HER PERFECT SECRET a totally gripping psychological thriller

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HER PERFECT SECRET a totally gripping psychological thriller Page 25

by T. J. Brearton


  I’m bent over, breathing, trying not to pass out. “That’s my . . . Those are . . .” I try to explain the people in the house, but before I can choke through the words, a scream rises from the woods.

  I look up that direction, feeling frozen.

  Starzyk tenses, aims his weapon. “Shit,” he says again.

  It’s a woman’s scream.

  * * *

  Starzyk is trying to make a call. “Nothing. Christ. Nothing . . .” He mutters something about how if he had his official police vehicle he’d be able to communicate.

  I’m still staring into the woods.

  I’d know that scream anywhere.

  It’s the sound of my daughter.

  I start moving that direction.

  “Hey,” Starzyk whispers harshly. “Hey — hey . . .”

  “Do whatever you gotta do,” I tell him. “My baby is in trouble.”

  I see a path in the woods. It might be the hiking trail Michael mentioned: the one that leads to the mountaintop. There have been no more screams. Just the one. I walk a ways and stop and listen. The forest is quiet; even the birds have fallen silent. The only sound is the faintest soughing of the wind. The subtle breeze stirs scents of pine and alders. Crisp, clear smells. Autumn around the corner.

  I grew up with woods like this in my backyard. Places to explore. Places to hide.

  “Joni!” I hadn’t even planned to call her name.

  The response is more silence.

  I press on. The trail is mostly discernible, though narrow with overgrowth in some places. It’s starting to become hilly, and I’m panting as I climb, pressing my palms against my knees to overcome the bigger obstacles.

  Without some other sign, I can’t be sure this is the right direction.

  “Jonieee!”

  I stop to listen, but now the only sound is my labored breathing. I think about turning back. I have my bearings, at least — the sun is lowering into the trees to my right, so that’s west. Which means I’m headed north. I’m unsure what good the orientation does me. But it makes me feel like I have some scrap of control—

  The gunshot from behind me is a thunderclap that rolls through the woods, reverberating in the trees, echoing off the distant mountain.

  Starzyk.

  Who is he shooting at?

  I’m torn. If I press on, I’ll not necessarily get any closer to my daughter. The answers could be back where I came from. Maybe Starzyk fired a warning shot.

  But if I continue up the path — Michael said there was reception once you gained enough elevation. I can finally summon help.

  Of course, now that I’m ready to call the cops and let the chips fall where they may, my phone still shows No Service. And I have a mere eleven percent of my battery left.

  I plow forward, calling my daughter’s name. Someone brutally murdered her friends. And now maybe they’ve dragged her out here.

  My head spins with all that has happened. Michael showing up in our lives. Maybe an accident. One in a million, but still possible. Michael meeting Joni. Michael hiding his dark truth from her until he realizes she was my daughter. Michael trying to fix it by feigning memory loss, getting me to help him with the retrieval.

  A terrible lie, but maybe understandable.

  But it wasn’t true. Maybe Michael didn’t know who the true killer was, but everything else has been in his grasp. This has been a way to exact revenge. To ruin my life for being his therapist fifteen years ago.

  Maybe he’s after all of us. He’s after the police, too.

  One thing is for certain: he wants us to pay. Both of them do, Laura probably most of all.

  I call for Joni again as I hoist myself over giant tree roots and scramble up rocks. The trees are thinning, the sky opening up. I check my phone again — one bar!

  A twig snaps.

  Off to my right, something is moving through the brush.

  I panic, ducking to hide in the brush. I wait; watch.

  A figure moves through the fir trees, coming toward me.

  One arm hangs to his side while he uses the other to swipe at the branches in his way. My heart beats into my throat. I can hide, but any movement now and he’s going to see me. I choose instead to face him, and step to where he can see me more clearly.

  “Michael.”

  At first he doesn’t react, just keeps moving along with that strange, wounded gait. Then he focuses on me. His look of blank concentration morphs into sorrow. “Dr. Lindman,” he says.

