by Dan Padavona
“Please! Open the door!”
Skye’s voice snapped him out of his thoughts. He found the portable stereo in the bedroom and shut off the music. His ears rang. The girl beat her fists against the locked bedroom door with less fervor now.
“I need to find the key,” he said from the other side.
“No, you can’t leave me alone with him!”
“He’s dead, Skye. I shot him.”
A pause from the other side, the quiet suddenly loud.
“You can’t kill death.”
“He’s just a man. He can’t hurt you anymore.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Sunday, August 15th
10:30 p.m.
Thomas never found the keys to unlock the doors. The state police broke the bedroom and basement doors down, and Deputy Aguilar led Skye Feron out of Alec Samson’s house of horrors. Now in her mid-twenties, the emaciated, rail-thin girl hardly resembled her athletic former self. The haunted looks she shot Thomas, Lambert, and the male troopers at the scene spoke to the horrors she’d endured.
The media converged on Cathy Webb’s house. How they found out so quickly, Thomas could only guess. They rushed the property with microphones and cameras and bright lights. Two vans with satellite dishes mounted on the roofs blocked traffic. Lambert forced the drivers to move the vans so the ambulance could reach the scene. It was a zoo. Worse than the scene outside the coroner’s office after Dr. Stone excavated Cathy Webb’s bones from the earth. That day, they’d all believed the skeleton belonged to Skye Feron. That she was alive stunned Thomas.
Bolt cutters broke the manacles securing Justine Adkins to the basement wall. The terrified woman stumbled through the front door with an army blanket draped over her shoulders. Three troopers drove the media back as flashbulbs lit the yard like lightning, and frantic voices begged for an interview, a sound bite, anything to boost ratings.
Neither Skye nor Justine lifted their eyes toward the law enforcement officers leading them to the ambulance. The women converged outside the emergency vehicle and stared at each other in stunned silence. Then Justine threw her arms around Skye as more cameras flashed. An overexuberant reporter with a razor-shaved face and perfect hair rushed the women. Aguilar forced him back with a warning.
A heavy hand clasped Thomas’s shoulder. He turned around to Trooper Baker, the man he’d met outside Paige Sutton’s house after Samson murdered Trooper McBride.
“Well done, Sheriff.”
Thomas shook his head. He’d done nothing except pull the trigger. Were it not for the troopers, it would have taken hours to free the women.
“I don’t understand. What drives a man to hold two women hostage and murder his own cousin?”
“You scored a touchdown for all of us. We want you to know we appreciate what you did here tonight. Can’t have cop killers getting away with murder.” After Thomas didn’t respond, Baker cleared his throat. “We found a pickax in the garage with dried blood on the tip. Forensics took it away. You think that’s what he used to kill Cathy Webb?” And Paige Sutton, Thomas thought. “Also a dark blue Honda Odyssey with an expired registration sticker. It matches the description the assistant manager at the supermarket saw the night Samson kidnapped Justine Adkins. All we lack is the murder weapon he used on Trooper McBride.”
A shout from inside the house pulled their attention. Aguilar, Lambert, and two troopers were already sprinting toward the house. Lights shone from every window now that the power was on.
Thomas was the last to enter the home and climb the stairs, following the path he took before he shot Alec Samson. The crawlspace door hung open. A carrion stench rolled through the opening and overwhelmed the second floor. A mustached trooper turned and covered his mouth as the slender officer on the ladder motioned Thomas to climb up beside him. He followed the flashlight beam to Paige Sutton’s body, stuffed in the crawlspace’s corner and gathering flies. The woman’s eyes stared at him, lifeless, frozen in perpetual horror.
“Tell Virgil he’ll have a busy night,” the trooper said.
Gallows humor, common among cops. Thomas heard too much of it from the homicide detectives in Los Angeles. He understood its purpose. You had to laugh at the dark and whistle while you passed the graveyard. Otherwise, the horrors would debilitate you.
“Virgil is on the way,” Aguilar said behind him.
