Carved in Stone

by Julia Shupe

  “Ew!” I said, smiling. “TMI. But you’re right. We will find him. Because we have to. I just need to regain my focus.”

  “What’s splitting your focus?”

  “Danny.”

  “Okay. So what’s going on with Danny?”

  “It’s not Danny, so to speak. It’s what we’re doing to Danny—Scott and I, I mean. We’re tearing him apart. Lately, he’s been doing this thing in the car, rocking himself, like he’s trying to find comfort.”

  “Rocking himself?”

  “In the back seat of the car. It’s a gentle motion. He’s not hurting himself. He just looks out the window and rocks.”

  “Lots of kids do that. It’s nothing to worry about. I’ve seen it countless times in interrogation rooms. It’s a coping mechanism to ease stress.”

  “Thanks. That makes me feel so much better.” I glanced at him sidelong, hungry for an outside opinion on the matter. “Do you think the divorce is traumatizing him? Do you think he’s trying to cope with stress? Is he trying to give himself something I’m not?”

  “No. I didn’t say that. I don’t think the rocking is even about you. I actually think it’s quite normal. I think he’s working through something in his mind. Let him do it. You can’t do everything for him. Let him figure a few things out for himself. Give him some time. Kids are resilient. You know that.”

  “You sound like my therapist.”

  I heard him take a breath. “You have a therapist now? How long has that been going on?”

  “Long enough. She helps me. She’s a good sounding board.”

  “What about Linda?”

  “I have to be careful around Linda. I have to wear a mask, walk on eggshells. With Linda, I only share the positive things, but with my therapist, I let all the nastiness hang out.”

  He stopped and moved to the edge of the path. We’d almost reached the bank of doors at the entrance. Bending over, he plucked a flower from the garden, one of several gardens that blanketed the lawn. The Flushing High School groundskeeper deserved some kind of award. The landscape was spectacular. I peered at beds of brightly colored perennials, in vibrant shades of blues, violets, and reds. Jacob stepped closer and raised a hand to my face. His cheeks were flushed, but his eyes seemed sad. With a confident hand, he smoothed back my hair then anchored a flower behind my ear. It was intimate. I took a step closer.

  “You can let all the nastiness hang out with me, too. I’m still the same guy you knew in high school. I’ll always be your number one fan.” His hand cupped my cheek. I could barely take a breath. “I don’t think you have enough friends here, Vanessa. You seem lonely to me. You need someone to talk to—someone you don’t have to pay by the hour. And whether you know it or not, I’m here for you. I always have been, and I always will be. I’ll be a part of your life for as long as you’ll have me.”

  Staring into his green eyes, I felt my gut tighten. Jacob, for me, was the road not taken, and I suddenly wondered why the hell I hadn’t taken it. How had I let him slip away for all these years? For a moment, disappointment was heavy on my shoulders. We rarely regret our failures in life. It’s the missed opportunities that keep us up at night.

  “I messed up,” I whispered, “back in college.” I was suddenly unable to bite back the words. “You came to me, but I fucked it all up.” I caught his arm, my fingers like talons on his sleeve. “I wasn’t myself back then; I wasn’t me. I’m not even sure who I was. I wish I could take it all back, Jake. I’m sorry. I wish—”

  Shit. I clamped my mouth shut. What did I wish for? What was I saying? Taking a step back, I tried to collect myself.

  His lips curved into a familiar warm smile. “You should be sorry. You owe me. Big time. I’ve been waiting for that apology for more than a decade.” He cocked his head. “Can I ask you a question?”

  I nodded because I didn’t trust my voice.

  “Why did you push me away back then? I was right in front of you, ready to commit. I thought you were ready, too, which was why I came to see you in the first place. When we spoke on the phone, you sounded so good, but when I got there, everything changed. You were distant, hollow. You treated me like a stranger.”

  I shrugged away from the arm he’d placed on my shoulder. “I wasn’t ready for a commitment back then. I had too much shit going on in my head. My mother had only been gone for a year, and I think I was still waiting for her to come back. I was still expecting her to walk through the door. I was deep in denial, Jacob. Deep.” Unhooking the flower from my ear, I slid it into the pocket of my parka. “By the time I was ready, you were already gone.”

