Presumed Guilty

by Tess Gerritsen

  He dialed the San Diego Union. No one named Jill Vickery had ever worked there.

  Ditto for San Francisco.

  Half the résumé was a fraud. Was it just a case of padding a thin work history? And what was she doing during those eight years between college and her job with the San Jose Times?

  Once again he reached for the phone. This time he called Columbia University, Department of Journalism. In any given year, how many students could possibly graduate with a master’s degree? And how many of these students would have the first name Jill?

  There was only one in 1979, they told him. But it wasn’t a Jill Vickery who’d graduated. It was a Jill Westcott.

  Once again, he called the San Diego Union. This time he asked about a Jill Westcott. This time they remembered the name. We’ll fax you the article, they said.

  A few minutes later it slid out of the fax machine, sharp and clear.

  A photo of Jill Westcott, now named Jill Vickery. And with it was a tale of cold-blooded murder.

  * * *

  Miranda sat in the fading light of day and stared listlessly at her surroundings. She’d spent the afternoon rummaging through the bathroom and two bedrooms. Now she was hot, dusty and discouraged. Nothing of substance had turned up, only innocuous bits of paper—store receipts, a ten-year-old postcard from Spain, another typewritten note from M.

  ...I am not the weak little nothing I used to be. I can live without you quite nicely, and I intend to do so. I don’t need your pity. I am not like the others, those women with minds the size of walnut shells. What I want to know, what I don’t understand, is what attracts you to creatures like that? Is it the jiggling flesh? The cow-eyed worship? Well, it doesn’t mean a thing. It’s empty devotion. Without your money, you wouldn’t rate a second glance from those bimbos. I’m the only one who doesn’t give a damn how much you have in the bank. And now you’ve lost me.

  The bitterness, the pain of that letter seemed to rub off on her own mood. She put it back in the drawer, buried it among the silky underclothes. Another woman’s lingerie. Another woman’s anguish.

  By the time she’d straightened up the room again the afternoon had slid toward twilight. She didn’t turn on the lamp. It was soothing, the veil of semidarkness, the chirp of crickets through the open window. From the field came that indefinable scent of evening—the mist from the sea, the cooling grasses. She went to a chair by the window, sat down and leaned her head back to rest. So many doubts, so many worries weighed upon her. Always, looming over every tentative moment of joy, was that threat of prison. There were times, during these past few days of freedom, that she had almost been able to push the thought from mind. But in the moments like this, when the silence was deep and she was alone in her fears, the image of prison bars seemed to close around her. How many years will they keep me? Ten, twenty, a lifetime?

  I would rather die.

  She shuddered back to alertness.

  Downstairs, the screen door had softly squealed open.

  “Chase?” she called. “Is that you?” There was silence. She rose from the chair and went to the top of the stairs. “Chase?”

  She heard the screen door softly tap shut, then there was nothing, only the distant chirp of crickets from the fields.

  Her first instinct was to reach for the light switch. Just in time she stopped herself. Darkness was her friend. It would hide her, protect her.

  She shrank away from the stairs. Trembling, she stood with her back pressed against the wall and listened. No new sounds drifted up from the first floor. All she heard was the hammering of her own heartbeat. Her palms were slick. Every nerve ending was scraped raw with fear.

  There it was—a footstep. In the kitchen. An image shot through her mind. The cabinets, the drawers. The knives.

  Her breath was coming in tight gasps. She shrank farther from the stairs, her thoughts flying frantically toward escape. Two upstairs bedrooms, plus a bathroom. And screens on all the windows. Could she make it through in time?

  From below came more footsteps. The intruder had moved out of the kitchen. He was approaching the stairs.

  Miranda fled into the master bedroom. Darkness obscured her path; she collided with a nightstand. A lamp wobbled, fell over. The clatter as it crashed to the floor was all the intruder needed to direct him toward this bedroom.

