He talked over the message as if he were giving someone his location. But that was the rehearsed part of him, the part that functioned automatically, the survivor. He listened to their voices while he had his fake conversation, to them pretending to be happy. He got it all out before the beep, before voice mail could record him.
He felt himself pulling in air and letting it out slowly. Something in his body, something carnal and inborn, was preparing him for the moment when everything coiled and waiting would spring savagely to life. He’d waited to feel it again. He lived for it, for her, for this moment, for the scent of that bubblegum in her mouth.
He smiled over at her, put his hand on the back of her neck casually. “Thanks for your help,” he said. For someone so smart, she was so fucking clueless.
He slammed her face down hard into his perfectly healthy engine. It stunned her for a few seconds, long enough for him to grab the tape she’d laughed at. He hit the hood brace with his elbow and ducked out of the way, watched the hood crash down, saw her back arch when the latch dug into her. Blood began to seep into her shirt. He jerked her arms back. She was screaming now. And kicking. He knew she would. She wasn’t a victim. She was bossy and proud. She had plans. That’s what he wanted. Someone with a brain. Someone with something to live for. Or else it just wouldn’t be any fun at all.
He wasn’t even thinking when he did it. He was just in that moment, that wonderful, crazy, terrifying moment. He needed her to shut the fuck up so he could get her in the vehicle and get off the road. He jerked her out from under the hood, spun her around, and swung a fist that landed just over the left cheekbone near the temple. She crumpled like a piece of foil. She’d never been hit. He could tell. Nothing bad like that had ever happened to her.
When he was done, when he’d dragged her around and deposited her limp body in the back like a sandbag, he finished taping her ankles and wrists and mouth. He looked quickly through the purse, wiped down and tossed out a nail file and a compact mirror, then dropped it next to her, pushing blond hair off her forehead. He ran a finger down her face, her neck, into her shirt. She was pretty. He couldn’t wait for her to wake up next to him.
He removed the pink case from her phone and used the dirty rag to wipe off his prints. They’d find it. They’d examine it. Maybe the sheriff’s hired gun would find it. Maybe her hands would be holding it soon. He smiled at that and tossed the case in the ditch, popped the back off the phone and dropped the battery into his pocket. He wiped down everything carefully, then snapped the phone back together and wedged it in front of one of his back tires.
As he drove away, he lowered the driver’s window. He wanted to hear it, remember it, keep one more memory. You hold on to the little things—a warm battery in your pocket next to a swelling cock, the sound of tires crushing plastic and glass, driving it down into the dirt. Because whatever happened between them next, it would never be this new again.
19
I returned to the Whispering Pines Inn and fell across the hard bed. I needed a minute. I didn’t know what to make of this day. I didn’t even know where to start. But I couldn’t forget where the day had begun, with Ken Meltzer jogging beside me, looking into my eyes over breakfast, inquiring about my empty ring finger in a not-so-subtle way as we drove, opening that door, practically kicking it in, the crazy chemistry between us, physical, undeniable. It skipped up and down my skin, up and down my spine, whenever I was near him. Jesus. I scrambled up, rubbed my face. What the hell was wrong with me? Mercury must be in Gatorade or something.
A killer had left a message on my windshield today, boldly walked up to my car and left his note with the same invisibility he had enjoyed when Tracy and Melinda disappeared. Nothing is more invisible than the everyday. He was a regular at the weird, cliquish diner. That’s why no one gave him two looks in the parking lot. Or had they seen him? Were they protecting him? But why? Perhaps because they knew only a note had been left on my car, not the content, not what he was—a killer. Had he been there when I was there last night, this afternoon? I thought about the guys at the counter, the woman in the booth. I thought about the packed diner this morning over breakfast with the sheriff. Was he watching us even then?
And worst of all, Jeff Davidson had sliced himself open in a prison kitchen today after I’d assumed, wrongly, that he’d been informed his sister’s remains had been discovered, and that after over a decade he would be prepared. I should have told someone immediately, a guard, the sheriff. As soon as I realized the news was new to him, he should have been put on suicide watch. I’d underestimated his emotion. Holding out hope that Tracy would come home one day was what had been keeping him alive. I hadn’t seen it. And that weight hung heavy on me now. I thought about Josey Davidson and the rubble in her life, the loss. I thought about Bryant Cochran. It breaks you, Miss Street. It takes a guy like me and snaps him right in half.