  “Don’t come any closer,” I warn. “Where’s Joni?”

  He stops walking and looks around. “She . . . She was with me.” His voice has that light, almost boyish quality to it. The bewilderment makes him seem even younger, more innocent. Naïve. “They came back from the hike and . . . Mr. Lindman was here. He just showed up.”

  “Where is he now?”

  Michael swallows. He looks at me and shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

  It’s only now that I see the blood. It drips from the fingertips of his limp arm.

  “What happened?”

  “He . . . Everybody was here, and Mr. Lindman wanted to talk to me alone, but no one would let him. He had a hammer. Hunter said it was his, from his shed. Hunter tried to talk to Mr. Lindman, to calm him down. He approached him and . . . Mr. Lindman swung.”

  I shake my head. My body is trembling. “No, Michael. I pushed you too hard too fast. You’re transferring things from your past to your present. Superimposing Paul on the man who killed your father.”

  Michael shakes his head. “No. He beat up Hunter. Madison screamed and attacked him. He killed her, too. Joni ran, I ran. We tried the cars — he took the keys . . . What?”

  “If you’re not delusional, then you’re lying and trying to hurt us.”

  “I’m not. I’m trying to explain! We came up here for the cell service. It’s closer than getting to the road. Mr. Lindman chased us. I finally stopped and turned around to face him. And he hit me with it. With the hammer. I think my arm is broken.”

  I don’t want to look, but I do. There’s a bend to the forearm that’s wrong.

  I consider the gunshot back at the property. Between Starzyk and Paul? It’s the only thing that makes sense. But I squint my eyes shut and shake my head. “No. I don’t believe you.”

  “Dr. Lindman, I promise you it’s the truth.”

  My eyes fly open. “But where is Joni?”

  “Maybe she went back up the trail to get better reception. Maybe she’s hiding. After I got hurt, I don’t know . . . I think I’m in shock . . .”

  “Why did she scream?”

  “She saw it all happen. Everything. She saw him. What he did to them. What he did to me.”

  Still shaking, I open the keypad on my phone and dial 911. It takes a few seconds to connect, but the call finally goes through. Relief washes over me.

  “What’s your emergency?”

  “This is Dr. Emily Lindman. Two people have been killed. The killer is still . . .” The tears fall as I finish the sentence. “The killer is still here.”

  I give the 911 operator the location. Or, someone does, someone in my body, with my voice, operating on her own.

  “Ma’am? I’m seeing that there’s been another call, just a few minutes ago, from about the same location.”

  “Who?” I’m frantic. “Was it a young woman? Joni Lindman? Hello—?”

  But the call is lost. My battery is dead.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  I make a decision and grab Michael by his good arm. He needs medical attention. The police will send an ambulance. “You need to get back down to the property.”

  He nods, then looks up the trail.

  I hear the footfalls and rustling brush before I see the person. Joni! My heart lifts as my daughter comes into view. When she sees me, she instantly bursts into tears.

  She reaches me and falls into my arms, sobbing. I hug her tight, stroke her hair. Shush her.

  “It’s okay, honey. It
’s going to be okay.”

  After a moment, the three of us make our way down. It’s a little easier going once the terrain levels out. I find a nice-sized stick as we near the edge of the woods and pick it up.

  Once we reach the property, I tell Michael and Joni to get behind me.

  “Paul?”

  We’re met with silence.

  “Detective Starzyk?”

  But there’s no sign of my husband or the state police investigator. Only the vehicles that remain.

  The door to the yurt hangs open. “Don’t look in there,” I whisper to the kids, knowing they’ve already seen it.

  I steer them toward the rental car instead. We have to get out of here. Get away. I have no idea if Paul is still here. The police must be on their way by now. If we leave now, we might meet them coming up the long dirt road.

  Paul has anticipated this. I reach for the door handle, and he jumps up from the seat and throws open the door.

  Joni screams.