Thomas descended the ladder, the coppery scent of blood thick in the air. They’d found the last missing friend.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Monday, August 16th
2:05 a.m.
The news crews from the murder scene converged on the hospital as the clock passed the witching hour. Three officers stationed outside the emergency room doors prevented reporters from entering. Inside, a mix of friends and family members of the victims huddled together on uncomfortable vinyl couches, some in bathrobes, others with ruffled hair, shirts hanging out over their pants.
Spotting Aguilar near a door with DO NOT ENTER written across the front, Thomas veered around the throng. She tilted her head toward a blonde woman in a sweatshirt and pajama bottoms. A man in bifocals rubbed the woman’s shoulder and whispered into her air.
“That’s Skye Feron’s parents,” said Aguilar.
“Have they seen their daughter?”
“Briefly. The mother refused to leave her daughter’s side until the doctors forced her out. They’re running tests, and a psychiatrist is coming in to evaluate Skye.”
“So it doesn’t appear she’s going home soon.”
“Afraid not.” Aguilar held his eyes. “What about you? How are you holding up?”
He smirked.
“I’m sure Dr. Mandal will tell me. She always does.”
“It’s not a joke, Thomas. You’ve shot three murderers since April. One is enough to play with anyone’s head. Are you sure you’re okay?”
He released a breath. No, he wasn’t sure. His thoughts meandered back to his father’s words. Did his parents worry about Thomas falling victim to a stray bullet, or the daily stresses of the job catching up to him? Both paths led to destruction.
“I’ll get through.”
“Go home. Get some sleep. You look like death warmed over.”
“I feel like it too.” He brushed his hair back and studied Skye Feron’s parents. Wondered what they must be thinking. They must be relieved Skye was back in their lives, yet terrified Alec Samson had stolen her sanity. “Not until I interview the women.”
“They won’t let you speak to Skye Feron. Not yet.”
“Then I’ll start with Justine and stay until the psychiatrist clears Skye.”
“I can conduct the interviews, Thomas.”
“Of course, you can. And when you decide you want to be sheriff, I’ll hand the responsibility over to you.”
“You’re not thinking about quitting, are you?”
He touched her shoulder.
“Not yet.”
Justine Adkins lifted her eyes when Thomas entered her room. The nurse outside the door gave him ten minutes to speak with Justine. Not a second longer. The woman’s auburn hair appeared colorless beneath the florescent strip lighting. Almost black. Her curls matted against her face. A bandage wrapped around her head.
“Ms. Adkins, I’m Sheriff Thomas Shepherd.”
She lowered her eyes and nodded.
“You’re the one who shot Alec.”
“Do you remember Dawn Samson’s brother?”
She issued a choked sob and swiped a tissue under her nose.
“Vaguely. He said little during school. The kids used to claim his parents beat him.”
Thomas gestured at the bandage.
“How’s the head?”
“I’ll be fine. I’m more worried about Skye. They won’t let me see her.”
“In time, you will. The doctors are checking her now. Be patient.”
She fidgeted in the chair, favoring her shoulder.
“Is it true? Alec murdered Paige?”
<
br /> Thomas shifted his jaw.
“I’m sorry.”
Justine broke down and sobbed into her hands.
“We asked for this. All of us. But I never imagined it would end in murder.”
Thomas pulled a chair beside Justine’s and turned it around. He rested his elbows on the chair back.
“Can you tell me what happened?”
As Thomas took notes, Justine recounted the kidnapping in the supermarket parking lot and her imprisonment in Alec Samson’s basement.
“I didn’t recognize him from high school. We barely knew each other, and he’d changed a lot since graduation. Still, I realized it had to be Alec after he spoke about Dawn.” Justine’s eyes traveled to the wall and seemed to look toward a different time and place. “I didn’t do enough to stop Paige. We’d been friends for so long—Skye, Paige, and me—and I didn’t want to lose our friendship. But the bullying had gotten out of hand. Paige wouldn’t listen, so I went to Dawn instead.”
