“Do you have any idea where he went?” Ethan asked.
“He didn’t say outright, but Zeke isn’t the sweetest cookie in the batch. He was talking about contaminated evidence and how this fancy lawyer was going to sue the county for false imprisonment. Zeke said he’s going to be set for life.” Mrs. Faulkner rolled her eyes as she shuffled through some pamphlets on the laminate counter. “Big ideas. Small brain. That’s Zeke.” She grabbed a pen and wrote on the back of a postcard advertisement. “Here are the three most likely places.”
She’d listed three cheesy local motels.
Ethan folded the note and stuck it in his pocket. “I’m surprised he didn’t try to stay with you.”
“My guess would be he’s gorging on hookers, another habit he had in common with his daddy.”
Ouch. “Other than the lawsuit, did he mention the old case at all?”
The loose skin of Mrs. Faulkner’s neck flapped turkey-like as she shook her head. “No, but he was acting nervous.”
“In what way?”
“In a way that made me suspect he left some people hanging when he went to prison and is afraid they’ll be looking for him now that he’s out.”
“Do you think there’s any chance he was innocent?” Not that Ethan thought for a second that Faulkner had been wrongly convicted. But what kind of a case did he present to his mother?
She snorted. “The one thing I know for sure about Zeke is that he sure as hell isn’t innocent. He never said he did it, but he didn’t deny it either. Not to me. His feeling was that his actual guilt or innocence was irrelevant. What mattered was that the county had to prove he did it, and they screwed up.”
“Does he have a car?”
“Yup. 1990 Camaro. White.”
Ethan spotted a photo on the fridge. Zeke was standing in front of the house with a couple of other men about the same age. He looked younger than he did in his mug shot. But then, no one took a good mug shot. “Who are those men with Zeke?”
“My sister’s boys. Zeke’s cousins are all nice young men. They have jobs and wives. My sister has three grandkids.” Mrs. Faulkner heaved a disappointed sigh, rich with all life’s milestones she would never reach.
Ethan stowed his pity. He couldn’t help Mrs. Faulkner. Some people couldn’t be changed. Zeke sounded like one of them. “Can I borrow the photo?”
“You can have it.” Mrs. Faulkner reached back, snatched the picture off the fridge, and handed it to Ethan. Anger animated her features. “When you find Zeke, call me. He owes me three thousand dollars.”
Steam followed Krista out of the shower. She wrapped her body in a towel, covering the bruise on her breast from last night. That wasn’t the worst of what he’d done to her last night. In place of the usual exhaustive misery weighing her down, the aches in her body were real. The evidence of Joe’s abuse mottled her body like purple camouflage.
Shame inched across her clean skin, making her feel like she needed to get back in the shower and scrub a hundred more times. But the darkness within her wanted to do it all over again.
What was she doing? Too drunk to drive, let alone wait tables, she’d called in sick to work last night. Her boss wouldn’t put up with many missed shifts. This had to end. She should send Joe packing.
But God, the pain was more addictive than booze.
In the bedroom, a naked Joe was lounging on her bed. She turned away from him. “I have to go to work.”
“First you have some work to do here.”
“Didn’t you get enough last night?” She tried to laugh off her fear. “I have an early shift.”
“I never get enough.” Joe’s young, hard body moved fast. In a second, he had her pinned against the wall. “I have a present for you.”
He held a small pipe in one hand. A tiny smoking chunk of bluish crystal sat in the bowl. That explained the strange smell coming from the basement last night. Krista’s stomach heaved. The remnants of last night’s beer and bile burned a path up her chest and into her mouth.
No. She couldn’t let this happen. Her own life wasn’t worth fighting Joe, but Derek’s was another story. She was already up for shittiest mother of the year. Meth addict was not a title she wanted to add to her résumé.
She pushed his hand away. “I don’t do that.”