  In panic she dashed to the window. Through the darkness she saw a portion of gently sloping roof. From there it would be a twenty-foot drop to the ground. The sash was already up. Only the screen stood between her and freedom. She shoved at it—and it refused to push free. Only then did she see that the screen had been nailed to the window frame.

  Frantic now, she began to kick at the steel mesh, sobbing as each blow met resistance. Again and again she kicked, and each time the wire sagged outward, but held.

  A footstep creaked on the stairway.

  She aimed a last desperate kick at the mesh.

  The window frame splintered, and the whole screen fell away and thudded to the ground. At once she scrambled over the sill and dropped down onto the ledge of the roof. There she hesitated, torn between the solid comfort of shingles beneath her feet and the free-fall of escape. She couldn’t see what lay directly below. The rosebushes? She grabbed hold of the roof and lowered her body over the edge. For a few seconds she clung there, steeling herself for the impact.

  She let go.

  The night air rushed up at her. The fall seemed endless, a hurtling downward through space and darkness.

  Her feet slammed into the ground. Instantly her legs buckled, and she fell sprawling to the gravel. For a moment she lay there as the sky whirled overhead like a kaleidoscope of stars. A frantic burst of adrenaline had masked all the sensation of pain. Her legs could be shattered. She wouldn’t have felt it. She knew only that she had to escape, had to run.

  She staggered to her feet and began to stumble down the road. She rounded the bend of the driveway—

  And was instantly blinded by a pair of headlights leaping at her from the darkness. Instinctively she raised her arms to shield her eyes against the onslaught. She heard the car’s brakes lock, heard gravel fly under the skidding tires. The door swung open.

  “Miranda?”

  With a sob of joy she stumbled forward into Chase’s arms. “It’s you,” she cried. “Thank God it’s you.”

  “What is it?” he whispered, pulling her close against him. “Miranda, what’s happened?”

  She clung to the solid anchor of his chest. “He’s there—in the cottage—”

  “Who?”

  Suddenly, through the darkness, they both heard it: the slam of the back door, the thrash of running footsteps through the brush.

  “Get in the car!” ordered Chase. “Lock the doors!”

  “What?”

  He gave her a push. “Just do it!”

  “Chase!” she yelled.

  “I’ll be back!”

  Stunned, she watched him melt into the night, heard his footsteps thud away. Her instinct was to follow him, to stay close in case he needed her. But already she’d lost sight of him and could make out nothing but the towering shadows of trees against the starry sky, and beneath them, a darkness so thick it seemed impenetrable.

  Do what he says!

  She climbed into the car, locked the doors and felt instantly useless. While she sat here in safety Chase could be fighting for his life.

  And what good will I do him?

  She pushed open the door and scrambled out of the car, around to the rear.

  In the trunk she found a tire iron. It felt heavy and solid in her grasp. It would even the odds against any opponent. Any unarmed opponent, she was forced to amend.

  She turned, faced the forest. It loomed before her, a wall of shadow and formless threat.

 
Somewhere in that darkness Chase was in danger.

  She gripped the tire iron more tightly and started off into the night.

  * * *

  The crash of footsteps through the underbrush alerted Chase that his quarry had shifted direction. Chase veered right, in pursuit of the sound. Branches thrashed his face, bushes clawed at his trousers. The darkness was so dense under the trees that he felt like a blind man stumbling through a landscape of booby traps.

  At least his quarry would be just as blind. But maybe not as helpless, he thought, ducking under a pine branch. What if he’s armed? What if I’m being led into a trap?

  It’s a risk I have to take.

  The footsteps moved to the left of him. By slivers of starlight filtering through the trees Chase caught a glimpse of movement. That was all he could make out, shadow moving through shadow. Heedless of the branches whipping his face he plunged ahead and found himself snagged in brambles. The shadow zigzagged, flitting in and out of the cover of trees. Chase pulled free of the thicket and resumed his pursuit. He was gaining. He could hear, through the pounding of his heart, the hard breathing of his quarry. The shadow was just ahead, just beyond the next curtain of branches.