Thomas raised his eyes.
“Can you explain?”
“I wanted to be her friend. Dawn didn’t trust me at first. Who could blame her? I ran with Paige, after all, and I’d stood by while Paige bullied Dawn at the tennis courts. We should have reported Paige, should have talked to her parents. I’ll take the guilt to my grave. Dawn kept me at arm’s length because of the trust issues. After several weeks, she realized I really was her friend. The problem was, I couldn’t watch her twenty-four hours a day. It seemed Paige was always there to harass Dawn whenever I wasn’t around to help.”
“That must have upset Paige. You befriending her enemy.”
Justine pushed her hair out of her eyes.
“She never found out. Dawn and I hid it well. I don’t even think Alec knew.”
“Did Skye?”
She shook her head.
“I’d meant to discuss it with Skye. She’d come to me many times, concerned over Paige’s treatment of Dawn. Skye and Paige drifted apart. Skye always claimed she was too busy with sports to hang out. In the end, Alec blamed all of us for what happened. He was right to do so. But he realized Skye wanted to help back then, and I suspect that’s why he kept her alive.” A shiver rolled through her body. “He held Skye for six years and nobody found out.”
Except Alec’s cousin, Cathy Webb. And she paid the ultimate price.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Monday, August 16th
11:10 a.m.
LeVar peeked out of the alleyway as Anthony Fisher exited his apartment complex. The boy shot an anxious look across the street, as though he sensed eyes on him. After checking both ways, he jogged across the busy street, snatched a newspaper off a cafe table, and tucked the stolen item under his arm. His paranoia gone, the kid didn’t appear to have a care in the world until he cut between the buildings and found LeVar waiting.
Anthony pulled up and reached behind him.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” LeVar said, strolling up to the boy with an easy swagger. Anthony was more likely to shoot his own foot than put a bullet in LeVar. “It’s time you and I talked.”
Anthony took a step back and glanced around. There was nobody to help. A rancid smell rolled out of a rusty dumpster. Greasy scents blew through a restaurant fan.
“Don’t want no trouble, LeVar. You know I was following orders.”
LeVar backed Anthony against a brick wall and trapped the boy. Standing a head taller than Anthony, LeVar looked the gang member up and down.
“You set me up.”
“I didn’t have a choice.”
“Did you threaten my friends on Rev’s orders? Or was that the gangster wannabe in you talking?”
Anthony’s eyes fell to his sneakers.
“I wouldn’t have hurt nobody. Rev told me to put a scare into you.”
“Rev told you,” he scoffed. “Bad decisions will get your ass killed.”
Anthony lifted his chin.
“Yeah? You gonna do it?”
LeVar grabbed Anthony by his shirt collar and shoved him against the bricks, one muscular arm pinning the flailing boy against the wall.
“If I bled you right here, nobody would care. You’re just another gangster living on borrowed time. Shit, you didn’t even pay for the damn newspaper.” Anthony glanced at the paper tucked under his arm. LeVar tugged it away. “You don’t know who I am, do you?”
“The enforcer for the Kings. We brothers.”
“Were brothers. You and me stopped being blood when you talked shit about my own. And for the record, I was a lot more than the enforcer. Long before Rev came on the scene, I was the security that kept every Kings leader alive.” LeVar swept an arm around the city. “None of this would be possible without me. Without LeVar keeping the wolves at bay, the Royals would’ve owned all this.” LeVar’s hand crept to Anthony’s neck and gave a squeeze. Just enough pressure so the kid understood LeVar could snap his neck if he chose. “Hell, Rev would’ve carved you up and left you to the dogs had I not stepped in. I saved your ass, so that makes me your god, boy. We didn’t have a sit down conversation about you. We had an understanding. Rev stayed in his lane, and he didn’t get trucked by LeVar.”
Anthony’s knees buckled when LeVar released him. LeVar patted the boy’s cheek.