I’d memorized every word of that note I’d found on my windshield today. Now I wrote it on my legal pad and stared at it.
Dear Keye,
I’m thinking about you too. I thought you would want to know that. I know they hired you to find me. I know all about you. I’ve wanted someone to talk to.
Listen hard. Can you hear me? More soon.
He was reaching out. That was the good news. He wanted to communicate, to be understood. He was flattered by the attention and probably obsessed by it. My fear and my near certainty was that I would receive his promise of more at yet another crime scene. That’s really what the note was about. He wanted us to know he was still out there. And still hunting.
I propped up on the hard bed with hard pillows, which was terrible for sleeping but, as it turns out, pretty good for reading. I did what I always do when in an investigation: read and reread statements, the police reports, every name and every word; go over my notes; write down every step I took today and every piece of information I gathered, what Melinda’s friends said, what Jeff told me about Tracy’s life. Where did they intersect and who had access to both victims? The answer to that defined the suspect pool—neighbors, coaches, counselors, parents of schoolmates, family members. I thought about the band teacher who had been overlooked, Mr. Tray, and got out my laptop to find his address. If he wasn’t at school tomorrow, I was going to have to pay him a visit at home.
My phone rang, a 706 area code, a local call. I answered and heard a familiar voice. “Hey, Rob Raymond here. Figured you’d wanna know that the lab couldn’t pull anything off that letter you got. No prints. No trace.”
“Too much to hope for, I guess,” I said.
“Sheriff’s department issued a statement today,” he told me. “On our website and on social media with info from your profile so locals know what to look out for. It’s getting some attention.”
“What kind of attention?”
“Brenda Roberts,” he said, and I froze. She was a television journalist in Atlanta with a fascination for my past and for my relationship to APD and Rauser. She’d asked many times for an interview. So far I’d managed to avoid her.
“You spoke with her?”
“Yep. She asked for the detective in charge of the investigation relating to our press release and they sent her call to me. She wanted to know who compiled the profile.”
“Shit,” I muttered.
“I told her we’d reached out to the Bureau, which is technically true.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“I didn’t do it for you. I did it so your shit doesn’t muddy up our investigation.”
“Investigation?” I said. I wasn’t in the mood for Raymond. “You did it because you don’t want any extra scrutiny. Because you know you botched the job. How do you perform an investigation if you can’t even compile a victimology, Detective? The information on file about Melinda Cochran’s life and habits and family is full of holes.”
“We knew her,” he insisted. “We didn’t need a bunch of extra paperwork.”
“Well, that kind of half-assed work et
hic is why I’m here. By the way, did you know Melinda walked home by herself one day a week? Did you know she stayed late for band practice? Did you realize that time after school away from friends and parents might have been her first exposure to her killer? Maybe he got to know her then. Maybe she came to trust him. This offender is a planner. He lays his trap and waits.”
I could hear the rasp of his breathing, but he said nothing.
“What do you know about the band teacher?” I asked.
“He’s a hero around here. He put us on the map with that band. Our athletic programs suck.”
“Thanks for your call, Detective.” I stabbed the END CALL button with my finger and cursed.
When my phone bleated again a few minutes later, it wasn’t Detective Raymond. “I haven’t eaten since breakfast,” Kenneth Meltzer informed me. “You hungry?”
“Starved,” I said. I didn’t add exhausted, discouraged, and pissed off.
“There’s a little place just outside the city limits that makes a great quesadilla. Where are you now?”
I hesitated, and the sheriff caught it. “Come on. We both need dinner and it’s been one heck of a day.”
“Yes, it has,” I agreed.
“You remember the bridge you used to come into Whisper? I’m five minutes from there. I’ll wait for you on the other side. You can follow me.”
I put my computer to sleep, took it to the hotel safe that was built into the closet wall. It had a digital readout that allowed you to choose the combination. I chose four random numbers and committed them to memory, slipped my computer, my Glock, my camera, and my notes inside, closed the door, and pressed the LOCK button. Metal slid into position with a satisfying click.
