8 Scream for Me

by Karen Rose

  “Good, but now there’s more. Vartanian went out to dinner tonight with Alex Fallon and Bailey’s kid.”

  “The kid’s talking?”

  “No.” There was an angry pause. “But she covered her face in pizza sauce. Like she was covered in blood.”

  He froze, his mind wildly searching for an explanation. “That’s impossible. She was in the closet. She didn’t see anything.”

  “Then maybe she’s psychic.” The words were biting and harsh. “But Bailey’s kid saw something, Sweetpea.”

  His gut twisted. “No.” She’s just a child. He’d never . . . “She’s only a little girl.”

  “If she saw you, you’re fucked.”

  “She didn’t see me.” Desperation clawed at his throat. “I was outside.”

  “Then you went inside.”

  “But all she would have seen is me trashing the place. I grabbed Bailey outside.”

  “And I’m telling you a restaurant full of people saw that kid cover her face in sauce.”

  “Kids do that. Nobody’ll think anything of it.”

  “On its own, perhaps not.”

  “What else?” he asked dully.

  “Sheila Cunningham.”

  He closed his eyes. “What did she say?”

  “Mostly that Bailey wasn’t the trashy slut everyone’s made her out to be. And that while everyone is upset about the rich girls’ being dead, that nobody cared about the regular girls, that nobody cares about Bailey.”

  “That’s all?” He felt marginally better. “So she didn’t say anything.”

  “Weren’t you listening to me?”

  “Yes, I was,” he said, defensive now. “What are you talking about?”

  There was total silence on the other end, and in the quiet, the words clicked.

  “Oh, hell.”

  “Yeah. And you can bet good old Danny boy heard it, too. He’s no idiot.”

  He absorbed the barb. “So did he talk any more with Sheila?”

  “Not yet. He whisked Bailey’s kid out of there so fast it made everybody’s head spin. But he did give Sheila his card.”

  Fuck. “Were you there?”

  “Yes. I saw it all. And people are talking all over town.”

  “Has Vartanian gone back to talk to Sheila again?”

  “Not yet. They took the kid back to the place the Fallon woman is renting, then fifteen minutes later all four of them piled in Vartanian’s car and headed out of town.”

  “Wait. I thought you said there were three.”

  “You don’t know what’s going on in your own town, do you? The Tremaine woman’s brought her cousin in to help her take care of the kid. The woman’s a kid shrink.”

  What little hope he had of being able to control what happened next fizzled and died. “You want them all gone?”

  “Discreetly. If Vartanian knows they’re dead, he won’t stop till he finds out who did it. So make it look like they all just went home.”

  “He’ll find out sooner or later.”

  “And by then I will have dealt with him. Take care of Sheila first, then the other three. Call me when you’re done.”

  Tuesday, January 30, 11:30 p.m.

  Mack looked up from the ’Vette’s engine to where Gemma Martin lay on his makeshift garage floor, wide-eyed, hog-tied, and terrified. “You’ve kept the engine well maintained,” he said with approval. “This one I believe I’ll keep.” He had buyers already lined up for the Z and the Mercedes. It was one of the few perks of being inside. You met all kinds of helpful people.

  “Who are you?” she said hoarsely and Mack laughed.

  “You know who I am.”

  She shook her head. “Please. If it’s money you want . . .”

  “Oh, I want money and I’ve got a good bit of yours.” He held up the cash he’d found in her purse. “Once I carried around a wad like this. But times change and tables turn.” Feeling a bit like one of the old Mission: Impossible agents, he peeled off the thin latex with which he’d covered his cheeks. Along with makeup, it had allowed him to hide his one identifying feature.

  Gemma’s eyes widened even more. “No. You’re in prison.”

  He chuckled. “Obviously not anymore, but logic was never your strong suit.”

  “You killed Claudia and Janet.”

  “And didn’t they deserve it?” he said mildly. He sat down on the floor next to her. “And don’t you?”

  “We were kids.”

  “You were bitches. Tonight you’ll be a dead bitch.” He pulled his switchblade from his pocket and began cutting away her clothes. “You three thought you were so clever.”

