “Something you remember may give us a clue. Now, how about the people where Barry worked part-time? Did he ever tell you about a conflict with any of them? Was there ever an argument? Any hard feelings?”
The questions went on and on until Marti, exhausted, folded her arms on the table and rested her head on them. “No!” she said. “Barry wasn't the kind of guy to get into trouble. You can ask anybody.” She raised her head and blinked at Karen.
The clock in the hall chimed into the silence while Karen scribbled something in her notebook. “Give me some names,” Karen said.
“Okay. There's the tennis coach and the senior counselor—” Marti went down a list, ticking names of responsible adults on her fingers and adding CharUe and Tony as Barry's closest friends.
“That should do it for now,” Karen finally said.
Marti got up and stretched, rubbing the back of her neck. “I've got to make dinner. Mom and Dad come home hungry. Would you like to stay and have dinner with us?”
Karen stood too, and tucked her notebook and pen back into her pocket. “No, thanks.”
“We didn't get very far, did we?”
“It's a start.” Karen smiled and handed Marti a business card, “I wrote my home phone number on the back. It's in Houston, so youll have to dial I first. If you think of something else, if you have any questions, you can reach me at the Farrington Park station or at home.”
“Thanks for all you're doing,” Marti said. She walked with Karen to the front door. “If you can just find out the truth about what happened to Barry—”
Her voice trailed off, but Karen reached out to pat her shoulder briskly. “We'll do our best to get the answers” she said. “That's all I can promise.”
Secret, Silent Screams Page 4
