In the Air Tonight

by Lori Handeland

  Curses! Alexander had been published in 1972. While it was helpful for getting Stafford to come out, it was not very helpful for deciphering much of anything else. If I’d chosen a more recent release, it would have given me a smaller window to determine when Genevieve might have died. But I’d been a kindergarten teacher long enough to become crafty. In truth, it had taken about a week.

  “You love your daddy?”

  Genevieve’s lips curved in the kind of smile reserved for the most beloved—Mommy, Daddy, Granny, depending on the kid.

  “More than anyone,” she said.

  “What’s his name?”

  She took a breath. Her mouth pursed. I leaned forward, expectantly.

  And the fire alarm went off.

  My entire class popped up like jack-in-the-boxes. Genevieve vanished. For the rest of the afternoon, the children were so jazzed I wished I had a whip and a chair.

  Or an industrial-sized bottle of Benadryl.

  By the time school let out, I was fantasizing about an industrial-sized bottle of something dry and red for myself. As it was Friday, I could even drink one.

  I’d almost forgotten about Bobby Doucet. Almost.

  I considered calling my father, asking if the detective was still in town, and if he was, suggesting he and I get together for a fish fry.

  Friday night in Wisconsin meant that every place serving food served fish. Fried. Certainly you could get your fish baked. In butter. Sides of potatoes—pancakes, French fries, boiled in butter. Rye bread, with pats of butter. Cole slaw—mayo base, never vinegar.

  Sense a theme?

  However, I’d never asked out a man, and as I found my key and opened my front door I decided against making the call. One didn’t dive into the deep end of the pool after the very first swimming lesson, and a woman like me shouldn’t ask out the hottest man she’d ever seen the first time she asked anyone out at all.

  Instead, I did what I did every day. I went into my bedroom and took off my school clothes, grimacing as I drew what had once been my best sweater over my head.

  I’d been right about the barf. The fire alarm had riled everyone up so high that not only had Susan urped on me, but so had Troy.

  After kicking off my shoes—they’d been christened too—I took the sweater into the bathroom and filled the sink. The garment was in desperate need of a presoak. It appeared Susan—or maybe Troy—had enjoyed grape jelly for lunch.

  I stepped into the bedroom and felt a draft. Ghost or …

  I glanced toward the front door. “Damn.”

  Unless I locked the door, and usually I did—I could almost swear I had—the thing blew open in any stray breeze.

  I moved toward it in nothing but my bra and jeans, hoping the UPS man wouldn’t suddenly appear on the landing—it had happened before—and got a chill the instant I stepped into the living room. I turned my head.

  Ghost this time. Meat-cleaver maniac. Big guy. Ugly. Bald. Looked like a member of the Hell’s Angels. Did they still have those? I’d be scared if he were real.

  “Take a hike,” I said, and continued on my way.

  The blade splintered the doorjamb I’d just passed.

  I stared—blinking, stunned. Ghosts couldn’t splinter wood.

  Thankfully, he’d sunk the cleaver in so deeply he was having a hard time yanking it back out. Then, suddenly, he did.

  It was going to be a shame that I hadn’t taken the time to pull on a sweatshirt, although the UPS man seeing my tacky, worn bra would soon be the least of my worries.

  “Get down!”

  I kissed carpet.

  The report was louder than today’s fire alarm, but staccato—bang, bang, bang—and over more quickly, yet my ears rang just the same. A current that smelled of smoke swirled past, then something thudded next to my head.

  The meat cleaver had missed me by an inch, slicing into the carpet and not my brain. The maniac fell right next to me, his weight causing the floorboards to jump beneath my cheek. I stared into his dead eyes.

  Talk about a terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad day.

  *

  Bobby kicked the weapon away from the intruder’s hand. He’d seen enough dead men to know that this one was. Still, he was taking no chances.

  He’d left the school in a rush, thinking Raye would be safe inside. He was nearly an hour away, driving past fields dotted with pumpkins, before it occurred to him that the kids were not imprisoned inside all day. They imbibed in that dangerous activity known as “recess,” and their teachers probably did too.

