Dry Bones

by Carole Morden

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOURY

  My first sensation was a pasty-dry cottonmouth and parched throat. My head leaned forward with my chin resting on my chest. I didn’t want to move a muscle until I could take stock of my situation. The gag was gone, and I was perched on a tall stool and strapped in with a bungee cord, arms pulled behind the stool back, wrists duct-taped to each other. My feet were tied to the stool legs. I couldn’t see much, except light beige, plush carpet. I could tell there was a lamp behind me with a dim bulb. The dizziness that accompanied my drug-induced sleep had passed, but I ached for a drink of water.

  Fear raked across my chest and settled in like unwanted company.

  God, help me know what to do. What possible skills have You prepared me with to handle this? I can bake a pie, write a tithe check, hug one hundred people in less than ten minutes, and sit through church meetings like they’re more enjoyable than a day at the beach, but how do I get away from this panic that’s crawling through me, not to mention the bad guy on the couch? I don’t even have my Taser with me.

  Looking up, I saw the kidnapper watching me from a black, leather recliner. The room held a matching couch and a wide-screen TV, state-of-the-art entertainment center with surround sound, and a variety of high-end faux plants and trees. The room, the captor, being tied to a bar stool, it was more than I could stand. I felt tears well up in my eyes. Not now. Don’t think. Just put on your Sunday-go-to-meeting smile.

  Staring into the eyes of the figure on the recliner, I asked, “Could I get a drink of water?” My voice came out thin and scratchy so I cleared my throat to try again. “I could use a drink, please.”

  Walking over to the wet bar, the hand that induced me to sleep turned on the faucet and half-filled a short glass. Ski mask still in place, Green-eyes lifted the tumbler to my lips. The first sip tasted like heaven, the second was just as good, and the third bathed my throat with coolness.

  “Thank you.” My voice took on a hard edge, trying to mask the generous portion of fear surging through me. “Where am I?”

  “In a basement.” The reply sounded as cold as ice.

  “What do you want with me?”

  “Nothing . . . nothing at all,” the decidedly female voice said. “I would prefer that you were in Great Falls, Montana doing whatever it is pastor’s wives do, instead of snooping into business that is no concern of yours.”

  “The only thing I’ve been snooping into is the murder of a dear friend, and I have been accused of having a strong motive to kill him, so I would say that it is my business. I really think you can quit playing this cloak-and-dagger bit, Volvo Lady, or should I call you Cindy Gilmore? Maybe it’s just plain old Rella Blanchard—Cinderella Blanchard to be specific. Catchy use of your first name,” I said, letting derision take over the fear.

  Pulling the ski mask off, Rella eyed me coldly. “Brilliant detective work, but it’s a bit too late. In about two hours you’ll be dead, my brother Craig will be the suspected murderer, and I will be on my way back to Israel with no one the wiser.”

  “You’re working with Craig?”

  “Working with Craig? I guess your deductive reasoning isn’t all that good after all. Craig doesn’t even know I’m alive, and you, Jamie Storm, are just a means to an end. It’s amazing really. Here we are in my dear little brother’s family room, and he doesn’t even know I exist. Family room. That’s a laugh. Craig has no family, and he never will if I have anything to say about it.”

  “But you were meeting him at Grindstone’s tonight,” I said. “You knew he liked to fish in Geist Reservoir.”

  “So I lied. Sue me. And as for knowing about fishing, I always, always know what Craig is doing.”

  Terror marched up and down my spine like ants on their way to a picnic. This woman was insane, and while I had counseled disgruntled wives, a few suicide attempters, and lovesick teens, I had never come face-to-face with pure insanity. My only chance was to keep Rella talking.

  Replacing my harsh bravado with the soothing, even tones I used in counseling, I tried a new approach. “You said two hours. Why not now?”

  “What?”

  “You said I would be dead in two hours. Why prolong the inevitable? Why not kill me now?” I said it as if I were asking Abigail Thornbush why the bake sale was planned for a Tuesday evening instead of a Saturday morning. Non-threatening, just wanting a simple answer to a simple question. I looked straight into Rella’s eyes.