“Come on. You’ll love it.” He wrapped a hand in her hair and towed her to the bed. Still sore from the night before, her scalp screamed. He released her, and she stumbled onto the mattress. The scarf he’d used last night was still in the covers. One look at it sent fear skittering through Krista’s bowels. She cringed and inched in reverse until her back hit the wall. Joe followed her, crawling across the bed like a big cat, a predator cornering a helpless mouse. On his knees, he pressed his body up against hers, pinning her with his hips. He wrapped the scarf around her throat and pulled the silky fabric tight.
Krista choked as he cut off her breath. The pressure around her neck increased. Lights danced in her vision. She pulled sideways, but his body held her against the wall. His erection ground into her stomach.
He was enjoying every second of her distress. She’d learned that about him. He liked to dish out pain and humiliation as much as she liked to receive it.
He put the pipe to her lips. “Just take a little hit.”
She shook her head.
“I said do it.” Twisting the fabric around his hand, Joe tightened the scarf then suddenly released it. Krista gasped, inhaling the smoke deep into her starved lungs. Coughing, she exhaled and sucked in a lungful of air.
“That’s my girl.” Joe put the pipe to her mouth again.
Krista gasped as the smoke filled her lungs. Euphoria flooded her. Her fears and pain melted. Joe whipped off her towel and shoved her hard against the wall. She slumped against him, her muscles as limp as her resolve.
Pleasure overwhelmed her. It flowed through her veins and penetrated deep into her body. Her thoughts went liquid, her despair vanished, and her determination to send Joe packing floated away.
Abby kept the ball cap on her head as they pulled up in front of the first motel on the list. The U-shaped building of about three dozen rooms sat on a poorly maintained four-lane highway. There was an office at the end. Across the parking lot, Dumpsters butted up against the last unit. A strip of scraggly pine trees obscured whatever was behind the property.
She didn’t want Zeke to run if he saw her. Ethan had filled her in on his conversation with Zeke’s mother, and nothing indicated Zeke intended to go after Abby. Had he tried to kill her? If it wasn’t Zeke, then the who and why of her attack became even more frightening questions. As if the sight of Zeke Faulkner didn’t make her bowels cramp every time she looked at the mug shot Ethan had brought along.
Through the glass doors, a burly bald man sat on a high stool watching a tiny television on the counter.
Ethan drove by the office slowly, then parked outside next to the only other car in the lot, which probably belonged to the guy behind the desk. There was no sign of Faulkner’s Camaro.
Abby scanned the motel. “Looks empty.”
Ethan shifted into park. “I’ll go in and see if I can find anything out from the clerk.”
“Wait.” She scrutinized his trimmed black hair and cleanly shaven jaw. Though his casual sweater was one size too large and bulky, it still didn’t completely conceal the bulge at his right hip. But it was his shrewd eyes that gave him away. “You look like a cop.”
“I am a cop.”
Abby looked back at the guy in the office. “He has tattoos on his face.”
Ethan raised a hand, palm up. “Hey, I don’t judge people by the way they look.”
“But he might.” She took off the cap and fluffed her hair. “Let me go in.”
“It’s not safe,” Ethan protested, those sharp eyes narrowing.
“I t
hought you didn’t judge people by their looks.”
His eyes heated. “There are exceptions to every rule. Your safety is more important than political correctness or good manners.”
“You’ll be sitting right here, watching.” Abby tilted her head toward the door. “I doubt that glass is bulletproof.”
Ethan leaned back. His fingers drummed on his thigh. “OK, but I still don’t like it.”
Neither did Abby. But if she lost momentum, she might not be able to gather the courage to keep moving forward. Returning to her habitual prey-mode would be too easy. No more running. No more hiding. That was her new mantra.
“Here, you can show him this.” Ethan handed her a snapshot. “Mrs. Faulkner gave it to me. No love lost there.”
“I guess not.” Faulkner grinned at the camera. The desire to rip the photo into shreds burned hot, but Abby made herself take it. She couldn’t very well use the mug shot they’d brought along.
“Stay in front of the door, in my direct line of sight.” Ethan pulled his handgun free of its holster and rested it across his leg.