  “We didn’t mean any harm,” she cried.

  “What did you think would happen, Gemma?” he said, still mildly. “I asked you to the prom, you agreed. But you didn’t want to go. I was no longer of your class.”

  “I’m sorry.” She was crying now, huge terrified tears.

  “Well, it’s too late for that now, even if I were so inclined to accept. Which I’m not. Do you remember that night, Gemma? Because I do. I remember picking you up in my sister-in-law’s old car because it was all we had left to drive. I expected you to offer your own car. I should have been suspicious when you didn’t. I remember meeting your friends. Then I don’t remember anything else until I woke up hours later, naked at a rest stop a hundred miles away. My car was gone and so were you and your friends.”

  “We didn’t mean anything,” she said, choking on her sobs.

  “Yes, you did. You meant for me to be humiliated and I was. I remember what happened after that. I remember waiting in the bushes until a man about my size stopped to use the john. I stole his car so that I could get home. He came back while I was still hot-wiring his engine. He and I fought and I was so angry at you that I beat him unconscious. I hadn’t made it five miles before the cops pulled me over. Assault, battery, grand theft. I did four years because nobody in Dutton would help me. Nobody would help my mother raise the bail. Nobody helped me get a decent lawyer.

  “You didn’t mean anything,” he finished coldly. “But you took everything. Now, I get to take your everything.”

  “Please,” she sobbed. “Please don’t kill me.”

  He laughed. “When the pain gets so bad, you scream that for me, sugar.”

  Dutton, Tuesday, January 30, 11:30 p.m.

  Daniel pulled into the bungalow’s driveway. The car had been silent since they’d left Atlanta. In the back Meredith and Hope slept soundly. Beside him, Alex had been awake and deep in troubled thought. Several times he’d almost asked what was wrong, but the question was ludicrous. What wasn’t wrong? Alex’s life had fallen apart once. It was doing so again. And I’m about to make it a million times worse for her.

  Because the silence had given him time to finally think, to start pulling pieces together, and a single phrase wouldn’t leave him alone. It had been pushed to the back of his mind with the appearance of Garth Davis and Hope’s breakthrough. The phrase had come from Shelia at the pizza parlor, bitterly delivered through her red lips.

  Nobody cared about the regular girls. Cared. Sheila the waitress had used the present tense when talking about “the rich girls” and Bailey. Everybody’s upset about the rich girls. Nobody cares about Bailey.

  But nobody cared about the regular girls. He was starting to understand. When he’d first looked at Sheila’s face, he’d seen something he’d recognized. First he thought he’d known her from school. But that’s not where he’d seen her before.

  He killed the engine and the silence became complete, except for the rhythmic breathing from the backseat. Alex’s gaze moved to the unmarked police car parked on her curb, her profile silvered from the pale light of the moon. Delicate, was the way he had described her in his mind yesterday morning. She looked fragile now. But he knew she was neither. Alex Fallon might be stronger than any of them. He hoped she was strong enough to endure what he knew he could keep secret no longer.

  He’d wait until
Meredith and Hope slept. Then he’d tell her and accept whatever her reaction would be. Whatever penance he’d have to do. But she had a right to know.

  “Your boss moved quickly,” she murmured, referring to the unmarked car.

  “It’s either this or a safe house. Do you want a safe house, Alex?”

  She looked to the backseat. “For them, maybe, but not for me. If I hide, I can’t look for Bailey, and I think I’m getting close.” She dropped her eyes to her palms. “Or, at least, somebody doesn’t want me looking. Which, unless I’ve watched too much television, means I’m making somebody nervous.”

  She was speaking in her cool voice. She was afraid. But he couldn’t lie to her. “I think that’s a fair assumption. Alex . . .” He let out a quiet breath. “Let’s go inside. There are things you need to know.”

  “Like what?”

  “Let’s go inside.”

  She grabbed his arm, then flinched and pulled her scraped palm away. “Tell me.”