  “I have to wait for your killer.”

  “Who’s my killer? If it’s not you, and you’re not working with Craig, then who is it? And how can you be so sure Craig won’t come home?” Friendly, trying to help.

  “Don’t worry about Craig. He’ll be occupied . . . until I’m ready for him to come home. Well, not by me personally, but trust me. He’ll be occupied. Too many events at the school tonight for him to come home.”

  I wanted to scream as I listened to the cold, clearly unbalanced mind talking with pseudo-rational thought. Hoping the light didn’t illuminate the fear reflected on my bruised face, I kept asking questions. Questions that didn’t really matter once I was dead, but might keep Rella off balance.

  “Who did you say was going to kill me?’

  “I didn’t say. I just said it wouldn’t be me.” With a sarcastic grin, she added, “It isn’t part of my mission statement to kill you. Get it? Mission statement?”

  “I know what a mission statement is. I have one myself.” Or did have. I’ve kind of forgotten it in the daily humdrum of life—to look for and rescue the dying. Now the dying is me, and I may never have a chance to rescue anyone again. Forgive me, Lord. “But I’m more interested in yours since it happens to involve my life. Do you mind telling me what it is?”

  Rella looked at her watch. “What’s the difference? You’ll be dead soon, and I hear dead men can’t talk. I imagine the same is true for dead women.” Rella smiled at her lame attempt at humor.

  “My mission statement is simple,” she said. “I adopted it at the age of seven. Adopted, now that’s funny. I adopted a mission statement, but I was never adopted. I could have been, but no, I wouldn’t leave Craig, and no one wanted a little boy who couldn’t talk. He did talk though. It’s just that no one heard him but me. He talked to a stupid bird that old lady Leeds gave him. He wouldn’t talk to me, his sister, who turned down a life with a real family to stay with him, but he talked to a parakeet. Well, Petey’s dead, and I enjoyed wringing his little neck, a fait accompli via my mission statement—to make Craig’s life as miserable as he made mine.”

  Insanity flickered in Rella’s eyes. Her words dripped bitterness.

  My fear ratcheted up a notch, but I forced myself to stay calm. I lowered my voice to barely a whisper, softening each word as I spoke. “He was four years old, Rella. Four, and he had just lost his parents. Surely you can understand that he wasn’t responsible for you not being adopted.”

  “And I was seven—big deal. I lost my parents too. It wasn’t a picnic for me either. Two weeks after I turned down a family who wanted me, he went off with the Haskells without so much as a backward glance. He left me alone like I was zero, zilch, nobody. You can’t possibly know what it’s like—not having family.”

  “No, I can’t.”

  “Even the other orphans had some family. An aunt or uncle who made an occasional visit, brothers or sisters who were orphaned, too, or grandparents who couldn’t take care of them, but came by to take them on outings. I watched as one-by-one children were adopted or put in foster homes. New kids came in and went out. I stayed. I wouldn’t leave Craig, and then he left me without a moment’s hesitation. Do you know what it’s like to not have anyone?”

  I ignored the question.

  “It’s the worst thing, the worst thing you can imagine.”

  “What about God?” Shifting gears, I tried to keep her off balance.

  “God? How dare you talk to me about God. You know nothing about God.” Rella’s nose flared, her breathing heavy, an
d her eyes glistened with hate. “Oh, my parents took me to Sunday school. They even taught me to say bedtime prayers, and I believed every last word they spoke until the day God took them out of my life. No God would be that cruel. I hate Him. He took away everything in my life. He doesn’t exist. There is no Redeemer, no mender of broken lives—just a sick, bedtime story that parents make up to keep their children in line. My daughter will not hear any of that drivel in my house.”

  “You have a daughter?”

  “None of your business.”

  “I thought you said you were all alone.”

  “My daughter is nine. I was alone until several years ago. I will never be alone again, and she will never hear God’s name spoken aloud.”

  Yeah, as if that won’t happen in Israel. Out loud I said, “How can you hate Him if He doesn’t exist?”