  He’d turned around, then gotten stuck in a bumper-to-bumper jam when an eighteen-wheeler had jackknifed on the expressway. After taking the next exit, he had become horribly lost—the GPS on both his phone and the rental car telling him his destination lay on the other side of a field dotted with massive windmills. Unfortunately the road it instructed him to take through that field, in an annoyingly robotic voice he wanted to reach into the machine and rip out by the throat, did not exist.

  He’d arrived at New Bergin Elementary after school let out. Seeing a janitor dumping garbage, Bobby flashed his badge, and determined that nothing worse than an unscheduled fire alarm had broken up the day. As it was Friday, all of the teachers had already gone home.

  Terrified he would find Raye bleeding and branded in an alley, he sped to her apartment, relieved to pass no commotion on the streets. He parked in front of her building and ran up the stairs. He arrived just in time.

  His chest hurt. He couldn’t decide if his fear had been worse upon seeing the maniac so close, huge blade lifted to plunge into her back, or seeing the knife tumble from the man’s hand toward her head.

  He had no idea how the thing had missed her. Halfway down it had shifted, as if a sudden breeze, or invisible hand, had pushed it just enough.

  “Are you all right?” Bobby went onto one knee, laid a finger to the man’s neck. As expected, the maniac had no pulse.

  Raye continued to hug the carpet. He began to worry that the intruder had done something more than sink his cleaver into the wall. She was missing a shirt.

  Bobby tried not to be distracted by the long, smooth expanse of her back—so pale it shimmered—but for just an instant he was.

  Then a chill current of air that smelled strongly of wood smoke stirred his hair, and he lifted his head to make certain the fool had not started a fire somewhere. There was nothing in the room but the two of them and the dead man.

  “Raye.” Bobby touched her shoulder. “You’re scaring me.”

  She made a strangled sound—half sob, half laugh. “I’m scaring you? Can you move the huge knife that almost gave me a lobotomy?”

  “Sorry, no.” She tilted her head, so she could meet his eyes, but she remained on the ground. “This is a crime scene.”

  She muttered a word she could never use in school.

  “Can you stand?”

  “I can, but I’m not going to.” She let out an annoyed huff. “Didn’t your mother ever tell you to always wear clean underwear in case you were in an accident?”

  His mother had been a cop, as had his father. The only noncop in their family was Bobby’s brother, Aaron, who’d gone to the dark side and become a lawyer.

  Their parents had met on the job, stayed on it until they couldn’t anymore, then opened a private security firm, which they operated to this day. His mother had never once mentioned underwear to Bobby that he could recall.

  “Did you hit your head when you fell?” he asked.

  “If only. Then I wouldn’t know, or maybe I wouldn’t care, that I’m lying here in my oldest, grayest, most worn bra.”

  “Oh.” He’d lived in New Orleans all his life. Folks danced on tables in fewer clothes than she wore now, and a lot of those clothes looked worse for the wear than what he could see of hers.

  He stepped into her room and retrieved a green and gold sweatshirt from the end of the bed, thankful he wouldn’t have to rifle drawers to find her something to wear. People
kept odd—read scary—things there. He should know. And he didn’t want to know that about her.

  Bobby returned, dropped the shirt next to Raye’s hand, turned, and pulled out his cell.

  “Someone already called.”

  Bobby paused, finger poised over the nine. “What?”

  “Gunshots in the city limits? Several people called. Maybe all of them.”

  He crossed to the door. She was right. Chief Johnson had just reached the bottom of the stairs; another officer followed close behind.

  “We’re clear, Chief,” Bobby called.

  The man frowned at the sight of him, but nodded and put away his gun before he motioned for the other guy to do the same. The kid—young and blond—hesitated. Bobby knew the type. Brand-new on the force and just dying to use his gun. In other words, trouble. But after sending an annoyed glance in Bobby’s direction, he did put up the gun.

  “You can turn around.”