Nine minutes later I was crossing the bridge that had first led me into Whisper. The cars in front of me were tapping their brakes. I had a feeling I should be putting on the brakes too. But I wasn’t.
His Interceptor was sitting on the shoulder like a speed cop. He swung out in front of me and I followed him a mile to a twisty unmarked road carved out of thick pine forest. After another half a mile, we turned onto a dirt lane. Red dust flew up in front of me. We passed a few cottages, well tended, newish. Some of them had signs in the yard with names. Rentals, I decided.
The road ended at a wide drive and a cluster of log homes on a slightly elevated piece of land. A wooden bench-swing hung off the limb of an old water oak. Giant pecan trees skirted the property. Pebbled paths split off from the driveway to each of the three homes on the hill. I got out. The sheriff came around to my car.
“What’s this?” I asked, confused.
“It’s where I live.” He spread his arms and smiled as if it were perfectly normal to bring your consultant home for dinner. “Mom lives in the center cabin,” he told me as we walked up a path toward his home—a three-level cabin with an A-frame center. I glimpsed water in the background, Lake Oconee shimmering in the setting sun. I remembered him telling me the coroner was a real estate agent. I’d made a joke about deals on waterfront property. Oops.
“Who lives in that one?” I pointed to the small cabin at the right end of the semicircle.
“Mom’s caretaker. Mom needed help and we didn’t like the assisted-living facilities around here. So we bought this place together.” We stepped up on his porch and he pushed open an unlocked front door. A golden retriever mix let out a yelp and scrambled up on hind legs as if she was coming off a launching pad. Paws hit Meltzer’s chest. He rubbed her head and under her ears playfully. “Keye Street, meet Ginger.”
She dropped off him and looked at me. The back half of her body moved in the opposite direction of her wagging tail. She had the head and face of a golden retriever, long legs, a chow’s bushy tail and lion mane, and I wasn’t sure about the rest of her. Apparently there had been a party. Some chows showed up, some golden retrievers, a cocker spaniel. Ginger was what my mother’s rescue buddies called a splendid-blended. “Hi, Ginger.” I bent and petted her. The wagging speed increased. She handed me her paw. I shook it, said, “Good girl.”
Meltzer pushed the door open. “Go do your thing and come back.” Ginger shot through the door and down the steps. “Pulled her out of an Animal Control truck about a year ago. One of the perks of being sheriff.” He winked.
We had stepped into an open area with a tall A-slanted roof, a stone fireplace, a kitchen on one side, railed stairs rising to a loft above us. Meltzer went to the kitchen and pulled a pan from a cabinet.
“I always wanted a cabin in the woods. And it means Mom can stay home. Patricia is full-time so I don’t have to worry too much when I’m not here.” He opened the refrigerator. “I’ve got white cheddar and baby spinach. How’s that?”
“Perfect.” My stomach felt like a big, empty cave. I would have eaten the ass-end out of a rag doll about then.
“Bathroom’s down the hall if you need it.” He pulled out a plastic container. “Downstairs is locked because the steps are steep and Mom could fall. Gym equipment mostly, laundry room. Nice view of the lake on the balcony off my bedroom upstairs, though. Make yourself at home.”
The downstairs was neat but lived-in. I looked up at the loft. I wanted to go up there, see what his bedroom looked like, if the bed was made, if it was messy, or if he was one of those guys who used a tube squeezer on the end of the toothpaste. I mean, how much more perfect was this man? He rescued dogs, taught kids on his day off, cared about rehabilitating prisoners, and took care of his mother. I went back to the kitchen. Meltzer was opening a package of flour tortillas. “So what does a county sheriff have to drink?” I opened the fridge, saw tomato juice, two percent milk, an open bottle of Chardonnay with a purple silicone wine stopper. “Interesting,” I said, in my best Colonel Klink.
“Uh-oh. Am I being profiled based on my choice in beverages?” He loaded tortillas with spinach, heaped them with cheese, folded them on a dry skillet, and lit the flame on a gas range. His arm brushed against mine as I searched for a glass. He grabbed one out of the cabinet and put it on the counter for me.