  He turned away from me, ascended the first steps. I followed, fingering the soft petals in my pocket, and wondering if we’d ever be the same. I had my doubts. While focused on putting one foot in front of the other, I barely noticed something bright in my peripheral vision, the streaking yellow blur of a raincoat.

  I visored my brow with my hand.

  Jacob turned.

  “What?” he asked, following my stare.

  “What the fuck?” I murmured beneath my breath. My vision had always been sharp, like a hawk’s, and I was certain it wasn’t lying to me now.

  “What?” he repeated, moving protectively closer.

  “I know that guy. What the hell is he doing here?”

  “Who? What guy?”

  “Over there.” I pointed. “Brian. I think his name is Brian. I just met him a few weeks ago, at my therapist’s office. He’s the new receptionist.”

  We watched Brian slide behind the wheel of a late-model Ford Explorer. He’d been looking at us—at me. I was certain. Jacob must have been certain of it too, for he exploded off the front steps and ran toward the car. As Brian merged into traffic, Jacob lifted his phone, snapped a photo, and said. “Looks like we have ourselves another suspect.”

  Chapter 34

  Reviewing video surveillance is tedious. It’s difficult to keep the mind from wandering. I watched the images flash across the screen, while Gil slurped coffee beside me.

  “There,” I pointed out. “That guy. He was there three times that week, twice the week before. What about him?”

  “What about him, Ness? What makes him different from anyone else? It’s a goddamned coffee shop. What did you expect? I have a better relationship with my barista than with my mother.” He tossed a half-eaten congealed Egg-McMuffin into the garbage pail. “Hope Jacob’s having better luck at Dr. Hagen’s office.”

  I grunted but didn’t speak. I was annoyed about that. Jacob had insisted on visiting Adrianna. He’d called ahead and made an appointment, but resisted my pleas to tag along.

  “You’re too close to this,” he’d said. “I’ve never met Dr. Hagen, which makes it more official. She’s likelier to talk to just me.”

  “But the principal confirmed Brian’s niece is a student. She’s a freshman, Jake. He had a right to be there. Last time I checked, it wasn’t against the law to visit your niece at her high school.”

  “You don’t find it coincidental? What if he was watching you, Ness?”

  “And what if he wasn’t? What if he was visiting his niece, and that’s all? Don’t you think you’re being paranoid?”

  Jacob and I had argued briefly, but in the end, I’d let him have his way. I’d forgotten how stubborn he could be. I focused my attention on the images in front of me, on Angela, tending the customer counter, with a stream of coffee addicts undulating in front of her.

  “Gil,” I said, “where’s this camera located?”

  “This one’s mounted on the eastern wall, in the corner of the room, above the sitting area. There’s another at the entrance. Why? What do you see?”

  I frowned. This was already feeling like a waste of time to me. “Nothing yet. And I don’t think I will. Wouldn’t you expect him to be wary of buildings with cameras? I doubt he’d choose such a conspicuous hunting ground.”

  “He probably doesn’t know he was filmed. The footage you’re looking at is fr
om a hidden camera. It’s a spy-cam built to resemble a smoke detector.”

  Leaning in close, I tried to concentrate on facial characteristics. I was logging dates and times when Harry came bounding through the door.

  “We’ve ID’d another vic,” he said, breathlessly.

  Dialing Lisa’s number, Gil put her on speakerphone. “Whatchoo got, Ace?”

  “CDP 17. That’s what I’ve got. Formerly known as Alaina Mills. She’s our strangulation vic, age twenty-one.”

  “Who identified the body?” Gil asked. “And how?”

  “That,” Harry offered, looking proud of himself. “Would be me.” He smoothed his spreadsheet on the table. “Alaina—and twenty-nine others, I might add—match CPD 17’s height and weight, and the time frame was perfect. From there, it was just the simple process of elimination.”

  “So what’s her story?” Gill asked. “She a prostitute?”

  Harry shook his head. “Nope. A student at UT, as in the University of Tampa. She’s a sophomore there. I requested her transcripts. She only takes nine credits a semester. She’s taking it slow, working part time. Right now, she’s working at The Secret Garden nursery on 8th.”

