A blood trail led up the front steps, beneath the crime scene tape, and through the front door. Quiet and careful, Will entered the living room. Lit by the soft glow of the overhead fixture, shadows flickered and flitted in the dark corners, disappearing when he trained his gun on them.
The air felt heavy. Violence lingered there, seeping into the floorboards as tangible as Shelby’s blood and making its indelible mark. The smell, too, Will knew. Metallic and sharp, it grew stronger as he worked his way through the cabin, room by room, clearing the kitchen, the bathroom. The entryway.
The silence unnerved him; it didn’t last long. The cabin gave up its secrets all at once.
A gurgle. A gasp. A soft, mechanical whirring.
Will followed the trail of blood toward the sounds and positioned himself outside the bedroom, his Glock ready to fire. He peered in, trying to make sense of the scene, methodically cataloguing the evidence as he moved. He shut off the other part of himself. The part that desperately wanted to look away.
The night air rushed in through a smattering of bullet-sized holes in the window. The red eye of a video camera looked back at him, mirroring his own brand of practiced neutrality.
Will skirted the periphery, checking the closet. Empty. Kept his eyes on the door, his finger on the trigger, as he finally approached ground zero. The two vacant folding chairs at the center of the room, where blood had pooled beneath the body. Seeped from the mouth and ran down the neck.
He dropped to a knee, pressed his fingers to the woman’s carotid, searching for a pulse. He waited. Felt nothing. His fingers came back warm and wet and red.
The creak of footsteps brought Will to his feet in a hurry. He sprang up, aiming his gun at the shadowy figure in the doorway.
Forty-Seven
Olivia stared down the barrel of Deck’s gun, its unfeeling eye trained on her. She’d been too afraid to call out to him. Even now, her hands shook as she raised them at her sides. In the last few months, she’d come to realize that shattering her father’s beer bottle targets as a kid meant nothing in the real world. Where aiming a gun meant you had to be prepared to fire it, to accept the devastation it would cause, justified or not. Somehow she hadn’t understood it until this past December when she’d nearly been shot herself.
“It’s me,” she said. “It’s me.”
“I told you to stay at the house.”
Olivia noticed his fingers then, blood red.
“You didn’t come back. I got worried.” She stepped closer, across the threshold and into the room, gasping at the body slumped on the floor. Though she’d only seen the woman once before, she recognized the face from the diner. From the case file, too. Shelby’s old friend, Drea.
“Oh my God. What happened?”
Deck pointed to the splintered window. “Shot through the window, it looks like.”
“Is she…?”
The approaching sirens came as a comfort. A salve against his words. “No signs of life.”
Olivia forced herself to look away from the blood. From the limp body, the pale face. It took her right back to the Double Rock, to Apartment E, to a time and place she never wanted to revisit. “Was there someone else here? I saw a car out front.”
“Heather Hoffman.” Deck pushed past her, pointing to the floor, where the drops led out the door like breadcrumbs. “I think that’s her blood. I’m going after her.”
Forty-Eight
Will bounded out the front door, his heart still racing at the thought of Olivia’s raised hands, her startled eyes. The job came down to a razor-thin line. A split-second firing of neurons. One quick decision between a moment of relief and a lifetime of regret. Between himself and Ben. A cop and a criminal.
The first in a line of patrol cars sped up the dirt road, wailing, and into the driveway. Its headlamps spotlighted Will, as Graham flung open the door and rushed toward him, with Jessie two steps behind.
“What’s going on?” Graham demanded, his eyes darting to the Corvette.
“Multiple shots fired. One female victim inside. No pulse. And we’ve got a blood trail heading toward the road. A possible second victim.”
Graham gaped over Will’s shoulder toward the cabin, his face whitening.
“It’s not Heather in there.”
“Who then?”
Will took a breath, the woman’s face—ashen and slack-jawed—fresh in his mind. He’d seen it before on the mug shot he’d printed out and given to JB before their trip to Alder Street. Petty theft the most serious of her offenses. “Drea Marsh. She’s connected to the girl we found in the barrel.”
