Seeking Refuge

by Alana Terry

  JOE LISTENED AT HER door. Alexa talked—to whom he didn’t know—but he couldn’t understand a word. From the crack between the shade and the window, he could see her pacing, speaking animatedly, but from what he could see, there was no one there and she wasn’t on the phone. He knocked.

  Alexa hardly glanced at him as she opened the door. “Come in. I’ve got to type out this scene—be right with you.”

  He watched, as fascinated as he’d been the first time, as her fingers flew over the keyboard. He could almost see the words flash across her mind as she paused to remember how she’d planned the next sentence. Marvelous.

  “There—ok, what’d you need?”

  So much for pleasantries. Maybe she was still ticked at his destruction of her date. He’d better start there. “Ok, first. Darrin is not our guy. I know you know that, but I thought you should know that I’m certain he’s not, too. The chief doesn’t agree, but he keeps seeing a murderer behind every face.”

  Alexa motioned for him to continue, uncertainty masking her features. “So...”

  “Well, I want to go over a few things again. I’ve tried to make lists and make them make sense, and the one thing I keep coming back to is that this guy is trying to mock you. So, if you were writing this story, who would be the killer.”

  “That’s not funny, Joe.”

  It took him a moment to realize her meaning. “Sorry, badly worded.”

  “I’ll say.”

  “Let me try again. As the author of the original story, of the people you know of—anywhere—who would be the killer.”

  Alexa took a minute—then two—to consider the question. “Well, it wouldn’t be anyone too obvious. Someone like Hunter Lloyd—no way. Serial murderers like recognition for their work, but they want to avoid getting caught. Capture means no more murders—no more chances to prove that they are intellectually superior.”

  “Okaay... so who? Wilma? The chief? Sarah?”

  “Funny. No, I bet the FBI profiler guys would say it’s a male—”

  “Why? I agree,” Joe insisted, “but I want to know why the writer says it’s a male.”

  “I don’t see a woman bludgeoning your neighbor. White... probably forty to fifty years old, and an odd sense of justice.”

  “Justice? What is just about killing someone?”

  She shook her head. “The operative word there is ‘odd.’ Think about the killings. In my book, they fit the person. The woman whose throat was slashed was known as the ‘slasher’ at the local high school—she ripped apart the kid’s compositions with a red pencil. The sweet little housewife with the cupcakes? She didn’t die, but she was the one who had to suffer. She was known for spreading gossipy poison.”

  “Ok, that makes sense.” Joe dreaded the next question. “And the man bludgeoned? He beat his wife or something?”

  Sinking back against the cushions, she sighed, pain exuding from her. “I think that one is obvious. In my book, the investigating officer lived next to him—was like a son to him. He’d never married.”

  “But Mr. Beauford had been married. Yeah, his wife died twenty years ago, but he’d been married. We talked, but I wasn’t like a second son, and Wilma Venderhausen has never said an unkind thing about a rat!”

  “Well, there are two things at play here, Joe,” she interjected. “First, I haven’t written all the reasons. Second, our killer has to settle for the similarities he can find. What are the odds that a tiny place like Fairbury is going to have a baking housewife who is a gossip who just happens to bake at the right moment so that a killer can duplicate everything from action to motive?”

  “Then this exercise is futile,” Joe groaned, sinking into the chair. “I hate this.”

  She pressed her hands to her temples, trying to think. “Means, motive, opportunity...”

  “What?” He wasn’t sure he’d heard her correctly.

  “Means, motive, and opportunity—every mystery needs these three components or it makes no sense. We know how he does it; he copies my manuscript. We know he can do it because he does. That’s enough for now. What we don’t know is why? Why are these people dying? Why would someone kill the ‘characters’ of a book?”

  They stared at one another, disbelieving. “So, it really is as simple as that,” Joe said. “It has to be.”

  “I didn’t think so, but...” Alexa glanced around her. “But still, why do the very thing that you hate? I kept tossing the idea out of my head because it makes no sense. People who have bad marriages do not go around killing people with good ones to ‘fix’ the problem of marriage.”

