by Julia Shupe
Carved In Stone
Vanessa Stone Series, Book 1
Julia Shupe
Text Copyright © 2018 Julia Shupe
Cover Design Copyright © 2018 Julia Shupe
All Rights Reserved
For my amazing husband, Nat
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 1
The Shadow Man
Sacramento, California
August 15th, 1996
Pain exploded from behind his left ear. What was it this time? A rock? A rotten apple core? Sand peppered with bits of broken glass? For all he knew, it was a piece of dog shit. Someone had already thrown a half-empty can of beer, and that had nearly bloodied his nose. He peered at the debris-littered sidewalk below, at the flattened tomatoes and bits of balled trash. Was that a damned egg? Yolk splattered across the slate? Who brought an egg to a run-down hotel? Who had the time? Who planned for things like this? And most importantly, he wondered, who cared about him? After all this time, who remembered all of that?
Around him, an assembly had formed, a mob perched at the edge of violence, and for a moment, he cowered, before scolding himself. He was stronger than this. He’d been to the pits of hell—several times—and had somehow come out the other side relatively unscathed. Pulling himself taller, he rallied. He refused to appear weak in front of these people. Besides, he was what—fifteen feet from the door? He’d make it inside, slip up to his room, and do it with his head held high, with self-respect. He’d muster what dignity he still had left.
He felt something hit him in the back—something light, and ignoring it, pushed himself onward. He wouldn’t show his fear to these idiots, wouldn’t give them the satisfaction they craved. After all, what had he expected from them? A bouquet of roses? A standing ovation? He wasn’t a movie star or a popular political figure, and this wasn’t a welcoming committee. It was a protest. One could call it a mini-riot if he so chose, or a very angry mob, to say the least. It was a group of people who’d banded together, who shared a common purpose, and were screaming it aloud to anyone who would listen. They wanted to send him back from whence he came. He’d been released from prison. They hadn’t wanted that. They would send him back to that abyss, if they could, see him caged for what remained of his miserable life. He dropped his gaze to the path at his feet, to bright yellow yolks that were cooking on the hot, late-afternoon pavement. They’d made a mess of this place. They were pigs. It was a carpet befitting a bastard, not a king,
But trash deserved trash. He knew what he was.
For a moment, fear caught hold and threatened to choke him. Could he make it out here in this difficult world? Could he make it outside those concrete walls? Could he control himself this time? Could he stop those terrible thoughts from taking over, those urges that compelled him, those voice that whispered?
Lifting a hand, he pressed a finger to his stinging ear. Whatever they last had thrown had hit its mark. He eyed the blood on his finger and walked faster. One thing at a time, he told himself sagely, one day, one hour, one minute, if that was easier. After all, that’s what Sandra, his therapist, had said. If he was struggling, he should simplify things, focus on a single moment and disregard the future. Control, she had promised, was attained with careful discipline. So that was where he would make his start, with one difficult moment at a time. He’d face it, deal with it then move to the next moment, put one foot in front of the other until he reached his goal. He’d get inside this dump of a hotel, get to his room, and then make himself a plan.
“Pig!” someone shouted.
“Filthy rapist!” a woman yelled from behind.
Rapist? he thought. Yeah, perhaps, but filthy? He frowned. That was just poor form. A smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. If only she had known him back then. He was a different man now, but back then… He shuddered. Lifting his face, he peered at her sidelong, smirking when she shrank from his gaze. He grinned. That’s right, silly cow. Run away. Not as bold when I’m looking you straight in the eye.
A hand pushed him toward the double doors at the end of the walkway.
“Move it, Tubbs,” the officer growled, and Carlton shrugged the hand from his back.
Earlier that morning, when they’d collected him from his cell, he’d adamantly refused a police escort. For more than eight years, guards had taken him everywhere. They’d chaperoned his every meal, accompanied him to shower and piss. They’d spooned eggs onto his platter every morning, and watched him stand in the sun in the afternoon. Truth be told, he was sick of the attention. More than anything else, he just wanted to be alone. Solitude, he had learned, was life’s most precious gift. It was something free men took for granted.
He wanted to be alone. It was something he’d dreamed about. Prison had been hell; the cold beds, the endless boredom, but for Carlton, people had been the hardest part: their constant chatter, their false bravado. People had never understood him. He was a lifelong outcast, even as a child. He’d always known he was different from other children. He’d been shy and awkward, had struggled with conversation; he’d never understood how to connect to the world.
There was only one person who had ever truly known him, but he couldn’t allow himself to think on that now. That was dangerous a place for thoughts to dwell.
Focusing on the door, he tried to reach the landing in five long strides. He just needed peace and quiet, some time to think. Cameras flashed and voices murmured. Insults were thrown, but he didn’t quite catch them. He took a deep breath and reached a hand toward the door, but a reporter suddenly stepped into his path. She wedged herself between his body and the door.