“Ain’t no Harmon Kings no more. Kilo and Lawson, they don’t have stomachs for this. Now that Rev’s gone, y’all gonna scatter like cockroaches when the Royals take over. This is your opportunity to change your ways. Take your Mom and get out of Harmon. Move up north with your family. Nothing here for you anymore.”
LeVar held the boy’s eyes for a second longer. Then he strode away with no fear Anthony would pull his gun now that LeVar had turned his back.
“You remember what I told you, lil bro,” he said over his shoulder. “Don’t make me come looking for you. Next time, you’ll meet your maker.”
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Friday, August 20th
4:15 a.m.
Thomas jolted out of sleep. He sat up and caught his breath with Jack curled beside him. The big dog lifted his head and studied Thomas, who wiped his forehead on the bedsheet. A sliver of half-moon shone over the hills, starlight turning the lake silver.
In his dream, he’d been inside Alec Samson’s house. While he directed the gun across the darkened upper landing, the doors shook with an inhuman fury. The pounding hurt his ears, forced him to cower. He feared what hid behind those doors. Somewhere, a woman screamed inside the house. And in the strange way of dreams, he’d known it was Chelsey. The fly caught in the spider’s web.
He shook his head. Jack licked his hand and looked up at Thomas with his big doggy grin. Jack’s smile had a way of disarming Thomas and setting him at ease. Sighing with the knowledge he’d never get back to sleep, Thomas rubbed Jack behind his ears.
“Wanna go outside, boy?” Jack apparently did, for he jumped off the bed and stood on his hind legs, pawing at the bedroom door. “All right. Let me get my shoes on first.”
The morning was cool, dawn still two hours away. Fog curled off the lake and concealed the guest house. Jack did his business while Thomas stood in the grass with his robe pulled tight, hands rubbing the chill off his arms. Summers had a way of slipping away in upstate New York. You needed to appreciate them while they were here, for tomorrow the leaves would fall, and the wind would bring snow and cold and a desolate landscape.
For a frozen moment, Jack stood still, tail erect, his eyes staring into the night. Thomas shuffled to the dog’s side and followed his gaze. Something was in the fog.
“What is it, Jack?”
The dog didn’t growl. Just glared into the mist, unmoving, ready to bound forward if a threat emerged. A splash followed as an unseen animal descended into the lake. Jack turned away and whined up at Thomas. He patted the dog’s head.
His laptop sat open on the dining room table when Thomas returned inside. Locking the deck doors behind him, he filled the kettle with water and set it on the bur
ner. From the cupboard, he removed a green tea packet and tore it open on the counter. While he waited for the water to heat, he jostled the computer out of sleep mode and called up the website for the Bluewater Tribune, Wolf Lake’s newspaper. Scanning the headlines, he stopped on a story chronicling the Alec Samson case. The Psycho House. That’s what the reporter called Samson’s home.
Despite the sensational headline, the article focused on the Feron family’s reunion with their daughter. Skye Feron would undergo years of therapy to come to grips with what happened. Thomas scratched his head and wondered how Skye’s parents would bridge the chasm between them and their daughter.
The kettle whistled. Thomas poured the water into a travel mug and set the tea inside to steep. He’d attempted to interview Skye Feron at the hospital. By then, the woman had crept back into her shell and refused to speak with anyone. Except Justine. As Thomas understood it, the two women shared private conversations before the hospital released Skye.
The first hint of morning lay beyond the hills when his phone rang. He glanced down, saw the call was from his mother. A sick knowledge crawled into his belly. There was only one reason his mother would call this early.
“Mother, is everything all right?”
“He had a terrible night, Thomas. I’m talking to him, but he doesn’t know who I am. It won’t be long now.”
“Is the nurse there?”
Mason Shepherd refused to leave his home. He’d die in familiar surroundings, not in a hospital room with cold, white walls, surrounded by doctors who dealt with tragedy daily. On Thomas’s insistence, they’d hired a nurse to care for Mason last month. Since then, his deterioration had quickened.
“She’s on the way.”
“I’ll be right there.”