“It’s the orange juice guys you have to worry about,” I told him and took my tomato juice to the table. Pecan trees shaded the thick, green lawn; his mother’s cabin was just yards away. I didn’t think I’d be able to live so close to my own mother. I took a drink of juice and wished it were a bloody Mary. I looked at Meltzer in his short-sleeved uniform, tanned, muscled arms, blond fuzz like corn silk on his forearms. “Scene techs find anything at Peele’s place?” I asked.
He turned our quesadillas with a red spatula, glanced at me. “Little blood in the bathroom sink, but it would be unusual to find a man’s sink without a little blood. We know it’s Peele’s blood type. DNA will come eventually. Digital specialist is looking over his devices. No weapons in the house, and the only pornography was for grown-ups. We did find an axe. He also has a woodpile and a fireplace. No blood evidence on the axe. Not a big surprise, is it? The man tore down his house. I’m convinced that renovation served a dual purpose—new house, destroyed evidence. He’s not going to keep a bloody murder weapon around.”
“Frustrating,” I said. Logan Peele was a sexual sadist. I knew that. I’d seen my share. The nature of his past crimes, the two girls he was convicted of raping, the elements of the crimes, the things he said to them, the things he did to them, the fact that one of them was his own daughter—all confirmed that assessment. Victim suffering heightened his fantasies. I remembered his eyes, the smug way he looked at me while he held that ice cube to his swelling face. “They went over his truck too, right?”
Meltzer nodded. “Every inch. I’ve pulled one patrol off days and one off nights to keep an eye on him. We have a little gap but he’ll be on our radar soon.”
I wondered again if it was Logan Peele who had slipped the note under my windshield wiper. There was nothing in the language I could link back to him. But this offender knew every word would be analyzed. He’d be careful. He’d camouflage and manipulate and direct this investigatio
n every chance he got.
The front door rattled and Meltzer left the stove to open it. Ginger rushed through the living room and found me at the table, nudged me with her nose. I petted her. “Does she get a treat or something?” Her ears came up at that, and her head cocked to the side.
“Now you’ve done it,” Meltzer said. He pulled a box from a lower cabinet. Ginger ran to him. He gave her a treat and sent her to the living room. I watched her eat it over her bed, carefully clean up every crumb, then make about eighteen circles before she found the right position to lie down. Meltzer pushed our food from the skillet to a plate, brought plates to the table. He poured himself juice and sat down next to me. “Bon appétit.”
Our glasses clinked. He held my eyes too long, until I looked down at the browned flour tortilla on my plate. White cheddar oozed out over wilted spinach. I took a bite. It was warm and gooey and comfort-foody. He watched me. “Not bad for a guy who lives with his mom,” I told him.
“I tuck myself in too.” That look again. The smile.
What was I doing here? I’m not one of those high school girls I talked to today. I know that if some guy is flirting with me and I agree to have dinner with him alone, there will be more flirting. And hopes. What was Ken Meltzer hoping for? A kiss? A beginning? Or just a quickie? Had he fantasized about fucking me in the upstairs loft? I took another bite and looked at him, at that full bottom lip, at his strong, tan hands, the too-long lashes. I thought about watching him pull the boat up to the dock when I first arrived and that long vein popping up in his biceps. I kind of wanted to run my tongue over it right now. I could see myself climbing those steps with him and watching his clothes come off. I could imagine the pressure of his hard body against my thighs, his hands, his mouth. I could. I admit it. Okay, so I have a history of outright sabotage. It’s like I’d stayed up studying The Anarchist Cookbook, then applied it to my life—a poison-tipped dart here, a strategically placed incendiary device there. I thought about Rauser at home. Not boring, not easy, not perfect, wonderful Rauser. The man I loved. And yes, we have those days now, those days when we aren’t intimate, when he barely brushes a kiss by me, remote-control days with him on the couch when he’s not working, barely moving. But we were settling into something good. We were. So why were the walls closing in? I thought about him fuming over the silverware drawer, questioning me about the bond enforcement job I’d taken to bring in Ronald Coleman. I thought about how I dreaded those moments when he turned into my dad.
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