  ‘That’s not a parallel argument,” Joe protested.

  “I’m upset! I don’t have to be logical. I just have to figure this out!”

  He chuckled. “I’ll concede that one.” He pulled out the notebook with the names she’d given him. “We went over that list and dropped it as inconsequential.”

  “And we keep coming back to it.”

  Joe reread the list aloud, striking off female names as he did. “Paul Acker, Sarah, Cecily Livingstone, Ray Connors, Myrna Olavson, Andrea Stine, Wilmer Vanderhausen—Mrs. Varney.”

  As Joe spoke, Alexa stood. He followed her as she wandered through the dining room, through the kitchen, and into the mudroom. She glanced around her, her hands sliding over the woodwork. “What?”

  “This room. He was here for weeks working on it. He could have had keys made—was here when I lost everything in that hard drive crash. He could have crashed it—somehow. I suppose.”

  “Who?”

  “Ray Connors.”

  “He worked here? I thought you said no one had been here who could have copied keys. Why didn’t you tell—”

  “I never thought of it. You asked about the last six months, and I answered. He could have set up that system while I was gone—which was a lot. I hated the noise.”

  She shook her head. “No, wait. Ray Connors and computers? He said he didn’t know how people could stand them. He’s a handyman, Joe!”

  Joe paced, thinking. He pulled out his phone and called the station. “Can you find out if Mark Connors of the Rockland FBI office has taken any computer courses?”

  They stared at one another as the obvious filled their thoughts. “Mark.”

  Chapter 31

  JOE KNOCKED ON RAY’S door. Silence—too silent for anyone to be home. The garage, full of tools and other paraphernalia couldn’t have housed a vehicle under any circumstances. A peek through the windows showed organized messes in what rooms were open to view, but the basement windows had been blocked.

  ALEXA SAT ALONE, WRITING to keep her mind occupied. Where was Joe? Had it finally happened? Had Chief Varney ordered him to keep her out of the loop? Their limited resources and lack of experience had allowed for more laxity than she thought was normal. Surely most cops wouldn’t rehash suspects with one of the original suspects. Now she just had to wait.

  CHIEF VARNEY LISTENED, stunned, as the caller gave the information. “You’re sure? If Mark Connors is—”

  A FINGER HIT THE REFRESH button repeatedly. Auto-save was a function untouched by the computer geek’s meddlesome attempts to lock him out of the system. He’d take this one and maybe now she’d listen. Maybe now the great Alexa Hartfield would see the light. The plot—too real. She had to be guilty of dozens of murders. He would stop her. “That is what happens when you steep yourself in sin to study it, Miss Hartfield,” he murmured. “It infects you.” He knew that better than most.

  JOE’S PHONE RANG. FRANTIC, the chief shouted, “It’s the brother! He’s a consultant for the FBI. Mark Connors doesn’t know a CPU from RAM—whatever that means. Find Ray.”

  ALEXA’S FINAL SCENE—COMPLETE. She’d allowed the final victim to die just as help arrived. It wasn’t very satisfying, but since when did the effects of sin satisfy? She typed the last line and smiled. They caught him. The city papers immediately dubbed it the “Vengeance Murders.” She’d end it there. Of course, the real work of writin
g the book had just begun.

  CHIEF VARNEY CALLED Alexa. “Go into the city. Go out to dinner, see a movie, and stay overnight. I’ll send Joe or Judith when this is over. We’ll have him sometime tonight.”

  “Shouldn’t I stay away from Rockland, then? I mean if Mark—”

  “Mark is not in Rockland. Just get out of your house. Now. Oh, and Alexa?”

  Her voice shook. “Yes?”

  “Leave your laptop on and on your table. Joe will be right there

  A WAVE OF DISAPPOINTMENT crashed over him. This one would be too easy. It wouldn’t stop her either—not this book. Maybe she’d dread the next one. Maybe that would stop her.

  The thought had occurred to him that he could just kill her. It would solve everything—except that she would never see with those beautiful eyes the horrors she wrote. If he killed her, how would she repent?