“Shit. Where’s Heather?” Graham ran a frantic hand through his hair, finally disheveling it. The gelled pieces remained askew. “I told her not to come back here.”
“Well, she obviously didn’t listen.”
Graham looked to the ground, where Will had shined his flashlight on a bright red droplet. “You said there’s a second—”
Will let the flashlight’s beam fall to his feet. “Not a good idea, man. Go inside. Help Olivia. Your partner and I will find Heather.”
“Olivia? What’s she doing here?”
But Will had already left him, jogging along the pavement to catch up to Jessie. She’d gone on ahead, following the trail that led into the ditch by Wolver Hollow Road. A few patrol officers tailed her with their flashlights, flagging down the ambulance as it barreled toward them.
Will had nearly reached her when he spotted a small object glinting in the roadway.
“Got a shell casing.” He pulled up short and crouched to examine it, its distance from the cabin explaining the lapse in time before the last gunshot. “Looks like it’s from a .45 caliber.”
“Hey, over here!” Jessie high-stepped through the tall grass, pointing into the trees, already on the radio calling for a second ambulance. Squinting, Will could make out a shape, an unmoving lump on the ground.
Just then, from behind them, “I found something.” Will turned to the patrol officer, who’d raised his find into the night air like a fisherman displaying his prize catch. In his gloved hand, a high-heeled shoe.
Forty-Nine
Olivia hadn’t moved. She waited in the doorway of the bedroom where Deck had left her, staring at the red-eyed video camera perched like a bird of prey atop the tripod. Positioned alongside the folding chairs, its lens pointed away from the window. She shuddered at the thought that it had continued to roll, capturing the moment the first bullet had penetrated Drea’s chest. Her gray Led Zeppelin T-shirt—the same one she’d been wearing at the café—had turned the color of burgundy wine.
Drea lay splayed on the floor where she’d fallen. Her black hair spilled around her wildly, forming a macabre frame around her pale face. Olivia struggled to imagine her dead. She seemed almost peaceful but for the blood that trickled down her neck, bisecting her spiderweb tattoo.
But Olivia had viewed enough crime scene photos to know the two small perforations in the material above her breast didn’t tell the full story. A bullet devastated from the inside, tumbling around and tearing through flesh and bone and muscle. Vital organs too. Before it made its way out or lodged itself in. Like the other bullets that had struck the wall.
Steeling herself, Olivia stepped inside to examine the holes the bullets had left in the redwood paneling. One shot had nearly pierced the ceiling, but most had dead-ended near the heating vent, one of the bullets striking the screw and knocking the cover half off.
Olivia crouched down, peering into the dusty space where the vent had been affixed. In a thick layer of dust, she spotted a strip of corded blue fabric.
“Liv?” Graham burst in with the paramedics, looking like a man possessed. She’d never seen him so disheveled. Even the morning after that one regrettable night they’d spent together. “What the hell? You shouldn’t be in here. It’s not safe.”
“Is she breathing?” The female EMT began cutting away the blood-soaked shirt to affix the AED.
“No
,” Olivia answered. “She wasn’t breathing when we got here. No heartbeat either.”
Graham lorded over her. “Olivia. Out. Now.”
She nodded, even stood up and pretended to move toward the door. As soon as he’d been sufficiently distracted by the emergency personnel tending to Drea, her curiosity compelled her back to the vent. She reached inside and tugged on the strip, bringing something heavier into view. A quick glance over her shoulder, and she leaned toward the opening, puzzling at what she saw.
A blue duffel, Bayview Broncos printed on the side. The team logo cracked with age.
“I thought I told you to—” Graham knelt next to her. “What is it?”
Lightheaded, Olivia sat back against the wall. When she didn’t answer, he pulled the bag from the vent, coughing from the dust cloud.