  Her eyes had widened and in them he saw her fear. He shouldn’t have said anything until they were inside and alone. But he had, so he’d tell her what he could now, just to get her in the house. “Beardsley is missing.”

  Her mouth fell open. “I just saw him yesterday.” Pained understanding filled her eyes. “Somebody’s been watching me since then.”

  “I think that’s a fair assumption, too.”

  She pursed her lips. “You need to know something, too. While Dr. McCrady was in with Hope, I called Bailey’s best friend from the salon. Her name is Sissy. I’d been trying to call off and on all day, but I never got through. I just got her answering machine. So I used one of the phones there at your office. She picked up right away.”

  “You think she was avoiding your phone number?”

  “I know she was. When I told her who I was, she got defensive. I asked her if I could come talk to her about Bailey and she said she didn’t really know Bailey all that well. That I should talk to one of the other girls at the salon.”

  “But the owner said she was Bailey’s best friend?”

  “He said Bailey stayed over at her house every Saturday night. And the social worker said Sissy was the one to come to Bailey’s house on Friday.”

  “Somebody got to her then,” Daniel said.

  “Sissy has a daughter, old enough to babysit Hope when Bailey worked on Saturdays.” Alex bit her lower lip. “If somebody threatened Sissy, and Beardsley’s missing, maybe Sister Anne and Desmond are in danger, too.”

  Daniel reached over and pressed his thumb to her lip, smoothing away the marks her teeth had left behind. “I’ll have a unit go by the shelter and Desmond’s house.” He pulled his hand away. He’d wanted to hold her all day. The quiet had just intensified his need. “Let’s get Hope into bed. It’s late.”

  Alex had the back door open and was reaching for Hope, but Daniel gently nudged her aside. “You unlock the front door. I’ll carry her in.” He shook Meredith’s shoulder and she jerked awake, blinking. He unlocked the child seat and lifted Hope into his arms. She cuddled against his shoulder, too exhausted to be afraid.

  He followed Alex into the bungalow, conscious of the agents Chase had assigned to watch. He’d known and trusted Hatton and Koenig for years. He gave them a nod as he passed. He’d come back out and talk to them in a few minutes.

  Riley sat up when they came in, immediately padding over to follow them.

  Alex led him to the bedroom on the left. Gently he laid Hope on the bed and slipped off her shoes. “Do you want to change her into her pajamas?” he whispered.

  She shook her head. “It won’t hurt her to sleep in her clothes,” she whispered back.

  Daniel pulled the blanket to cover Hope, then brushed a golden curl from her face, flushed with sleep. He swallowed. The pizza sauce had stained her skin and hair. It still looked like blood. Carefully, he brushed the curl back, hiding the stain.

  He already had too many disturbing images in his mind. He didn’t need to add a bloody four-year-old to the mix.

  “I sleep in here, too,” Alex whispered, standing by the other side of the bed. Daniel looked at the crisp white sheets, then back at Alex, who was giving him a pointed stare.

  Daniel frowned. “You’re going to sleep now?” he asked.

  “I guess not. Come on.” She turned at the door and her brows lifted. “Oh, look.”

  Riley had climbed up onto a suitcase and was struggling to pull himself onto the chair that sat next to Hope’s side of the bed. “Riley,” Daniel whispered. “Get down.”

  But Alex gave Riley the needed boost to the chair. From there the hound scrabbled to the bed, padded to Hope’s side, and flopped on his stomach with one of his big sighs.

  “Riley, get out of that bed,” Daniel whispered, but Alex shook her head.

  “Leave him. If she wakes up with bad dreams, at least she won’t be alone.”

  Dutton, Tuesday, January 30, 11:30 p.m.

  He tugged at his tie and settled into the seat, but a big man could only get so comfortable keeping watch from his car. His sister Kate was home from work now, her sensible Volvo parked safely in her garage. He could see her moving around inside her house, window to window, feeding her cat, hanging up her coat.

  He planned to sit in front of her house every single night until this was over. He’d followed her from town, careful to stay far enough back so that she didn’t see him. If she did see him, he’d admit to being worried about her safety. But there was no way he could tell her she was a target. If he did, she’d want to know how he knew.