  “Well,” Lisa corrected him grimly. “She isn’t working anywhere right now. But the condition of her body is consistent with the others: multiple injuries, bloody gums, colonies of spores in the lungs. She died of strangulation, but I think she was hit with a piece of sharp metal, something that left a unique impression.”

  “Other injuries?” I pressed, preparing myself for a harrowing list of atrocities.

  “Same as the others, a smorgasbord of ghastly abuse: shallow stab wounds across the legs, arms, and abdomen, not meant to kill but to inflict the maximum amount of pain; torn rotator cuff; dislocated shoulder; burns on her belly.”

  “Was she raped?” I asked.

  “Multiple times—vaginally and anally.”

  Gil stood up and stretched his arms toward the ceiling. “I’ve heard enough. Let’s get after it, Ness. You and I are at the nursery. Pronto. Harry, make the call to the parents. Get ‘em down here as fast as you can.”

  “It’s six-thirty, boss. You won’t make it in time. Nursery closes at seven o’clock.”

  “They won’t be closing at seven o’clock tonight.” Gil turned to me. “We’ll call ahead from the car. Think loverboy will want to meet us there?”

  I sighed. There went another quiet dinner with Danny, which was another failure on my part, and another chink in Scott’s already strong armor. It was another night Linda would be covering for me. Donning my parka, I clipped my badge to the lapel, and hoped against hope that he wouldn’t find out.

  Chapter 35

  The Shadow Man

  The beer was an award for a particularly hard day. It had been long and hot, the sun beating down upon his back. He’d spent the entire day dreaming of his first sip. He was sweaty and sick, and he wanted to be alone. Dirt was caked under his fingernails, in his hair. It was a swirling pattern on the pads of his fingers. He sank onto the musty sofa and anchored his boots on the coffee table’s edge. A trail of mud marked his footpath from the door.

  The mess mattered little, if at all. Despite his attempts to dress the place up, it had always been—and would always be—a shit hole. The landlord hadn’t visited since he’d first signed the lease. He was fairly certain she lived in China, and owned the house outright. And if she didn’t care, why should he?

  He picked his nails and surveyed the room. His landlord’s absenteeism had its advantages. The lack of attention, for Carlton, was ideal. The circumstances suit him perfectly. As long as the rent arrived on time, she couldn’t care less what he did.

  It was perfect.

  It had been five years since he’d moved into this neighborhood, ten since he’d saved enough money to create this small slice of hell. Finishing the can of beer in three large swallows, he dropped his head to the cushions and closed his eyes. The AC unit hummed a low tune from the open window, while crickets plucked harmonies on forewings from the other side.

  He breathed evenly, the smell of his shirt, sour and musty, and eyed the empty can of beer. After a hard day of digging in dirt, he would forgive himself the indulgence. He’d try to cut back—tomorrow, he thought, or Monday of next week, or the week after that. Tonight, however, wasn’t an option. Tonight, he welcomed the fog in his head. Clarity wasn’t his goal. He wanted to forget what he’d seen in the papers. He needed a reprieve from worrying about it. Since he’d first seen the headlines, early this morning, he’d thought of little else. His thoughts had spun wild. A killer was taking women hostage, holding them, and burying their mutilated bodies at a local preserve.

  He hoisted himself off the sofa and stretched, turned on the television, and grabbed a second beer from the fridge. The evening news came blaring from the speakers. Stocks were down. Oil prices were up, and a serial killer was hunting the streets of Sarasota, burying his prey ten minutes from Carlton’s home. It was almost too much to digest. It was frightening. His gut clenched when he considered the details.

  Kicking off his boots and flexing his toes on the woven rug, he cracked open his can of beer and began a nervous pace around the room. Stick to the facts, he told himself. What did he know? What had been released? Not many details had been given to the public, but that didn’t mean there weren’t details to give. Cops never showed their winning hand. Not completely. They held back the important things, things only the killer would know. It helped flush out the crazies, the wannabies, the demented fools seeking fifteen minutes of fame.