  He stared at the screen, regretful. Father Warner was such a nice man—not like some of those Catholic priests who’d disgraced the name of their church. Not like the youth pastor in Rockland who had been arrested for carrying relationships with under-aged girls in his youth group. Father Warner was a good man.

  Still, stabbing a priest in the heart as he confessed the crimes—it would be poetic.

  JOE READ THE DOCUMENT Alexa had left open on her laptop. The scene gripped him. He held his breath, hoping it wouldn’t—noooo. Fairbury’s small Catholic Church was a landmark. Dread filled him as he neared the end. No—no! Father Warner—kindest, gentlest man he’d ever met—hurry.

  FATHER WARNER TOOK his usual inventory of the sacristy and closed it—satisfied. Everything was in order. His peripheral vision caught sight of a man entering the church, but he didn’t see a face. Once the door opened and shut to the confessional, Father Warner hurried to his post.

  He waited patiently—silently—praying for the man as the seconds ticked past. The man cleared his throat—scratchy. A familiar but unidentifiable voice spoke. “I am not a Catholic, but I am here to confess my sins. They crush me.”

  Father Warner spoke, comforting and encouraging, trying to help the man relieve himself of the burden on his heart, assuring him of the blessing of confession one to another. He promised utter confidentiality. “It might help to know that I cannot place your voice.”

  “That doesn’t matter. I don’t need confidentiality. I confess to the murders of Carrie Seeley, Linda Fletcher, Harry Beaumont, and Father Warner. May God have mercy on my soul

  JOE BOLTED FROM THE cruiser. Judith and Chief Varney were half a block behind him, but he couldn’t risk waiting. He flung open the door and entered the church. The dark vestibule blinded him as his eyes tried to adjust to the lack of sunlight. A few candles flickered nearby. He rushed, looking for confessionals. Weapon drawn, he shouted, “Step away from the confessional, Ray.”

  A figure moved followed by a muffled cry and then a thud. “Ray!” The figure turned. He fired. The figure stared at Joe, clutching his arm. A knife clattered to the floor.

  Judith sprinted into the building with Chief Varney puffing behind her. Joe shouted for her to check Father Warner, but the look on Ray’s face told him it was futile. He jerked the cuffs on Ray, despite the wound to the man’s arm. “Get an ambulance here, would you? Not that he deserves it...”

  Chapter 32

  HER PHONE RANG. ALEXA gazed at it with fresh appreciation. A phone call, when not dreaded, was a beautiful thing. The name flashing made her smile. “Hey, Wes. Are you home already?”

  ‘Not until Wednesday. I’ll get in around six... Care if I come crash in your spare bed?”

  She smiled at the forced nonchalance in his voice. “Got a hot date for Valentine’s?”

  “Annie...”

  “You know I couldn’t resist. What do you have planned?”

  Wes cleared his throat. “I can’t plan if I can’t talk you into watching the kids first.”

  His use of the definite article “the” rather than the pronoun “her” intrigued him. The kids. He’d become possessive. This had potential. “Are you asking me if I can watch the kids?”

  He missed her inflection. Oh, that was even more promising. Her big brother had it bad... way bad.

  “I thought about a nice evening in Rockland. There’s this show they’re doing at the RAC. It’s supposed to be a spoof of Radio City Music Hall. They have chorus line dancers—call them ‘The Rock-letts’—the works.”

  “I’d be happy to watch them. You know that. Send back Reepiecheep. We’ll finish.”

  Before he could spit out the first word, she knew he’d finished already. “Well, we finished that one. I think you should consider Gone Away. I think they’d like it.”

  “I’ll see if the library or Bookends has it.” Even as she spoke, she knew what he’d say. Why had she opened herself up for it? She should have just agreed.

  “If you had that house, you’d have room for all those books you want and never buy.”

  “Why is it so important to you? Where do you want me to move? What would I do with this house?”

  “Sell it—or better yet, rent it—to me.”

  “You can stay here anytime. Why would you want me to rent it to you?”