Abby suppressed the fear rising in her esophagus. She needed to do this. She took a sip of water to wash the acid from her throat. Getting out of the pickup, she adjusted her jacket hem and pushed open the glass door. A bell tied to the inside handle jingled. The man looked up at her. Thick arms crossed his chest, mirroring Ethan’s stubborn and reluctant posture. She’d made the right call. Ethan wouldn’t have gotten anything out of this guy.
He scowled at her. The black scorpion inked on his temple wrinkled, making the tail wrapped around his left eye twitch.
How to proceed?
For starters, she should probably stop staring at his tattoo.
She blinked and gave him a weak smile. His scowl deepened. She guessed she didn’t look like the usual clientele, and there was no way she could pull off the femme fatale thing, especially not dressed like she’d just stepped out of an L. L. Bean catalog. Could she be Faulkner’s sister? No. No one would believe they were related. But good girls fell for bad boys all the time.
She pulled the snapshot of Faulkner out of her purse. “I’m looking for my boyfriend.” She wanted to vomit as she said it. “He was supposed to call me.…” She let the words trickle off.
His gaze dropped to the photo. His facial expression didn’t change, but recognition flickered in his eyes. “Haven’t seen him.”
Oh yes he had. After eight years of teaching high school, Abby could spot a liar from fifty feet away.
She squeezed her eyes. Moisture gathered in the corners. She tried to look desperate. Unfortunately, it wasn’t much of a stretch. “I’m really worried about him. He would never ignore my calls.”
Big man’s nose twitched as if he was trying not to laugh out loud. Clearly, he had no trouble believing Faulkner would ignore a girlfriend’s calls. Abby tried to look even more wretched. She sniffed. “Are you sure?”
He sighed and looked again. “He might look familiar.”
“Oh my God, really? If you could remember where you’ve seen him, I’d be grateful.” Abby put the photo back into her purse and pulled out three twenties. She slid the bills across the counter.
Big man didn’t hesitate. He swiped the money and stuffed it into the chest pocket of his flannel shirt. “He’s in room 27, but I haven’t seen him today.”
“Thank you so much.” Abby smiled and walked out. She got back into the car, conflicting nerves roiling in her belly. “He’s here. Number 27.”
Ethan’s brows lifted in surprise. “Nice work.”
“Thanks.” Her mission had been successful, but now she had to face Faulkner. Her heart stuttered for a couple of beats. She inhaled deeply and held the breath in her lungs for a few seconds before letting it slide out through her nose.
Ethan reached for her hand. “It’s OK. I’m here. I won’t let anything happen to you.”
Damn it. Abby believed him.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Unit 27 was at the other end of the property. Ethan surveyed the empty parking lot. Were the other units occupied? He drove over but parked a few units away. In case Faulkner was inside, Ethan didn’t want him to have a clear view of the truck—and Abby.
On reflex, Ethan checked the weapon at his hip. “His mother said he was driving an old white Camaro, so it looks like he’s not here. I’ll just knock on the door to make sure. I want you to stay in the car. Keep your head down and the doors locked.”
Abby opened her mouth.
Ethan cut off her protest. “It’s not safe.” He touched her forearm. “Plus, if he sees you, he might run.”
“You’re right. I wasn’t going to argue. I was going to say be careful. Honestly, I doubt I could face him again.” She sighed. Relief or regret? Just coming down here and facing the prosecutor proved Abby’s courage, but Ethan had no doubt fear pulsed through Abby. The man who had terrorized her was staying twenty feet away.
“You shouldn’t have to.” Ethan squeezed her hand. It was steady. Amazing. “Do you want me to drop you at the diner down the road while I talk to him?”
“No. He’s probably not here anyway.” She took her cell phone out of her purse. “I’ll have 911 ready to dial, just in case.”
“OK.” Ethan unzipped his jacket for access to his gun and got out of the car. He pointed at the door locks and waited for the click.
