by Rita Herron
The endless prayers.
He slid the pair of silk panties from beneath the mattress where he’d buried them when he’d first brought her to his bed. Her eyes widened in confusion, then she bucked and tried to move but he had her tied good. He had all his supplies ready. The bleach. The plastic to carry her in. The spot chosen to dump her body. This time he’d throw off the cops. Instead of the woods, he’d take her to the marsh.
Slowly he wrapped the panties around her neck and began to squeeze.
Chapter Seven
By the time Jenny finished with her last patient, recorded her notes for the day and detailed strategies for the group session and individual patients, dusk had come and gone and night had set in. Renee had long ago left for home. Jenny shut down her computer and locked her files.
Her session with Clyde Anson had disturbed her. She’d studied his body language and had to ask about his encounter with the woman. Specifically if she’d been alive when he’d left her.
He’d thrown his head back and laughed, then said she’d been alive and begging for more.
Always alert to the possibility of a patient with an ax to grind or lurking around, she locked the door behind her and checked the halls for stragglers. The security guard on her floor stood by the elevator and threw up his hand. Relief skated through her, making her realize she was on edge because of the Strangler stalking the town.
Her cell phone rang as she reached the elevator, and she slid it from her purse and checked the call. Dr. Solaris’s office.
Taking a deep breath, she answered the call. “Dr. Madden speaking.”
“Jenny, it’s Payden, Dr. Solaris’s secretary. He asked me to call and tell you that your mother had a bad day.”
“What happened?”
“He’s not sure. He ran some tests and wanted to talk to you about them. Said maybe you could stop by. Then he went to check on her and she started screaming and ranting incoherently.”
“I’ll be right there.” Rolling her shoulders to alleviate the tension, she punched the elevator button, stepped inside and hit the button for the fifth floor. As soon as she stepped off, she sensed the agitation on the wing. Heart racing, she bolted to the nurse’s station.
“Dr. Madden. I need to see Dr. Solaris.”
“He’s with your mother right now, Doctor. You can wait.”
“No, let me go. Maybe I can calm her or figure out what set her off.”
She wove through the corridor, past a male nurse who had just exited her mother’s room. He looked frazzled and fresh scratch marks marred his arms and neck.
Jenny pushed open the door and paused, cataloging the scene in her mind. Like a rerun she’d seen a dozen times, her mother was screaming at the top of her lungs, throwing her fists and kicking, struggling to escape. “You can’t keep me here. He found me, he hurt me again. Don’t let him come back and get me!”
“Marilyn, no one is here to hurt you,” Dr. Solaris said quietly. “We’re here to help you recover.”
“He’s all over me, he’s here. I see him in the corners, hiding to get me when you go.”
Pain swelled in Jenny’s chest, and she bit back tears as her mother sobbed hysterically and continued to fight.
Two female nurses held her down while Dr. Solaris tapped a hypodermic and jammed it into her mother’s arm.
He glanced at her as he finished with a grave sigh. “I don’t know what triggered her attack, but she’s been screaming that we have to release her for half an hour.”
“Delusional again,” Jenny concluded as she mentally played various episodes over the years.
“Let me go! Please don’t hurt me!” her mother cried.
Jenny slowly approached, wanting desperately to calm her mother, but knowing the meds had to kick in. “Has anyone been in her room?” she asked.
The nurse shook his head. “No, just the staff. We changed shifts at three.”
She explained to the doctor that she thought the male nurse had been the trigger, that her mother didn’t like to be touched by men. She’d even wondered if she’d been sexually abused as a child, but Dr. Zovall hadn’t determined that was true.
Her mother slowly calmed, and Jenny slid a hand over her mother’s. Over the years her skin had grown drier, and now a few age spots discolored the surface. “I’m here now, Mom. It’s going to be all right. I promise.”
“Don’t let them hurt me anymore,” her mother cried.
“Please make them stop.”
“I will,” she said softly. “Don’t worry. Dr. Solaris and I are going to protect you.”
For a moment her mother seemed lucid and she squeezed Jenny’s hand. Jenny’s hopes soared that perhaps Dr. Solaris would heal her mother. Then the medication must have kicked in—she closed her eyes and drifted to sleep.
Dr. Solaris frowned over his bifocals, dismissed the nurses, then urged her to step into the hallway. “I wanted to talk to you about the tests I ran, Jenny. I don’t want to disparage your mother’s former doctor, but he was overmedicating her.”
She angled her head toward him. “You’re certain?”
“Yes. I’m going to wean her from the heavy narcotics and streamline her medications. It’s possible that the combination is causing more problems than they’re solving. That is, with your permission of course.”
“I brought her here because nothing has worked so far,” Jenny said. “I’ve read your work, Dr. Solaris. I trust your judgment.”
“Good. I’ll start weaning her from the meds immediately.” He excused himself, and she joined her mother again.
For a long time she simply sat and stared at her sleeping form, struggling to remember a time when her mother had been well, when they’d shared simple pleasures like baking cookies or shopping, but the memories were so few and far between that they seemed nonexistent. Weary, she lay her head down on the edge of the bed. She wanted her mother to get better, but sometimes she feared she’d lost her forever.