  Fury etched livid-red spots on Rella’s cheeks. Barely controlling her strained voice, she said through clenched teeth, “This is not about God. We will not talk about this. My question to you is a simple one. Do you know what it’s like to not have anyone?”

  I let my head drop to my chest before shaking it slowly. “No, I’m sorry, I don’t.”

  “Sorry? You don’t know the meaning of sorry. I decided on the day Craig rode away that he would never have family either. If I couldn’t have him, no one could. And I’ve kept that promise. Every move I’ve made has been so that I could achieve my mission statement. My college education, my overseas work, my teaching at Highland, my national speaking engagements, all to put myself in positions to rid Craig of family and friends and leave him as lonely as he left me.”

  “That’s a big job.” I kept my voice even, sympathetic, though icy chills raced through my body. I was face-to-face with a crazy killer.

  Rella’s fury abated, and her voice took on a singsong tone. “But it’s getting old now. I can’t keep up the passion. I have more important things in my life now. So this is my grand finale. You will be killed in Craig’s house. I will frame him with indisputable evidence. He will be sent to prison for life, and I can relax. I can let go. I don’t have to ever come back once he’s safely locked away in prison.”

  “So let go now. Why keep punishing Craig? Haven’t you destroyed his life enough?”

  “Nothing will ever make up for the years I spent alone. Nothing. But I can’t keep coming back. I’m married now. I have a husband and a beautiful daughter.”

  “You have a family?” Keep her talking.

  “I have a wonderful family. My husband knows nothing of my past, doesn’t know I have a brother. My daughter will be given everything a family can give a little girl except siblings. I will never have more children. I won’t give anyone the chance to betray her like Craig betrayed me.”

  “Haven’t you already betrayed her by ruining her uncle’s life? She will never get to know that part of her extended family.”

  The rage was back in an instant. “Shut up!” Rella yelled. She jumped up from the couch, and with three quick strides, she stood in front of me. She slapped my face with all the force she could muster, which was considerable, and screamed again. “Shut up, shut up, shut up!”

  My head reeled back from the vicious slap. Tears stung my eyes. I blinked rapidly, trying to keep them from falling. “So you killed the Haskells, Dacia Stewart, Angela and her unborn child, a defenseless dog sitter named Kelly, Dr. Rice, and then his friend and mine—Tim Manter. And you’re going to kill me too. Quite a legacy to leave your daughter.”

  “You think you’re so smart. You’re not smart at all. I didn’t kill Ms. Stewart, although I must admit, it needed to be done.” A crazy lilt punctuated her words.

  “You must be proud,” I said, earning another slap.

  “This isn’t about pride. It’s about loneliness—something you won’t ever understand. None of the rest of the murders can be traced back to me. The Haskells’ deaths were ruled a hit-and-run—forgotten long ago. Angela and her baby died of the Hantavirus, Dr. Rice of anthrax poisoning. My time attending classes at the university in Israel on biological warfare was well spent. Everything I used was completely untraceable. I am sorry about Kelly. I wanted to kill the Stewarts. Craig spent much too much time with them. Kelly and the dogs just got in the way. It accomplished my purpose. Craig walked out of their lives and never renewed his friendship with them.”

  “Tell me about Tim.”

  “Tim—unfortunate, but clearly Craig’s fault. I thought he’d learned his lesson. That’s what he went to see Dr. Rice about, you know. About everyone he loved dying. I thought he would be a hermit the rest of his life, but no, Tim came into his life and gave him some wild notion that the two of them could find Dacia’s murderer on their own. I waited just long enough for Craig to really like Tim—for them to become good friends—before I ordered the hit. A simple bullet to the brain, and Craig was left alone one more time.” Her face contorted into a smug grin as she related this last bit of information.

  For the first time in my life I felt hatred for another human being. I loathed the sight of this disturbed, bitter woman who had taken Tim’s life. God help me to know what to say, what to do. I just want this woman dead. She’s evil, pure evil. Aloud I said, “I know this is probably out of the question, but could I please use the bathroom? If I die, it would be nice not to soil myself in the process.”