  She couldn’t know. No one could know. And no one would know if he just kept his head down and his mouth shut. Both women had been killed between 8:00 p.m. and 2:00 a.m. Both women had been taken from their cars, so he’d just stick to Kate like glue while she drove home from work and watch over her during the night. During the day she was safe enough, he thought, surrounded by people at her job.

  Thoughts of the yearbook photos intruded into his mind. Ten pictures, the two already X-ed out. He’d been trying to push them away all night. It was a clear warning. Seven other women besides Kate had been on that paper. Seven other women were targets. He could have turned that photocopy over to Vartanian, could have saved those other seven. But he thought of his sister Kate. His wife. His children. And knew given the opportunity, he’d burn the paper again. They could never know.

  If he’d given the paper to Vartanian, Daniel would have wondered why he’d been the recipient of the warning. Even if he’d sent it anonymously, Daniel would have seen the circle around Kate’s picture and wondered why his sister had been singled out.

  You could have cut Kate’s picture away and sent the rest. You could have protected those other seven women. You should have protected them.

  And chance that Vartanian’s GBI lab would find his fingerprints on the rest of the paper after he’d cut it apart? No, it was too big a chance. Besides, Vartanian would have started to dig, and God only knew what he’d unearth.

  If one of those other seven women dies, their blood will be on your hands.

  Then so be it. He had his own family to protect. If the families of the other women who’d gone to school with Janet and Claudia were smart, they’d be protecting their women, too. But they don’t know what you know.

  He’d done things in his life. Horrible, deviant things. But he’d never had anyone’s blood on his hands before. Yes, you have. Alicia Tremaine. Alicia’s face whipped into his mind, and the memory of that night thirteen years ago.

  But we didn’t kill her. But they had raped her. All of them had. All except Simon. He’d just taken the pictures. Simon had always been a sick bastard that way.

  And you weren’t? You raped that girl, and how many others?

  He closed his eyes. He’d raped Alicia Tremaine and fourteen others. They all had. Except for Simon. He’d just taken the pictures.

  And where were the pictures?

  The thought had haunted him for thirteen years. The
pictures had been locked away, insurance that none of them would tell what they’d all done. Damn stupid kids that they’d been. Nothing he could ever do would erase what they’d done. What I did.

  Every hideous thing he’d done. Recorded in those pictures. When Simon had died the first time they’d all been relieved and terrified at the same time that the pictures would surface, but they never had and the years had passed. Uneasily.

  They’d never spoken of the pictures again, or the club, or the things they’d done. Not until DJ became a drunk. And disappeared.

  Just like Rhett had disappeared tonight. He knew Rhett was dead. Rhett had been ready to talk and he’d been disposed of. Just like DJ.

  I, on the other hand, am smart enough to keep my mouth shut and my head down until this is all over. Back then, the pictures had ensured their silence. If one went down, they’d all go down. But now, all these years later . . . They were no longer stupid kids. They were grown men with respectable jobs. And families to protect.

  But now, all these years later . . . somebody was killing their women. Women who thirteen years ago had been innocent little girls. The girls you raped were innocent girls, too. Innocent. Innocent. Innocent.

  “I know.” He spat the words aloud, then whispered, “God, don’t you think I know?”

  Now, all these years later, somebody else knew. They knew about the key, so they knew about the club and they must know about Simon’s pictures, too. It wasn’t one of them, not one of the four that remained. No, not four. He thought about Rhett Porter. Rhett was dead. The three that remained. None of them would do this.

  That this whole nightmare began one week after Simon Vartanian’s real death could not be a coincidence. Could Daniel have found Simon’s pictures?

  No. Not a chance. If Daniel Vartanian had the pictures, he’d be investigating.

  He is investigating, you idiot.

  No, he’s investigating the murders of Janet and Claudia.

  So Daniel didn’t know. That meant somebody else did. Somebody who wanted money. Somebody who’d killed two women to show them he meant business. Somebody who’d threatened to kill more if they didn’t listen.