Evil Never Dies (The Lizzy Gardner Series Book 6)

by T. R. Ragan

  “Hey, you!” Hayley shouted as she ran out of the store and down the middle of the mall. “Stop right there!”

  The Ghost could fly; Hayley had to give her that. She took an escalator up, two stairs at a time. Hayley did the same.

  The Ghost disappeared inside a dimly lit shop, the kind that sells lava lamps and posters.

  Kitally caught up to Hayley before she stepped inside and muttered something about needing a pair of those running shoes she’d just been looking at. Gasping for breath, Kitally told her she’d wait outside the store in case the Ghost got by her.

  Hayley stepped inside. The shop was dark and had long strings of neon-colored beads hanging at the start of each aisle. It was annoying. She’d made her way down two aisles when she heard a woman scream and then a string of curses right outside the store. She ran that way. A couple of people were helping Kitally and another woman from the floor.

  “She shoved this lady right into me,” Kitally said. Then she pointed to her left. “She went that way!”

  Hayley took off again, running at full speed, weaving in and out of shoppers.

  She almost knocked a kid over. Someone shouted at her to slow down. Up ahead, she caught a glimpse of white hair right before the girl cut to the right.

  The moment she made the same right, she spotted the Ghost standing at the railing, looking down to the bottom floor of the mall.

  Finally. Hayley had her right where she wanted her.

  The Ghost turned toward her.

  “It’s over,” Hayley said.

  The Ghost smiled, gave her the finger, then swiveled around and leaped over the barrier. She flew out of sight with her arms extended outward as if she had wings.

  Stunned, Hayley ran to the railing and saw what the Ghost had done. That chick had balls. The clever piece of shit had easily landed on a giant Easter Bunny display that should have been taken down long ago. It was made of soft, squeezable foam and yellow fur. When the Ghost got as far as the bunny’s hind leg, she jumped to the floor and disappeared.

  By the time Kitally caught up to her, Hayley was livid.

  “It’s OK,” Kitally said. “We almost had her. We’ll find her again.”

  “That bitch flipped me the bird. I should have jumped on her ass the moment we walked into that shoe store.” She threw her arms up in disgust.

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself. That girl has obviously been making herself scarce for a very long time. She’s good at this.”

  “I’ve been chasing criminals for a while myself.”

  “Well, I guess you’ve finally met your match.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Dinner had been a quick affair at Skip’s Kitchen, where Tommy and Hayley both ordered big juicy hamburgers and sweet potato fries. The concert didn’t start until nine o’clock.

  The burgers proved to be the evening’s high point. By ten thirty they were walking out to the fairgrounds parking lot in search of Tommy’s car. They weren’t the only ones leaving early. The band was a new one called Poetic Justice, and apparently they still needed some seasoning. At this point, they were basically a thunderous set of drums with some occasional screeching feedback whenever the lead singer tried to sing. Hayley could still feel the drummer doing his thing through the soles of her shoes as they crossed the blacktop.

  Tommy opened Hayley’s door for her and then went around the front of the car and climbed in behind the wheel. She clicked her seatbelt into place. When she looked over at Tommy, he made a face and said, “Sorry about that. Epic fail.”

  “It wasn’t that bad,” she said. And then they both burst out laughing.

  “That was the worst band I’ve ever heard,” Tommy said.

  “Agreed.”

  He looked over his shoulder as he backed out of the gravelly parking lot. Once they were on the road heading home, he said, “Those were some bizarre sounds coming off that stage. My ears still hurt.”

  “The best part,” she said, “was when they finished the first song and the lead singer gave his ten-minute rant about politics and everyone threw their glow sticks at him.”

  “You’re right. That was the highlight of the night. I am so sorry.”

  “Don’t be. I had fun.”

  “Seriously?”

  She nodded. “I really did.”

  “I’ll do better next time. I promise.”

  “Next time?”

  He shrugged, keeping his eyes on the road as he talked. “I like you, Hayley—you know that. I always have.”

  She said nothing.

  “What’s going on inside that head of yours these days?”

  She snorted. “A whole lot of nothing.”

  “I don’t believe that for a minute. You’re always up to something. Do you ever think about the future?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “The future is for dreamers.”

  “You don’t have dreams?”

  “I can’t say that I do. How about you?”

  “I have a few.”

  “Tell me.”