A few hundred yards down the road, they’d passed a road crew patching potholes. The smell of burning tar carried on the cold air. He approached door number 27. Stepping up onto the concrete walkway that fronted the building, he passed into the shade of the roof overhang. Without the sunlight on his back, the temperature dropped to butt-numbing. He tried to peer through the window, but the curtains were drawn. Standing to one side, he tilted his head and listened for a minute. When he heard no sounds from inside the unit, he tapped on the door.
No response. Ethan knocked again. All he heard was the swish of traffic on the highway. A tractor-trailer clattered past.
“Zeke? Zeke Faulkner.” He probably wasn’t here. Ethan tried one last time. He pounded on the door with a fist. The weak latch gave. The door eased open an inch. Sweat broke out on Ethan’s back, and the hair on his nape lifted in alert. He pulled his gun, stepped behind the jamb, and nudged the door with a fingertip. A foul and distinctive stench wafted out of the room.
Shit.
The room was dark. His eyes probed the shadows. Nothing other than the usual motel fixtures. A duffel bag sat on the dresser, open. A shape lay on the bed.
Leading with his weapon, Ethan side-stepped into the room. He swept the gun around, but the space was empty.
Except for what was left of Zeke Faulkner, but he was no longer a threat.
At least Ethan was pretty sure the body on the bed was Faulkner. From the smell and the color of his skin, he’d been dead at least a day. A clear plastic bag covered his face, secured at the neck with duct tape. Under the plastic, his face was distorted and purple. His eyes bulged, and his black tongue protruded. Ethan looked away from his face. The body was dressed in jeans, a T-shirt, and a black hoodie. The sleeves and the pants’ legs were pulled up slightly. Plastic zip ties bound his hands and ankles. He’d fought enough for the binds to have cut into his flesh, but there was no other blood on his body. The room was clean for a violent murder scene. The lamps were upright. No other signs of a struggle.
Either Zeke had known his attacker, the killer had incapacitated him immediately, or there’d been more than one assailant.
Not touching anything, Ethan squatted and checked under the bed. The bathroom was empty too. The sunshine seemed brighter when he went back outside.
A frigid gust kicked a plastic bag across the parking lot. Ethan sucked in a great big lungful of not quite fresh air. After the death-stench in the motel room, he welcomed the harsh smell of burnt tar.
Abby sat up in the passenger seat. She took one look at his face and paled. She got out of the truck. “What happened?”
She rose on her toes and craned her neck to look over his shoulder.
“Don’t.” He moved in front of her to block her view. “He’s dead.”
Abby had enough baggage. She didn’t need to carry the grotesque sight of a suffocated man in her head. Ethan pulled out his cell phone and called the local police.
Abby waited until he disconnected the call. “How?” Her gaze searched his face. She wrinkled her nose. “Fight, gunshot, overdose?”
Ethan stayed downwind. Nothing short of double showers would erase the smell from his skin. “Oh no. This was definitely murder.”
By the setup of the scene, it was a particularly vicious, cold, and methodical killing. Actually, the word in Ethan’s mind was execution.
Faulkner was dead. Murdered.
Abby sat sideways on the edge of the passenger seat. Her feet rested on the running board. Standing next to the open door of his pickup, Ethan called his boss and reported in. Every time the wind shifted, the putrid smell on him wafted toward her.
Ethan lowered his phone and shoved it in his jacket pocket. Frustration brightened his eyes.
“Who would kill him?” This morning, she’d been afraid of seeing Faulkner. Now she was more frightened. How would she ever know if he was the one who’d poisoned her?
“He wasn’t exactly a pillar of the community,” Ethan said. “I looked up his official arrest record yesterday. Besides his conviction for kidnapping you, his arrest record was long and distinguished: couple of misdemeanor possession charges for marijuana, drunk and disorderly, simple assault, resisting arrest, etcetera. Since getting out of prison two weeks ago, he got involved in a lawsuit against the county over the disallowed evidence in his trial, and he ripped off his own mother. Who knows what else he did?”
She Can Hide (She Can Series) Page 12