“Carlton Tubbs,” she said, pressing her microphone uncomfortably close to his face. “Carlton, will you give us a statement? How does it feel to be let out of prison early? Anything you’d like to say to the public? Anything you’d like to say to her?”
To her? How dare she mention her?
Swallowing his fear, he peered over his shoulder. If he mentioned her in front of all of these people, how would they react? Would they attack him? He wondered furthermore if the cop would intervene. Technically Carlton was a free man now. The cop at his back was ornamental.
Fear threaded its way up his spine. Ignoring it, he focused on the woman in front of him. She was attractive, yes, but not really his type. She was a short redhead, neither beautiful, nor striking, but the first damned women he’d seen in almost nine years. Her scent, her skin; she took his breath away.
He stumbled backward, but the cop managed to catch him. It was strange to be standing this close to a woman. He could see every detail of her face and her hair, every curve of her body, the pulse at her throat. Her eye-makeup was heavy-handed for his taste, and her hair, eggplant colored, wasn’t all that becoming. It was cut in an odd shape, almost like a mushroom, shorter in the back, and longer in the front.
Times had changed since last he was free. He didn’t understand these strange new styles. It was the 90’s now, and everything was morose, dark, angry. People had isolated themselves from the world. This was a decade underscored by apathy, unlike the years he remembered so fondly.
A decade ago, he had left the world behind, and now that he’d returned, it was unrecognizable. Music was sullen. Clothing had devolved into rags. Women were clothed from head to toe in black, with purple lipstick and heavy black boots. They’d embraced tattoos and strange body piercings, and had whittled their soft curves to nothing. They’d perfected this harsher, more angular style, which to Carlton, wasn’t as pleasing to the eye.
But maybe this, he thought, his eyes skimming her body, was a decade better suited to him. Perhaps he could blend in, move with anonymity. People nowadays seemed unconcerned with the affairs of others. They sped on the streets, eyes pinned to the sidewalk, murmuring quietly into hand-held phones. For a recluse, this could be a paradise on earth.
“Tammy Reyes,” the reporter pressed, her burgundy lips twitching as she offered him the mic. “Channel 13 News. How does it feel to be released from prison early? Now that you’re free, what are your plans?”
He huffed then caught his breath. His plans? She wanted to know what he was planning to do. He let his eyes travel the length of her body, from the curve of her waist to the narrow swell of her hips. She was in good shape, her muscles toned, her waist narrow. Perhaps she was a runner. His heart began to pound. Hadn’t runners always been his favorite?
He opened his mouth to speak, but couldn’t, and shut it with an audible snap. What were his plans? It was a fair question to ask. Where would he go? What would he do? He hadn’t much thought past that first glass of whiskey. Lifting his head, he looked her in the eye.
“My plans? I…Um… Just want to be…”
“I’m sorry, Carlton, but I didn’t catch that. Speak into the mic if you would.” She pressed it closer to his mouth.
“I want…”
Sweat bloomed beneath both arms. He trembled. What did he want for himself? What could he say in front of all of these people? He dropped his gaze to the pebbled sidewalk, where he eyed her slender feet. His heart stilled. For a moment he feared he might vomit across her beautiful toes. Words choked him, the air thick around his collar. Her shoes were open-toed, of course, which displayed her feet in an alluring way. They were narrow, slender, and perfectly formed, by far her very best quality.
He licked his lips. “My plans? I suppose…”
Suppose what? What the hell did he want to do? Why couldn’t he finish a damn sentence? When she followed his gaze, she flinched and recoiled, and curling her toes, fell a half step back. His mouth went dry. He wasn’t ready for this. How he wanted that damn glass of whiskey, right now. He ran a trembling hand through his hair.
Or did he in fact want something else more? Something soft? Something warm? Something slick across his hands?
No, he thought fiercely, pushing the dark thoughts aside. He wasn’t supposed to be thinking about that. Pursing his lips, he squeezed his eyes shut, and allowed himself to be herded like a sheep. He couldn’t do this. He wouldn’t make it out here. He was already failing after only thirty minutes.
As he neared the double doors, the taunts behind him reached a crescendo. People were spitting and lifting their signs. “Trailside Skinner,” they screamed to the sky, their fists pumping in the air. Someone pushed a sign in his face, and when he lifted his head, he saw a dark figure. The man holding the sign was red-faced and puffing, juxtapose with the dispassionate figure at his back. The quieter man resembled a dark specter. He was cloaked in shadow, obscured in black, framed by the setting sun in fiery-orange piping. Unlike the others, he wasn’t moving or shouting, but standing sword-straight, fists clenched at his sides. Carlton strained, but couldn’t make him out.
“No,” he whispered. “It can’t be you. You’re not standing there. I’m not seeing this.” He squeezed his eyes shut and made his feet move.
Everyone but the shadow man was making a scene. How Carlton wished he would yell or cry out. Anger seemed to roll off him in waves, and despite the distance, Carlton felt their gazes lock.