  “All right.” He took a deep breath as if gathering himself, then let it out. “In my future, I imagine my girl and me living in a quaint house far from the city life. When you step outside the back door, you can hear the lazy trickle of the river. We have two wooden chairs that we keep by the river’s edge. Sometimes you—I mean, my girl—watches me fish and makes fun of me when I finally catch a trout and manage to let it slip right out of my grasp when I go to remove the hook. We watch the fish swim down the river, happy, glad to be free to live another day.” He grinned at her. “Should I go on?”

  “Go for it.”

  “On occasion, we share a glass of cabernet after dinner and talk about having kids someday, but we’re having too much fun living day to day to make it a reality just then. If it’s meant to be, it will happen.”

  The long stretch of silence was too much. Hayley turned his way. “And then what happens?”

  Tommy laughed. “And then we live happily ever after.”

  “That’s it?”

  “What else do you want to know?”

  “The ending. I need to know what happens to you and your girl at the end.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Seriously.”

  “We go on to have four children. Two boys and two girls. It’s not easy raising four kids, especially after the economy spirals downward and my business goes under. My girl and me aren’t asking for much, but we refuse to give up our home by the river. So we start a little farm. You know, one of those organic farms, because we want to be together 24-7. At first, she’s a little worried about that arrangement, being that she’s sort of a loner and likes her space, but it isn’t long before she realizes how easygoing I am.”

  “So, that’s what you and your girl do all day? Grow fruit and vegetables?”

  “Well, my girl, it turns out, has quite the green thumb. People come from all over to pick up some of her amazing banana peppers and lemon basil. Over the next few years, organic everything grows wildly popular. It’s crazy. My girl and me work hard enough to put all four kids through college, and those kids all go on to live amazing lives of their own. You want to know the best part of it all?”

  “You can’t stop now,” Hayley said.

  “The best part is that through it all, we always take time to sit on the porch or go down by the river and talk. Before you know it, we’re in our nineties, and that’s when you lean close and tell me for the very first time that you love me. And guess what I say?”

  “I don’t have a clue,” she said.

  “I say, ‘I know.’ ” Tommy glanced her way. “And that’s it. That’s the end.”

  “Hmm.”

  “So what do you think?”

  “I think you’re a starry-eyed dreamer.
”

  “ ‘I may be a dreamer,’ ” he sang, “ ‘but I’m not the only one.’ ”

  She rolled her eyes and then laid her head back and listened to him sing John Lennon’s “Imagine.” His voice had a nice tone. She had no idea he could sing. Tommy, she realized, was turning out to be full of surprises.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  It was ten o’clock when Kitally tapped on Betty Ackley’s window. As she hunched down behind a bush to wait for the old lady to make it over from her bed, she noticed a yellow pill within the soil. And then a white one and a blue one. She broke off a small branch and began to dig in the dirt around the pills. There had to be at least a dozen different sizes and colors of pills, some broken, some half-dissolved in the soil.

  Using the stick, she dug a hole, and then brushed all the tablets inside and smoothed the dirt over them. When she was done, she dropped the branch, looked back through the window, and tapped again.

  Would Betty even remember she was coming?

  In answer to her question, there was a click and then a whoosh as the window was opened from the inside.

  Kitally jumped to get her upper body over the windowsill, then used her arms and legs to pull and kick the rest of the way in.

  Betty shut the window and then gestured frantically, pointing under the bed and motioning without words for Kitally to get under there and make it quick.

  Kitally didn’t ask questions. She got down on the ground, her body flat to the floor, and shimmied her way beneath the bed. It was a tight squeeze, but she managed.

  She lay there in the dark and wondered what was going on. Betty looked downright fearful. Before Kitally could question her from her hiding place, the door opened and she heard the flick of a switch. Bright light lit up the room.

  “What are you doing awake, Betty?”

  “I’m having a difficult time falling asleep.”

  Heels clacked against Formica tiles. Kitally heard the curtains over the window being shut tight.

  “Did you take your pills?”

  “Why do you ask me that every time you come in here? Of course I did.”

  “No reason for you to get all worked up. Just doing my job.”

  “I don’t like being treated like a child,” Betty said. “My insurance company pays a large sum of money for me to be here. I deserve to be treated with respect.”

  “Of course you do. But we have rules around here. You know that. If we let every patient run around here willy-nilly, can you imagine the chaos? Nobody in this place would ever get any sleep at all. And would that be fair to your friend Cecil? Or what about poor Mrs. Potter?”

  “What do you mean ‘poor’ Mrs. Potter? Did something happen to Madge?”