  Chase mustered a last burst of speed and broke through, into a clearing. There he came to a halt.

  His quarry had vanished. There was no movement, no sound, only the whisper of wind through the treetops. A flutter of shadow off to his right made him whirl around. Nothing there. He halted in confusion as he heard the crackle of underbrush to his left. He turned, listening for footsteps, trying to locate his quarry. Was that breathing, somewhere close by? No, the wind....

  Again, that crackle of twigs. He moved forward, one step, then another.

  Too late he felt the rush of air, the hiss of the branch as it swung its arc toward his head.

  The blow pitched him forward. He reached out to cushion the fall, felt the bite of pine needles, the slap of wet leaves as he scraped across the forest floor. He tried to cling to consciousness, to order his body to rise to its feet and face the enemy. It refused to obey. Already he saw the darkness thicken before his eyes. He wanted to curse, to rail in fury at his own helplessness. But all he could manage was a groan.

  * * *

  Pain. The pounding of a jackhammer in his head. Chase ordered it to stop, demanded it stop, but it kept beating away at his brain.

  “He’s coming around,” said a voice.

  Then another voice, softer, fearful. “Chase? Chase?”

  He opened his eyes and saw Miranda gazing down at him. The lamplight shimmered in her tumbled hair, washed like liquid gold across her cheek. Just the sight of her seemed to quiet the aching in his head. He struggled to remember where he was, how he had gotten there. An image of darkness, the shadow of trees, still lingered.

  Abruptly he tried to sit up, and caught a spinning view of other people, other faces in the room.

  “No,” said Miranda. “Don’t move. Just lie still.”

  “Someone—someone out there—”

  “He’s gone. We’ve already searched the woods,” said Lorne Tibbetts.

  Chase settled back on the couch. He knew where he was now. Miss St. John’s cottage. He recognized the chintz fabric, the jungle of plants. And the dog. The panting black mop sat near one end of the couch, watching him. Or was it? With all that hair, who could say if the beast even had eyes? Slowly Chase’s gaze shifted to the others in the room. Lorne. Ellis. Miss St. John. And Dr. Steiner, wielding his trusty penlight.

  “Pupils look fine. Equal and reactive,” said Dr. Steiner.

  “Take that blasted thing away,” Chase groaned, batting at the penlight.

  Dr. Steiner snorted. “Can’t do much damage to a head as hard as his.” He set a bottle of pills on the end table. “For the headache. May make you a little drowsy, but it’ll cut the pain.” He snapped his bag shut and headed for the door. “Call me in the morning. But not too early. And may I remind you—all of you—I do not, repeat, do not make house calls!” The door slammed shut behind him.

  “What wonderful bedside manner,” moaned Chase.

  “You remember anything?” asked Lorne.

  Chase managed to sit up. The effort sent a bolt of pain into his skull. At once he dropped his head into his hands. “Not a damn thing,” he mumbled.

  “Didn’t see his face?”

  “Just a shadow.”

  Lorne paused. “You sure there was someone there?”

  “Hey, I didn’t imagine the headache.” Chase grabbed the pill bottle, fumbled the cap off and gulped two tablets down, dry. “Someone hit me.”

  “A man? Woman?” pressed Lorne.

  “I never saw him. Her. Whatever.”

  Lorne turned to Miranda. “He was unconscious when you found him?”

  “Coming around. I heard his groans.”

  “Pardon me for asking, Ms. Wood. But can I see that tire iron you were carrying?”

  “What?”

  “The tire iron. You had it earlier.”

  Miss St. John sighed. “Don’t be ridiculous, Lorne.”

  “I’m just being thorough. I have to look at it.”

  Without a word Miranda fetched the tire iron from the porch and brought it back to Lorne. “No blood, no hair,” she said tightly. “I wasn’t the one who hit him.”

  “No, I guess not,” said Lorne.

  “Jill Vickery,” Chase muttered.

  Lorne glanced at him. “Who?”