  “I need a place in town, and your house is centrally located. You need more space. It’s perfect.”

  She smiled to herself. He needed a place in town. He wanted a place near Heather was more like it. “Oh, this is cute. This is really cute.”

  “What is?”

  “Look, I’ll make you a deal.”

  Wes’ voice grew wary. “What is that?”

  “If you can convince the owners to sell it for five thousand less than market value, I’ll do it.”

  Even as she spoke, Alexa wondered if she’d lost her mind.

  JOE AND ALEXA CIRCLED the dance floor at the Policeman’s Ball. As Joe whirled her in perfect synchronization to the music, they discussed the conclusion of a very disturbing case. Only the death of Father Warner dulled the sense of victory that the end of the case should have brought.

  “I still can’t believe it was Ray. I have such a hard time imagining him as a computer whiz.”

  “Mark said that in hindsight, there were signs. Ray took one of those courses online with one of those diploma mills and it clicked. He taught himself all those computer languages—even wrote two viruses just to see if he could.”

  “Still seems weird.” She waited until they passed a speaker before asking, “Did he say why?”

  “Just that when he worked for you, he couldn’t stand to see someone so ‘wholesome’ doing something so ‘vile.’ He ‘had to stop you.’”

  She shivered, clapping as the band ended the waltz. It would be several songs before they could do any more “real” dancing, as Joe called it. Sure enough, the next number was some modern thing she’d heard somewhere recently—the lyrics mercifully absent. “I hate this song.”

  Joe cocked his head. “I think I’ve heard it. It’s ok—not good, but...”

  “If you heard the lyrics, you wouldn’t say that.”

  “Ugh. I don’t know, don’t want to know, and ugh.”

  The music grew too loud for talking. She didn’t even bother to rock from side to side. Instead, she collapsed in a seat and waited for the next dance, watching Joe. “You’re trying to figure out how to do some swing thing to this, aren’t you?”

  “It would be cool, but I can’t figure it out. Maybe if I knew more Latin stuff—samba maybe.”

  To her surprise, the next number, while still modern, was slow and quiet enough to allow them to dance—and talk. She still had a question or two for him, but she had hardly seen him since that awful day. “Ok, got another question.”

  He grinned. Drat, he’d been waiting for it. “Yes?”

  “The people in the Focus and the green truck—the people who walked by my house and that I confronted that day. What about them?”

  “We found that out too. Been waiting for you to ask.” Joe’s grin widened. “You are
not going to believe this. Tabloids.”

  “What?”

  “I know, but yep. They work for one of those tabloids. They came for a couple of days every two or three weeks, trying to get some kind of scoop on you to feature in their ‘magazine.’”

  “But authors—”

  Joe laughed, spinning her slowly. “They said they were trying to create a new breed of celebrities—called it an ‘untapped market.’ The chief is furious.”

  New questions flooded her mind, but he led her to the refreshment table, chatting with a few officers from some of the surrounding areas. Fairbury had gained a little respect of late—sickening that murder had caused it, but it was true. She saw a look in a couple of the officer’s eyes and squeezed his elbow.

  Joe took note and led her back to the floor. “Thanks. Don’t want you dancing with the enemy while I sit on the sidelines.”

  “Got more questions.”

  “I knew you would.”

  “The fingerprints—well, lack of them. Did Ray do that?”

  “Yep—and of course, the light bulb. He was going to come in that night, but when it broke, he decided to mess with your head instead. He actually thought that one thing would stop you.”

  “Wait, what?” Disbelief flooded her. “He actually thought that a broken light bulb and a cut hand would convince me not to write about murder anymore?” It seemed hard to imagine that it was Ray after all.

  “He hoped. I don’t think he wanted to kill anyone—not like your usual serial killer. He was more of a stalker—had an agenda. Stop you. If stopping you meant killing, then so be it.”

  “So, when did he wipe the house down—why?”

  Joe sighed. “You were right. He had a key. He didn’t even have to do the computer thing—not really. He could have burned CDs, printed anything from your computer. He just did that to prove he could.”