  Looking at the clock on the wall, Rella answered, “Sure. Why not? Your executioner should be here in a few minutes. But before you go, would you like to hear one little bit of ironic news?”

  “Please.”

  “You’ve been working with Shawn Norman on this? Ambassador to Israel and . . .” She took a long pause for dramatic effect. “My husband.” The high-pitched laugh resonated with madness.

  I sucked in air. “His wife’s in Israel.”

  “No, no she’s not. She’s standing in front of you.”

  “Your service told me you were on a teaching sabbatical. Shawn said he had to hurry home to his wife. That she stayed behind because of work.”

  “My service tells people what I tell them to say, not necessarily what I do. I have my home phone routed to my cell, so Shawn thinks I’m home. We talk every day.”

  I was stunned by this news. How could a completely insane woman fool so many people?

  “Seriously, I need to go to the bathroom,” I reminded her.

  Walking over to the couch, Rella reached down between two of the leather cushions and pulled out a small, black pistol. “This is the very gun used to eliminate your precious Tim from Craig’s life. If you do anything stupid, I will use it on you before you have a chance to meet the man who is so looking forward to killing you.”

  “Who would that be?”

  Rella took a long time to untie and untape me, attempting to keep the pistol pointed at my head while using her left hand to undo the bungee cords and untwist the duct tape.

  “I thought you would have figured it out by now. Phillip House. He’s the one who killed Dacia Stewart in the park, you know. I followed her there, hoping to find an opportunity to slip a homemade bomb under her car. It was a project that one of your Highland High classmates made for the science fair. Lisa Ivy. Of course, she left off the fuse and detonator or she would have been expelled, but I thought it was pretty good for a teenager.”

  “Could we get back to Dacia?” My feet dangled free, and the bungee cord settled on the floor in snakelike fashion. Only my wrists remained taped.

  “Dacia had a camera with her. She ran to a spot in the woods where she could see the parking lot. I followed her, hanging back so she wouldn’t spot me, but I wanted to make sure she was going to be far enough away that I would have time to set the bomb. I saw House following her as well. He didn’t see me hiding in the bushes because the undergrowth was so thick at Mounds. I thought maybe they were having an affair until I saw the crowbar in his hand. I waited and watched. It took him a matter of seconds to get behind her and bash her head in. I couldn’t believe my luck. He drag
ged her further into the park. I quit following, but I knew she was dead.”

  “How nice for you.” My sarcasm was in full swing. Fear was replaced by disgust.

  Rella ignored me and continued. “Later, after he had gotten so important in politics, I sent him a little note with the facts of Dacia’s death. I asked for forty thousand dollars a year plus a thousand dollar a year cost-of-living raise to keep quiet. I had him deposit it in my Israeli bank account, and it completely financed my mission in life. Every year on Mother’s Day, so I can remember why I’m doing what I’m doing. My family has no idea that the company I work for has not sent me on so many speaking engagements.

  “Tonight, when he kills you, the slate will be clean. He can walk away from his past, and I can walk away from mine. And Craig can rot in prison with no hope of parole. No more blackmail money. No more trips to the US. Just me and my family living out our lives in peace.”

  My gut twisted as I listened to the chilling words of Rella Blanchard. The last of the tape had come off my wrists, and as I slid off the barstool my legs nearly buckled under me. I felt wobbly as I took the first few steps toward the bathroom. My legs tingled. They were almost asleep again.

  Please, God, let the bathroom have a window.

  Rella walked with me to the bathroom door, keeping the pistol in the middle of my back as a reminder not to try anything stupid.

  Once in the bathroom, I closed the door and looked around. Pulling down the toilet seat and cover, I stepped up and looked through the window. The window was way too narrow to climb through, and there was no other option.

  Okay, God, next time I’ll be more specific.

  I looked around to see if it would do any good to scream for help but saw no one nearby. Stepping down, I flushed the unused toilet to mask the sound of opening the vanity. Turning on both the cold and warm water to full blast, I pulled the lid off a can of bathroom disinfectant. I knew I’d have to be ready to spray immediately and duck or dodge to the right or left at the same time. Hopefully, if Rella pulled the trigger the bullet would miss.