  The pain in Chase’s head suddenly gave way to a clear memory of that afternoon. “It’s not her real name. Check with the San Diego police, Lorne. It may or may not tie in. But you’ll find she has an arrest record.”

  “For what?”

  Chase raised his head. “She killed her lover.”

  They all stared at him.

  “Jill?” said Miranda. “When did you find this out?”

  “This afternoon. It happened ten, eleven years ago. She was acquitted. Justifiable homicide. She claimed he’d threatened her life.”

  “How does this fit in with anything else?” asked Lorne.

  “I’m not sure. All I know is, half her job résumé was pure fiction. Maybe Richard found out. If he did—and confronted her...”

  Lorne turned to Miss St. John. “I need to use your telephone.”

  “In the kitchen.”

  Lorne spent only a few minutes on the phone. He emerged from the kitchen shaking his head. “Jill Vickery’s at home. Says she was home all evening.”

  “It’s only a half-hour drive to town,” said Miss St. John. “She could have made it, barely.”

  “Assuming her car was right nearby. Assuming she could slip right behind the wheel and take off.” He looked at Ellis. “You checked up and down the road?”

  Ellis nodded. “No strange cars. No one saw nothin’.”

  “Well,” said Lorne, “whoever it was, I don’t think he’ll be back.” He reached for his hat. “Take my advice, Chase. Don’t drive anywhere tonight. You’re in no shape to get behind a wheel.”

  Chase gave a tired laugh. “I wasn’t planning to.”

  “I can take him up to the cottage,” said Miranda. “I’ll keep an eye on him.”

  Lorne paused and looked first at Miranda, then at Chase. If he had doubts about the arrangement, he didn’t express them. He simply said, “You do that, Ms. Wood. You keep a good eye on him.” Motioning to Ellis, he opened the door. “We’ll be in touch.”

  Twelve

  Light spilled from the hallway across the pine floor of the bedroom. Miranda pulled down the coverlet and said, “Come on, lie down. Doctor’s orders.”

  “To hell with doctors. That doctor, anyway,” growled Chase. He sat on the side of the bed and gave his head a shake, as thoug
h to clear it. “I’m okay. I feel fine.”

  She regarded his battered, unshaven face. “You look like a truck ran over you.”

  “The brutal truth!” He laughed. “Are you always so damn honest?”

  There was a silence. “Yes,” she said quietly. “As a matter of fact, I am.”

  He looked up at her. What do you see in my eyes? she wondered. Sincerity? Or lies, bald, dangerous lies?

  It’s still not there, is it? Trust. There’ll always be that doubt between us.

  She sat beside him on the bed. “Tell me everything you learned today. About Jill.”

  “Only what I read in the press file from San Diego.” He reached down and began to pull off his shoes. “The trial got a fair amount of coverage. You know, sex, violence. Circulation boosters.”

  “What happened?”

  “The defense claimed she was an emotionally battered woman. That she was young, naive, vulnerable. That her boyfriend was an abusive alcoholic who regularly beat her up. The jury believed it.”

  “What did the prosecution say?”

  “That Jill had a lifelong hatred of men. That she used them, manipulated them. And when her lover tried to leave her, she flew into a rage. Both sides agreed on the facts of the killing. That while her lover was passed out drunk she picked up a gun, put it to his head and pulled the trigger.” Exhausted, Chase lay back on the pillows. The pills were taking effect. His eyelids were already drifting shut. “That was ten years ago,” he said. “An era Jill conveniently left behind when she came to Maine.”

  “Did Richard know all this?”

  “If he bothered to check, he did. Only the last half of her résumé was true. Richard may have been so dazzled by the whole package he didn’t bother to confirm much beyond the last job or two. Or he may have found out the truth only recently. Who knows?”

  Miranda sat thinking, trying to picture Jill as she must have been ten years ago. Young, vulnerable. Afraid.

  Like me.

  Or was the prosecution’s description a more accurate image? A man hater, a woman of twisted passions?