It sat between them. A time capsule, soiled with dirt and all-knowing. On the side of the canvas, a name had been printed in black marker, probably by a mother who knew kids had a tendency to lose things. KRIS MAYFIELD, it read.
Fifty
Heather Hoffman lay face down in the dirt, bleeding from a gunshot wound to the upper back. Her arm, too, had been grazed, her blouse torn by the bullet. Strands of her hair had tangled in the underbrush; her face scratched by brambles. Jessie discovered her other shoe nearby, the heel broken. Her cell phone, half-buried in a pile of leaves.
“Heather!” Will knelt beside her. He ripped the shredded arm of her blouse and held the cloth against the wound to stop the bleeding. “Can you hear me?”
She groaned against the ground, drifting in and out of consciousness. Her hand curled in the weeds, then went limp again. Will had to talk to her. It might be his last chance.
“Who did this to you?”
He shook her shoulder and asked again, more urgent this time.
Heather turned her head and opened her mouth, her eyes wide and darting. No sound came out. The answer—if she had one—trapped within her.
Will watched as the paramedics carted Heather away on a stretcher, the ambulance blaring up the road toward the highway and taking the turn toward Fog Harbor General. In the sudden silence that followed, Will tried to get his bearings. Tried to make sense of it all. But he came up empty, too stunned to think straight. When they’d unearthed Shelby’s body, he’d never imagined it leading here. To another victim. Possibly two.
He trudged back toward the house, pausing at the place where he’d found the shell casing. It had already been flagged with a yellow evidence marker. The whole road blocked now to incoming traffic with Officer “Bulldog” Bullock stationed out front keeping watch. Cops combed the ditch and the woods for the smallest clue.
JB stuck his head out the window of his Camaro as he slow-rolled under the yellow tape Bullock held up for him. “What’d ya get us mixed up in this time?”
Will walked alongside the car, briefing JB on the night’s events. He pulled into the yard and parked at periphery.
“Jeez, Louise. Do you think Hoffman was the target? It sounds like the shooter chased her down after she hightailed it outta there.”
“I think it was the other way around. I think Heather pursued the shooter. All the shots came from outside the window, and there’s no evidence the shooter entered the cabin. You know Heather. She just wanted a better look. Anything for a story.”
“Ain’t that the truth.” JB shook his head, disgusted. “Did she say anything?”
“She tried, but…”
“Then she damn well better live through the night.”
Fifty-One
“I think you should wait for Deck… uh, Detective Decker.” Olivia looked on while Graham openly violated evidence procedure by hauling the duffel bag into the living room, where he placed it on the raised stone hearth. “At least put your gloves on.”
“I’m a detective now too, you know.” Thankfully, he complied, slipping on a pair of latex gloves before he started fumbling with the duffel’s zipper. “Minor crimes. But I’m working my way up.”
Olivia rolled her eyes but kept her mouth shut. She’d go easy on him for now. Since he’d gotten word over his radio about Heather’s condition a few minutes ago, Graham had been hellbent on distracting himself, turning his attention to the treasured clue she’d found in the vent.
She couldn’t stand to watch Graham rummage through the bag like a hungry bear. But she couldn’t walk away either. Not now that he’d opened the duffel and pulled back the canvas.
When Olivia spied Deck and JB at the front door, she let out a breath, relieved to have back-up. The moment she waved them over, Graham started running his mouth, taking credit and trying to explain himself.
“I found it in the heating vent. Naturally, I started to investigate. I had to open it up. It could’ve been an incendiary device. The kind that would’ve blown us all sky-high.”
Olivia cleared her throat.
“Alright, you got me. She found it.”
“Incendiary device, my ass.” JB let out an exasperated sigh and glared at Graham. “Well, what the hell is it? And why are your filthy paws all over it?”
“It belonged to Shelby,” Deck announced. His eyes had gone right to the black marker. “Her mom said her brother’s athletic bag was missing.”