  Bobby glanced over his shoulder as Raye stood then swayed. He dived forward, hands outstretched. He didn’t need her toppling on top of the dead man. Not only would that compromise the crime scene, but she appeared shook up enough already. Falling onto a dead body just might send her over the edge.

  “Sit.” He urged her to the sofa, and she let him. When she clung to his hand, he sat at her side.

  “He’s dead now,” she said. “He wasn’t before.”

  Bobby didn’t know what to say to that. Both statements seemed fairly obvious. But people in shock said strange things.

  Chief Johnson came into the apartment. “What happened?”

  “I came home,” Raye said before Bobby could even open his mouth. If she’d been in shock, she’d come out of it pretty fast. She sounded completely lucid as she continued her recitation.

  She’d started to change, saw the door was open, thought it was the wind, discovered it was a maniac. He’d tried to kill her. Bobby had shot him. She left out only one thing.

  The guy had tried to kill her once already. Bobby couldn’t figure out how to tell the chief about it now when he hadn’t before.

  “Do you know him?” Johnson asked.

  Raye shook her head.

  “Chief?” They all looked up. A third officer held out an evidence bag. “Found it in his pocket.”

  Johnson took the bag, glanced at the contents then handed it to Bobby. Inside was a ring emblazoned with the head of a snarling wolf.

  “You’ll need to test this for blood,” Bobby said.

  “Ya think?” the chief snapped, then sighed. “Sorry. I’m not…” He shoved his thick fingers through the remaining white tufts of his hair. “Before yesterday, the worst thing I’d had to investigate was a hunting accident.”

  “Same principles apply. Work the scene. Connect the dots.”

  “I can connect one,” Raye said. “The dead woman in the alley was branded with that ring.”

  “How do you know about the brand?” Bobby asked.

  “I saw her.”

  His frown deepened.

  “She was lying in the middle of town. It was kind of hard not to.”

  Bobby lifted his gaze to the chief, who shrugged. “A lot of people saw.”

  “He planned to kill, then brand me.”

  Raye was catching on faster than Johnson, but Bobby wasn’t surprised.

  “Why?” she asked.

  “That’s what I’m going to find out.”

  “You?” both Raye and Johnson asked at the same time.

  Bobby sighed, nodded.

  Someone had to.

  Chapter 7

  Dr. Christiansen arrived, and the chief moved off to talk to him. I could tell Bobby wanted to join them.

  As my Puritan stood in the corner, scowling at the dead man as if he’d like to kill him again, I encouraged him to. “Go on. I’ll—”

  “You’ll stay right here,” Bobby said. “Crime scene, remember?”

  Even though the idea of my apartment as such was nearly impossible to get my mind around despite the dead guy in the living room, I nodded.

  “As soon as I finish, I’ll take you…” he paused, then shrugged. “Away from here.”

  I doubted he’d take me as far away as I wanted to go, which was Nebraska. But anywhere would be fine. I certainly couldn’t sleep in my apartment tonight, even if they’d let me. I might never sleep in it again.

  Bobby joined the others. Low-voiced murmurs commenced. I did my best to ignore them. They only made my head ache. Or maybe that was just phantom pain from a narrowly averted meat cleaver to the brain. Considering where the maniac had been standing and where I’d been lying, I couldn’t figure out how I was still breathing.

  My eyes met those of my Puritan, who continued to hover in the corner, gaze steady on me.

  Then again, maybe I could.

  I wanted to talk to him. But he’d no doubt disappear as soon as I tried. As if I could talk to the empty corner with all these people around.

  My cell phone began to ring from somewhere in my bedroom—my father’s ring tone, “If I Had a Hammer.” I wasn’t surprised he’d heard already there was trouble, what surprised me was that it had taken this long.

  I started to rise, and Bobby lifted a hand, pointed a finger at the couch, then went into the other room himself. He came out with my purse, which he handed to me before returning to the meeting near the dead body.

  My fingers brushed the phone just as the ring tone switched to the Friends theme. Jenn. She’d have to wait. I sent her to voice mail and answered the summons of Peter, Paul, and Mary.