That she would always be alone.
Raul’s face popped into her head, and her stomach tightened. But she quickly banished the image. Nothing was going to happen between her and the detective because he hated what she did.
And she couldn’t do anything else because giving up her belief that she could help people meant giving up on her mother. And she refused to do that no matter how many of these episodes she endured.
Besides, the detective’s job was dangerous. He lived on the edge, might or might not come home at night. She wanted a settle-down kind of man, one who would never leave her.
She stayed with her mother for another hour, but finally accepted that she wouldn’t wake until morning, dragged herself from the chair and left for home. Heat suffused her as she stepped outside, and her stomach growled. She drove the short distance to her house, grateful the carpenter had left for the day. A salad and then sleep. God, she wanted sleep and to be left alone.
But as she walked up to her porch, the silhouette of a man lurked in the shadows.
This guy was big and brawny. Raul?
Her breath caught, and she paused at the foot of the steps. Not Raul.
Jamal Rakely. He was pacing like a caged animal, his anger vibrating in the click of his hard soles on the slatted wooden porch.
How had he found out where she lived? And why had he shown up tonight?
RAUL DROVE to the bar where Clyde Anson worked, the Universal Joint, a place that had once been a gas station but which had been converted. It offered a great patio along with a DJ and dance floor and was a popular hook-up spot.
The place was dark, smoky, and pulsing music flowed through the sound system and spilled outside. Only a few lone patrons combed the bar, some sitting outside for quesadillas and burgers and beer. He checked out the inside and saw a lone female or two. Didn’t they realize they were endangering themselves by hooking up in bars?
The press coverage should have been enough to frighten them.
He went straight to the bar. “I’m lookin
g for Clyde Anson.”
The skinny college-aged kid shrugged. “His night off.” He gestured around the nearly empty room. “As you can see, Monday nights are slow.”
Which meant the man could be home. Or anywhere in town.
He flashed the pictures of the three victims, but the guy denied seeing any of them in the bar. So did the few waitresses.
Irritated, Raul left and drove toward the address Keegan had given him, then parked. He hadn’t liked Jamal Rakely and had ranked him high on his suspect list. He definitely wanted to talk to Anson first hand. But when he strode up to Anson’s door and knocked, no one answered.
He peered through the front window. It was dark, no light on, no movement at all. He circled around back and checked through the sliding glass doors. No light in the kitchen, no signs of anyone inside. He jiggled the door, hoping it was unlocked, so he could slip inside. No such luck.
But moonlight illuminated the kitchen table and he spotted several newspapers on the table, specifically the ones describing the girls’ murders. The three victims’ faces stared up at him, mocking him to go inside.
For a moment, he considered breaking in and searching the guy’s house, but anything he found would be inadmissible in court and if—no when—he caught the Strangler, he wanted to make sure he stayed behind bars, wasn’t released on a technicality.
Frustration knotted his shoulders but he forced himself to walk away, back to his car. He’d have to visit Anson tomorrow, find out where he’d been.
A few minutes later he grabbed a pizza and took it back to his place, a duplex he’d rented on Tybee because he wanted the fresh air and beach access although he couldn’t quite afford the beachfront property. But he liked to jog along the shore, feel the salt air spray his face.
He dropped the pizza onto the rickety table that came with the place, changed into running shorts and a T-shirt, then headed outside. Moonlight streaked the beach as he jogged along the edge of the water, the sound of the ocean roaring in his ears drowning out the voices in his head, the screams of his dying wife praying that he’d save her before it was too late, the cries of his child who’d never been born or had a chance at life.
Tormented by their loss, he pushed himself harder and harder until he could think of nothing but putting one foot in front of the other and shutting out the sounds.
Yet Anita’s face melded with the three victims of the strangler, and he couldn’t run fast enough or far enough to escape them.
Panting and sweating, he finally jogged back the other way, save a few late-evening walkers, having the beach to himself. By the time he reached the duplex, he was exhausted and needing food. He let himself in, took a quick shower and wolfed down the pizza along with a beer.
The second bedroom served as a home office, and he had copies of the case and photos tacked to a board above the desk. He made a note of his encounter with Jamal Rakely, then finally flopped down on his bed. His dead wife’s picture stared at him from the nightstand, her eyes haunting him as he tried to go to sleep.
But when he closed his eyes, another woman’s face floated into his dreams. Jenny Madden’s.
For a moment pain receded and other thoughts replaced them, stirring the blood in his loins. That long, blond hair flowing over her back and into his hands. Her supple breasts spilling over white lace. Her mouth begging him for a kiss, her spreading her legs to take him inside.
In the midst of the fantasy, a gavel struck down. The sound of it rocked him from his sleep, thrusting him back to the day the judge had released Mulstein because that shrink had advised him to. The grotesque images of death followed. The blood pooling around his wife’s body as she lay dead in his arms.
The determination in Jenny’s eyes when she’d refused to talk to him about her patients. The lust and sick need for violence in Rakely’s eyes when he’d referred to Jenny.