Graham resumed his single-minded search, his hands hovering over the top of the bag, ready to pluck the Mary Jane doll from the bowels of the duffel where it had been stuffed for the last thirty-five years. Olivia spotted the yarn hair, the yellow button eyes peeking up at them.
“Are you out of your damn mind?” JB’s hand shot out, blocking him. “You ever hear of a little thing called chain of custody?”
Olivia fought off a twinge of sympathy when Graham stared at him, dumbstruck.
“How about preservation of evidence? Does that ring any bells?”
As Graham’s face finally caught up, turning smug, Olivia’s sympathy disappeared. He reached across JB, securing the bag and sliding it toward him. “C’mon, Gramps. Aren’t we trying to solve a murder here? I can’t be bothered with red tape. Not when we’ve got two more victims. Heather is counting on me.”
“Call me Gramps again, and I’ll show you how us old guys handle business.”
The two men squared off, both fuming, until Deck put a hand on Graham’s shoulder. “You know, you’re right. Someone should be there with Heather. The moment she wakes up we’ll need to get her statement. Can you handle that?”
Graham shrugged Deck off and huffed out a breath through his nostrils, but he nodded his agreement. He stalked out the front door without another word.
“The moment she wakes up?” JB asked, with raised eyebrows. “And what if she doesn’t?”
“At least he’s out of our hair.” Deck held up a finger and answered his ringing cell phone. He listened for a moment, his face darkening. “Understood. Thanks.”
When he turned to face them, Olivia’s stomach dropped.
“That was the hospital. They confirmed Drea was dead on arrival.”
Fifty-Two
Will watched from the porch as crime scene tech Steve Li carefully bagged the duffel and hauled it out to the van for transport to the lab. For the district attorney’s sake, he hoped Graham hadn’t left his fingerprints all over it. Murder cases were hard enough to prove without an inept cop muddying the waters. Bedside duty at Fog Harbor General seemed a safe spot for Graham. Even so, Will didn’t trust him not to screw it up. He’d asked Jessie to tag along to captain the wayward ship. And he fully intended to head over himself when—if—Heather opened her eyes.
JB had retreated inside to secure the rest of the evidence, including the video footage, before they headed back to the station to regroup. On the outskirts of the house, the crime scene techs had begun marking the shell casings and dusting surfaces for prints, the same as they’d done inside the bedroom.
From her seat on the front steps, Olivia looked up at Will with worried eyes. “You okay?” she asked. “That was pretty intense.”
�
��Yeah.” Will wondered when he’d grown used to the chaos. To the head-spinning adrenaline rush. To the smell of blood and the glazed look of a victim’s eyes halfway between life and death. “What about you? I told you to stay at the house.”
He joined her on the steps, grateful for the momentary reprieve. For a chance to float a theory. For the opportunity to be next to her, too, if he was being honest.
“You said that once already.”
He shrugged, laissez-faire, but it irked him the way she took risks. Unnecessary ones. “Here I was thinking that if I repeated myself enough times you’d actually listen.”
“Psychologically speaking, the more you repeat yourself, the less I need to listen. You’re actually just training me to tune you out.”
“So, you’re saying your stubbornness has a psychological explanation?”
“Not only that.” She gave him a teasing smile, bumped his shoulder with her own. “I’m saying you only have yourself to blame.”
Will groaned and stood up, planning to head back toward the house to find JB. The guy who still had a flip phone and carried an atlas in his car. With his technological expertise, he’d probably managed to delete the video footage by now.
But Olivia grabbed his arm, pinning him in place. “Your killer is running scared, don’t you think?”
“Tough to say. It’s still too early to draw any conclusions. We need to review all the evidence.”
She huffed out a breath, cocked her head at him. “Is that your official position, Detective? I’m not a reporter, you know. I’m on your team.”
“My gut feeling?” Will’s gut had been churning from the sound of the first bullet, telling him to keep his eyes and ears open. “Drea knew something. Maybe something she planned to share with Heather. That’s what got her killed.”
Her Perfect Bones: A totally addictive mystery and suspense novel Page 18