  “Father,” I said instead of hello. Why waste time?

  His breath rushed out. Was he worried? He so rarely showed emotion, I wasn’t sure.

  “Mrs. Knudson called. Said that young man from away ran up your steps, burst inside, and then there were shots. I didn’t like the way he looked at you. Did you have to shoot him?”

  Since I’d refused to take the gun he pressed on me that would have been a neat trick. A burble of hysterical laughter threatened to burst free. I slapped my hand over my mouth until the urge went away.

  “Raye? Raye! I’m coming over there.”

  “No!”

  I did not need another person in this apartment. I did not want my father here at all. I was uncertain of what to say to him under normal circumstances. This would be a nightmare.

  Wait, it already was.

  “I’m fine. Bobby saved my life.”

  Silence came over the line. I wanted to ask just how Bobby Doucet had looked at me, but the man in question appeared directly in front of me. I glanced up; he smiled. I forgot I still had my father on the phone.

  “Raye?”

  I blinked, came back to the earth. “I’m here.”

  “What happened?”

  Quickly I told him.

  “Why would someone want to kill you?”

  “I wish I knew.” Would knowing make me less shaky, or more?

  “You can’t stay there.”

  “I don’t want to stay here.”

  “You won’t be able to,” Bobby said. “I’ll take you home, but tell your father it’ll be a while. You’re a vic—” I must have flinched because he paused. “A witness. You have to give a statement.”

  “Father, I—”

  “I heard,” he interrupted, and then he was gone. Typical. No words of love or concern—never his strong suit—although perhaps him calling at all meant both.

  My phone beeped. Three messages. All from Jenn. She wouldn’t stop until I answered. Or worse, she’d show up. I called her back without listening to the messages.

  “Shit, Raye! Every cop in the land is at your house.”

  As that meant three, it wasn’t exactly a convention, though the EMTs and the fire department had come too. In New Bergin, they always did. I never had been sure why. Perhaps boredom.

  “I’m there, Jenn. I know.”

  “What happened?

  I seemed doomed to answer that question, but I answered it again.


  “I’ll come over.”

  “Don’t. It’s a madhouse. And a crime scene. I have to give a statement, then Bobby—”

  “Bobby is it?” She made a purring, revving sound that was Jenn-speak for hubba-hubba and phrases less fifties and more R-rated.

  “He’ll take me to my father’s.”

  “Convenient.”

  “It is.”

  “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

  As there wasn’t much she wouldn’t do, I wasn’t worried.

  Over the next hour and a half I learned a lot. For instance, Bobby was in New Bergin because the brand on the dead woman matched that of several victims in New Orleans, which equaled serial killer. Ain’t life grand?

  Bobby had come here only to compare the marks, ask a few questions. But he hadn’t figured on the killer still being in town, and really, really wanting to kill me.

  I answered the same question in a variety of different ways, from a variety of people, including Bobby. But he never did voice a query as to why I’d lied about the maniac the first time. At least while we were in the hearing of any of the others.

  Once I’d been released, packed a bag, and gotten into his rental car, which was parked sideways in front of my building, that was his second question, right after, “Where’s the closest decent restaurant?”

  As he’d qualified closest with decent we had to head out of town. I gave him directions, and a few minutes outside the city limits, he cast me a sidelong glance. “Why did you lie?”

  “Why did you let me?”

  He returned his gaze to the road. “Are you going to answer my question?”

  “As soon as you answer mine.” I was stalling; we both knew it.

  He let out a long breath. “I figured you must have had a good reason to lie. You don’t seem the type to do it just for fun.”

  “People lie for fun?” It had always made me twitch. Although I’d gotten better at it. I’d had to.

  He flicked another glance toward me, then away. I was still stalling. He still knew it.

  “You checked my apartment that night. No maniac. No sign of one. What was I supposed to think?”

  “That the guy was fast, not invisible.”

  “I didn’t say he was invisible.” I’d only thought that. “I said I’d imagined him.”