  They could have their fame, he thought, frowning. They could take that fame, and shove it up their asses. He remembered his own fifteen minutes, thirty years ago. Trailside Skinner: he’d hated that name. It had taken twenty years to get past it, to finally fade from public eye. Fame didn’t suit him. He’d never enjoyed it, never hungered for it the way most people did.

  The brunette on the television was talking about the killings, about rape, abuse, and a lengthy captivity, and he moved through the room like a wandering cat, peering out of windows and the sliding glass door.

  The whispering, when it came, was ghostlike.

  What are you thinking, brother?

  Heart pounding, he spun in a circle. Gooseflesh crawled across his arms and down his legs. His hackles rose, and his knees locked up. “Please,” he whispered. “Just leave me alone.”

  He checked behind closed doors with trembling hands, in closets, and beneath the dark bed. He was loosing himself, a little more each day. Sanity was slipping from his grasp. He could feel it. Suddenly longing to be outside, he crossed the room to the sliding glass door. Fresh air would do him a world of good, and what he needed right now was a clear head. There had to be a rational explanation for this, for the missing blocks of time, and for the strange places he was finding himself.

  Stepping outside, he crossed the yard, to a dense bank of trees behind the house. Parts of an old car—on blocks—was rusting in the corner. In the east, tall grasses were growing in patches, and weeds covered everything else. Why had he never taken care of this mess? Why was he such a lazy shit? He tended people’s gardens for a living, and loved it. He made things beautiful and lush for other people, while letting his own things rot and shrivel. What the hell was wrong with him? Did he have no respect for himself? For his life?

  His mind reached for Dr. Sandra Waite’s face. If she saw where he lived, she’d say he was unconsciously punishing himself. She’d suggest he was living out a sentence he’d imposed. And wouldn’t she be right? Wasn’t that exactly what he was doing? Wasn’t that the cold hard truth? He gazed at the borders of the property and frowned. Did he not deserve better than this squalor? It wasn’t as if he lacked the money. He didn’t have much, of course, but it was enough to live a comfortable life. Why did he never want for more?

  He moved toward the property line, his eyes glued to the stars. Clouds were draping a sweeping gown across the moon, bathing the
yard in ethereal light. At the edge of the trees, the ground rose beneath his feet. He stepped up onto a rounded hummock. Hugging his body, he swayed with the trees. Could it really be true? Had he murdered those women at Cowpen Slough? Had he raped them? Held them? Tortured and beat them beyond recognition? There were long stretches of time he couldn’t account for, places he’d awakened that he couldn’t remember driving to. What did he do when his mind was somewhere else? Why the hell couldn’t he recall his own actions?

  Who, he wondered—and what—did he become?

  He tapped his foot against the gentle mound of earth. He was perfectly capable of committing those crimes. He wasn’t perplexed about that. There was a time, long ago, when he’d fought those urges, a time when he’d try to be a better man. But as a man grows older, he learns a thing or two. He accepts his shortcomings. He learns who he is. Stops punishing himself for what he isn’t.

  Carlton smiled.

  Sandra would be proud of that little nugget of truth, and probably surprised he’d discovered it on his own.

  His smile slowly bled to a frown.

  Wouldn’t she point out another obvious truth? If he was responsible for putting those women in the ground, he should damn well know he had done it. He should own it. He should remember it with pride, regret, or even horror. He should remember every moment the way he often remembered Meghan.

  Staring into the darkness of the trees, he took comfort in the silence, and the ground beneath his feet. The smell of quicklime was acrid on his tongue. He loved this place. The voices rarely followed him here. It was here that he always found peace.

  Blackouts notwithstanding, Cowpen Slough didn’t make a lick of sense. He’d embraced who he was a long time ago. He’d finally turned from the dark and stopped hiding. That wasn’t to say he didn’t sometimes feel remorse, or wish he were a different kind of man. But he’d found a strange peace with who he was, and what he was. He was a killer, a monster, a freak. He’d tried to be different, to be better, to be normal, but there was no normal. That was the dirty little secret of life. He would always try to resist the temptations, but when he succumbed to them—which he always did—he could forgive himself the indulgence. He could try to suppress his natural instincts all he wanted, but his efforts would inevitably fail. He was who he was, like it or not. Like a leopard, he could never change his spots.