The cop pushed him forward, through the double doors, and once inside, snatched his hands from Carlton’s body, as if he’d been burned. He held his hands away from his body, peering at them like they needed a good scrubbing.
“That’s it, Tubbs,” he said. “You’re on your own.” He lifted his gaze from his contaminated hands. “And if I were you, I’d get the hell out of here. Stay the night in this shit hole hotel. Sleep in a real bed. Take a hot shower. But leave this town as fast as you can.” With a twist of his head, he peered out the grimy windows, at the fists that were pounding against the glass. He pursed his lips. “Better to leave this state, if you can.” With that, he turned and walked out the doors, and for the first time in nine years, Carlton Tubbs was alone. There were no cuffs to bind his ankles, no shackles to restrain his wrists. There was only his conscience and those impossibly old ghosts—ghosts with familiar voices that whispered seductive things.
Carton Tubbs was finally a free man, but he hadn’t forgotten those terrible voices. He could only hope they had somehow forgotten him.
Chapter 2
The Shadow Man
Turning back to face the window, he stared at the angry faces, just beyond the glass. When the door swung open, it was like a storm surge, the chanting like waves battering a distant shoreline. He was dumbstruck, in awe. It was yet to sink in. A police escort, two-dozen angry people, the eleven-o’clock news: what was their interest after all of these years? Carlton knew his crimes were controversial. He’d been living in prison—not a hole in the ground. And though prison had isolated him from the worst of public outrage, this fanfare still came as a shock. He’d chosen to avoid watching prime time news in prison, and so, had been sheltered from the most visceral of reactions. Only now, he was free, and they were staring him in the face. It felt, to him, like a decade hadn’t passed, like time had stilled while he’d rotted in jail. He hadn’t known how much coverage he’d received. Apparently a lot; he was practically famous. A decade ago, he’d thrown a stone into a pond, but the water still seemed to be rippling.
In the late 80’s, when his crimes were being tried, the local news stations had flocked to the scene. Psychiatrists had come to the prison in droves, to evaluate him for case studies and dissertations. He’d ignored them, of course. He’d refused to let them in. Nor had he entertained the authors and biographers, the vultures who’d come to gather all the bloody details. He hadn’t agreed to a single meeting.
People had been outraged by the sentence he’d received, by the details of the crime, and the human savagery.
They’d been outraged, he thought, but no less fascinated.
Baring his teeth, he sneered at them openly. People were such damned hypocrites. Brutal crime always piqued human interest, though few were strong enough to admit that out loud. Look at them all, he thought, standing tight in a group, mighty together yet weak when alone. Did they not have better things to do on a sunny afternoon? Did they not have pointless lives to live? Silly interests to pursue? Things to do, see, and above all else, judge? He blew out a breath, his eyes traveling from one shouting fool to the next. Did they know her personally? Is that why they had come? Were they her friends? Relatives? Former lovers? Were they here at her behest, or was she out there, among them?
And which of them—if any—was innocent? In the blink of an eye, nine years had passed, yet here they were, acting righteous and indi
gnant, pointing fingers and calling him names. Frowning, he pondered the meaning of freedom, balancing reality with his prison expectations. Freedom wasn’t supposed to be like this. This was his second chance, his next big break. This was the moment he’d imagined for years. What a fool he had been, how naïve and childlike. He wondered if peace and quiet would always elude him.
Stretching up on the tips of his toes, he tried to get a glimpse of the shadowed man, but couldn’t. With a sigh, he approached the front desk agent, fished the wad of bills from his pocket and set his hands to the laminated surface. The hotel clerk was pale and twitchy, and focused on his green computer screen. He was rude. When he refused to make eye contact, Carlton huffed in anger. Was this the freedom he’d been waiting for? The profound disrespect? The utter disregard?
A thwack against the window set the idiot clerk into sudden motion. His hands were trembling. He picked at a nail. Without a word, he processed the keys—strange plastic ones with a logo on the side—and took the wadded bills from Carlton’s hands. He didn’t ask for Carlton’s name, or whether he smoked, what view he preferred. Not that views matter much to Carlton. Neither did meaningless conversation, for that matter. He was focused on getting his ass to his room, and the gleaming glass of whiskey he’d enjoy once he got there.
“This dump got a bar?” he asked, startling the agent with the sound of his voice. Raising his head, the kid leveled a blank stare. He tried to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. His mouth hung open like a fish out of water. Like a dullard he was as his throat tried to work.
“Cat got your tongue, kid? I asked if this dump has a bar. Where’s it at?”
After pushing the keys toward Carlton’s hands, he pointed to a Happy Hour sign, down the hall, perched atop a tripod, the words scrawled in bubble letters.
Carlton gathered his keys with haste. He better get used to this shit, he told himself, to the blank stares and the piss-poor service, to the trembling hands and the blatant disrespect. Maybe that cop had been right. Maybe it was time to leave California after all, to pick up what little he had left and move on. Maybe it was time to face the cold hard truth. Perhaps he had overstayed his welcome.