  Paul looks like Paul, but he also looks like someone else. Almost unrecognizable to me. As if his skin is tighter.

  He holds a bloody hammer. But as he pushes us back toward the yurt, I see a gun tucked into the waistband of his chino shorts.

  “Dad, stop!”

  “Paul,” I say. “What are you doing?”

  “Get up to the house.”

  “Paul, stop it. The police are coming.”

  Talking to my husband this way feels like an act. Like we’ve decided to roleplay different people. This is real, though; my husband is actually holding a bloody murder weapon. There are two people inside. People he killed in cold blood.

  I’ve been covering for Paul, but I’ve also been in denial. That it could ever happen again. That my husband is psychotic.

  I guess there are a lot of things I’ve been denying.

  My stomach rolls when I see the feet sticking out from behind the pickup truck; Starzyk is on the ground. He’s unmoving. The closer we get to the yurt, the clearer the view of the detective. I can see blood coming from his ears.

  “Oh, God . . .”

  The sight of him hits hard. I’ve been protecting myself, half-lying and half-joking to myself about what’s going on. Any sense that I might get out of this is gone now, replaced with a stark, empty fear. There is nowhere to go from here. There is nothing else to hide from, or repress, or try to fix.

  Paul pulls the gun from his shorts. Joni moans beside me. I’m still backing up toward the building, my arms spread out, one covering Joni, the other Michael.

  “Paul . . .” I almost choke on the word. “Please stop. It’s me. We’re your family.”

  Paul’s mouth twitches, like he might speak. His eyes seem to shrink to even denser, darker points. He flicks the gun, indicating we get inside the yurt.

  What choice do we have?

  Joni goes first, followed by Michael. I’m last.

  “Come back to me,” I say, staring at Paul as I stumble inside. “Come back to me, Paul . . .”

  He takes one of the steps, his face inches from mine. “You had your chance,” he says. “Now we do it my way.”

  He slams the door in my face.

  I back away from it. Joni is whimpering in the center of the room. Michael holds his arm and stares dumbly at the floor. The bodies of Madison and Hunter have started to draw flies. “Cover them in a blanket,” I whisper.

  Something thumps against the door. It’s followed by a soft, high-pitch whining and some minor vibration. By the time I realize what’s happening and rush toward the door, it’s too late. I hit my shoulder against it, but it doesn’t budge.

  Paul has locked us in. He’s boarded up the door.

  I rush to one of the octagonal windows and peer out. Seeing nothing, I try the next one. I’m kicking furniture out of the way; a lamp falls and the bulb shatters. I glimpse Paul outside. He’s over by the backup power generator.

  He’s got the can of gas.

  He unscrews the cap as he walks toward the yurt.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  Paul splashes the gas around the yurt, circling the entire building.

  Joni screams and pounds the door, then the windows, following him as he goes, pleading.

  How can he?

  His own daughter?

  Michael has placed a blanket over the two dead people. He stands, watching as his fiancé beseeches her father. Please don’t burn us alive. Something in his expression reads that he’s been here before. A family horror like this. He’s come full circle.

  I run to each window, searching for a way out. There are six in all, each double-hung, but none of them will open. Paul has already engineered it. He’s nailed boards across them to prevent any from sliding up.

  There’s got to be something. My attention turns to the skylight. I find a stool and drag it over. It’s enough to reach the hand crank and open the window, but there’s no way to remove the glass, the screen, let alone pull myself up there and shimmy through.

  We all end up on the floor, huddled under it, breathing hard, trying not to panic. Michael has gone pale, his skin beaded with sweat. Holding his arm, he lies back, moaning. He’s going to pass out from the shock and pain. Joni moves beside him. She curls up into a fetal position.

  Then Joni speaks. “It wasn’t supposed to go like this.”

  Michael opens his eyes and looks at her.

  Joni faces me. “I’m sorry, Mom.”

  “For what?” It feels breathless.

  “Michael told me who he was. Early on when we were dating.” She looks at him. “I almost left him, but then I didn’t. He told me about his mother, and about you.”