Cursing, he rolled over and pounded the pillow. He could not lust after her. Could not get involved with her or care about another woman. Not only would he put her in danger because of his job, but she dealt with psychos and sexual deviants every day. It was only a matter of time before one of them came after her.
And if he cared, he’d be around to watch her get hurt. Possibly die.
He couldn’t live through that kind of pain again.
JENNY FROZE, pulse racing. A patient showing up at her home definitely violated her contract with him. But if she backed down, showed fear, and called the police without talking to him, she’d lose the patient’s respect, so she’d hold off until she at least knew the reason for his visit.
Still, her training kicked in, along with self-preservation, and she reached inside her purse, and retrieved her phone in case she needed to call for help.
He stopped pacing when he saw her, although anger radiated off him as he met her on the top step.
“What are you doing here, Jamal? You know this is against the rules.”
“I saw your name in the paper at that crime scene. You sent that damn cop to me, didn’t you, you bitch?”
Jenny sucked in a breath. “I did no such thing, Jamal. And I need for you to calm down and refrain from calling me names.”
His nostrils flared as he pushed his face into hers. She inhaled, smelling his fury but not alcohol, thank God. When he drank he became violent, the combination intensifying his bipolar disorder.
“You said to trust you, that you’d help me stay out of jail,” Rakely snarled. “But you gave me up.”
Jenny jutted up her chin. “Listen to me, Jamal. I did not give you up. I was called as a consultant on that case to offer a general profile of the killer. I do not, nor have I ever, divulged privileged patient information.”
A long tense second passed, the air vibrating with the sound of his anger. “Then how did he get my name? And why did he show up at my job?” Frustration edged his voice. “You know how hard it was for me to land work, and here I am gutting fish to pay the damn rent and I may lose that lowlife job now.”
Jenny’s heart squeezed. It was a common problem for ex-cons. The obstacles in starting a new life often drove them back to the life they were trying hard to leave.
“Again, Jamal, I would never divulge information on a patient. The police have databases listing prior convictions similar to cases they’re investigating. Your name probably came up, and the interrogation was just routine.”
She pushed past him to her door, then turned, needing to take charge. “Now, go home. Mind your own business, and keep yourself clean. And don’t show up here again, or I will be forced to report you.”
He caught her arm, his fingers digging into his skin. “Don’t lie to me, Doc. Or you’ll be sorry.”
She glared at his hand where he gripped her. “Don’t touch me again, Jamal, or show up at my home or so will you.”
Knowing she had to remain strong, she flung off his hand, jammed the key into her lock, rushed inside, slammed the door and locked it, kicking the dead bolt in as well.
Her heart racing, she sagged against the door, breathing raggedly. Technically, Jamal had just threatened her. She should transfer him to another doctor.
Or report him to Raul.
Then Raul would gloat that he was right about her incompetence, or that her job wasn’t worthwhile.
Questions pingponged in her head. What if he was right, and she was wrong?
What if Jamal hurt someone else? What if he was the Strangler, and he had simply wanted to intimidate her so she would call the cops off his tail?
If he killed again, it would be her fault.
Chapter Eight
Jenny had finally settled down after her confrontation with Jamal Rakely, and crawled into bed when a pounding on the door made her jerk her head up. Dear God. Surely Rakely hadn’t returned, not after her warning.
Maybe Raul with news of the case. Maybe he’d caught the killer and the women of Savannah could relax.
She slipped on a robe, tying it as she hurried down the steps. Thankfully Ralph
had repaired the air-conditioning today and the house had cooled, although instantly her nerves shot up when she peeked through the peephole in the door and saw her brother lurking on the front porch.
Bracing herself for an argument, she unlocked the door, yet she didn’t invite him in. “Bailey, it’s late. What are you doing here?”
He shouldered his way inside, went straight to the bar and poured himself a whiskey. When he turned to her, she noticed his hands were trembling.
Worry knotted her stomach, but she folded her arms to keep from going to him. She’d rescued him all his life. It had to stop or he’d never grow up. “What’s wrong now?”
His eyes flashed with anger at her impatient tone. At least he was coherent enough to notice. “I need a favor.”
“I told you, I’m not giving you more money.”
“It’s not money,” he barked. “But if anyone asks, tell them that I was with you Saturday night.”
Jenny clenched her hands. He wanted an alibi? “Why would someone ask about your whereabouts?”
He sipped the whiskey. “Just do it, okay?”
“Not until you explain the reason, Bailey. Where were you Saturday night?”
He paced to the window, stared out, then turned to her, fidgeting, antsy, panic in his eyes. “At a bar. I got sloshed.”
“So what did you do? Hit on somebody’s wife or something?”
“No.” He shook his glass, ice clinking. “I met that girl in the paper. That dead one, Judy Benson.”
A sick feeling clutched Jenny’s stomach. “You hooked up with her the night she died?’
“No, not exactly.”
Jenny threw up a warning hand. “Stop, Bailey. If you know something about this woman that could help the police find her killer, then you have to go to the authorities.”
“I won’t talk to the police,” he screeched. “But you’re helping that pig. He already has it in for me, and if he finds out I met that dead girl at that bar, he’ll try to pin her murder on me.”