  The betrayal slides over my heart like a dark hand. It squeezes.

  “I thought he deserved answers,” Joni says. “And so did I. Laura suspected it was Dad. She deserved to know, too.” Joni looks at the covered bodies of Madison and Hunter as her eyes well with tears. “But this was never supposed to happen.”

  I look there, too. I’m about to say something — I don’t even know what — when I hear a noise outside.

  I rise to my feet. And I move to the nearest window in time to see Paul light the match.

  * * *

  Within seconds, the flames are licking the windows from the outside. Looking through, I can see Starzyk, still on his back, blood around his head. Maybe you got off easy, I think, already feeling the temperature rise.

  Death by flaming yurt.

  I can’t help it. It’s just where my mind goes.

  Frantic, I look for something to break the glass. I hesitated before, expecting Paul would cover a breaking window with his gun and shoot us. But now there’s no choice. I consider a small end table, but it’s too wide. A chair? Everything is too big and heavy. In the open kitchen, I riffle through the drawers and consider a few items until Joni says, “Mom . . .”

  I see her holding up a bloody hammer.

  “Don’t touch that!” It’s just an instinct — she’s holding a murder weapon. But what does it matter? We’ll burn alive if we don’t do something.

  I take it, our eyes briefly connecting. I see pain there, and love, but she’ll never ask for forgiveness. She knows she doesn’t need to.

  I rush at one of the windows at the back of the yurt. The glass shatters but remains mostly in place. I hit it again, this time dislodging a huge, jagged chunk.

  A figure runs past the window. The sight momentarily paralyzes me, then I chase the movement from window to window until the figure stops. It’s Paul. He stands there looking in at me, his face a blank.

  I want to shriek, pound on the glass, scream at him that he’ll have his own personal bonfire in hell. But there’s nothing left in me. I’m a shell of a person at the end of her life.

  And the flames are getting higher.

  Paul stares at me — his eyes reflect the flames climbing the wooden walls between us. His image shimmers in the rising heat.

  But then he turns to look at something outside. His expression chan
ges to a look of surprise. He is raising the gun when he’s struck by a two-by-four that sends the gun flying from his grip and Paul stumbling backwards.

  The person wielding the lumber is fast — not only does she manage to get the gun, but she darts far enough out of his reach that when he lunges for her, he nearly goes sprawling.

  She aims at his head. Paul freezes.

  It wasn’t Paul that I just saw running. It was her.

  Joni speaks behind me. “Mom? What is it?”

  I can hardly believe the words. “Laura Bishop is here. She just took the gun from your father.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  Paul met Laura Bishop at one of our house parties. She invited us to an art show in Manhattan. After that, he kept seeing her.

  When David Bishop was murdered, and word leaked of a male suspect, I feared the worst. Paul had been acting strange, flying into rages for no reason. I hounded him until he admitted to the affair. He never named her, but I suspected.

  Six months went by, and no arrests. The news articles dried up. It seemed over. Then Rebecca Mooney and Steven Starzyk asked for my help. Not knowing of my marginal connections to the Bishops or my suspicions, the investigators asked me to meet with Tom. He had given conflicting statements, they said. Could I help them get to the bottom of it?

  How could I say no? Not just for Tom’s sake — I wanted to know what he saw. If it had anything to do with my husband.

  Nothing Tom told me would be directly admissible in court. I would discuss things with him and then submit my formal evaluation at the end of five sessions. At that time, he would give Mooney and Starzyk a new statement. A final statement.

  Five sessions.

  Midway through our second session, Tom was describing a vehicle in the street. By the third session, a man in the house. But then, everything changed. The police asked me to hurry. I focused more on the hard details of that night, and Tom admitted to his parents arguing. In our final session, he boldly proclaimed his mother was the killer.

  The rest was history.

  And then, fifteen years later, a young man showed up at our door with our daughter. I had my immediate fears; Paul didn’t think it was possible.

  The rest is history.

 

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