  “Never mind.” Drawers were opened and then shut.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Just taking a look around.”

  “Why? Stay out of my personal belongings. I’m going to report you. Do you hear me?”

  The orderly marched across the room. The tension between the two women sucked the oxygen right out of the room. Kitally could see the tips of well-worn shoes beneath the bed. Then she felt the mattress press down on her back. What the hell is going on?

  “Open your mouth.”

  “No.”

  “Do it or I’ll be forced to call Patrick to do the honors.”

  “OK. OK.”

  It was quiet for a moment and then the staffer said, “Where are you hiding the pills, Betty?”

  “I’ve taken every bit of medication you’ve ever given me. You’ve just given me a double dose. Here’s hoping you haven’t done any damage.”

  The orderly walked to the window, yanked back the curtains, and opened the window.

  If the orderly leaned too far down, she might see Kitally under the bed. And then what? What would she do? Kitally really didn’t want to think about it. The woman’s voice was deep and raspy, as if she smoked three packs of cigarettes a day. She sounded intimidating. No wonder Betty looked scared.

  Once the orderly finished, she closed everything and went back to the door. Before she left she said, “I’ve ordered a clean sweep of your room to be done first thing in the morning. I don’t know what you’re doing with your pills, Betty, but I know you’re not taking them. If you were, you would be sleeping like everyone else in this place.”

  “I have a very high tolerance for medication,” Betty argued. “You should know that by now.”

  “We’ll see about that.” The light clicked off and the door opened and closed.

  Kitally didn’t dare move. Not for another five minutes at least.

  “Are you awake?” she asked as she finally crawled out of her hiding place.

  “I am. Perhaps tonight isn’t the best night to do this, after all.”

  Betty’s hunched shoulders and dejected expression gave Kitally chills. The old woman really did need her help. “This is bullshit, Betty,” Kitally said.

  Betty looked up at her then.

  “Excuse the language, but something doesn’t smell right around here. I don’t know what’s going on, but we’re going to get to the bottom of it—do you hear me?”

  Betty nodded.

  This was Kitally’s chance to make a difference, and there was no way she was going to let Betty or Cecil or any of these people down. “I’ll be back. We’re going to find something to prove these people are up to no good. I’m more sure of that than ever.”

  “I believe you,” Betty said with a smile. “I really do.”

  Lizzy stared out the window. It was dark outside. No moon or stars as far as she could see. But she’d lived here long enough to know where the mossy rock sat beneath a crowd of gangly-limbed oaks. She didn’t need to see either to know they were there. Just as she knew Jared was always near. She wasn’t a sixth sense kind of person, didn’t believe in ghosts or reincarnation, but Jared was here with her. She could feel his presence as if he were standing next to her. She thought of him with her first waking breath and again with every breath that followed until she finally fought her way to sleep at night. She had no idea how many days had passed since she’d last kissed him or held him in her arms. Since his death, each day came and went as if nothing had changed. The world kept turning. Trees still danced in the wind. The birds squawked and chirped. Everything was exactly as it always had been.

  And yet nothing would ever be the same again. And that particular fact fueled her rage.

  Anger twisted and turned within her, its long crooked fingers wrapping around every muscle and tendon, squeezing, suffocating. The anger she felt started at her toes and worked its way up, heating the blood in her veins, making it hard to breathe. The moon, stars, and trees might all be the same, but her anger and resentment continued to grow like a cancerous cyst inside her.

  The house was quiet. Salma was gone, and Hayley and Kitally were out doing who knew what.

  Lizzy unfolded the piece of paper she’d found earlier. She had called the number half a dozen times today, but she picked up her cell and decided to try again.

  “Hello?”

  The voice startled her, so she spoke all in a rush. “Hi, this is Lizzy Gardner. I’m a friend of Jared Shayne’s. I found your number on a note scattered among his personal belongings.” She forced herself to slow down. “The message on the note says, ‘We must talk,’ and I was hoping you could tell me who the note might be from.”

  “I don’t recognize that name,” the woman said after hesitating for too long. “And I certainly never passed on any note with my number.”

  “Jared Shayne worked for the FBI. He was killed recently.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Is there anyone else at this number?” Lizzy asked.

  “No. Just me.”

  “And who is this I’m talking to?”

  “It’s late. I must
go. Good night.”

  There was a click, and the call was disconnected.

  Lizzy was calling bullshit.

  She had already looked up everything on the woman. She grabbed her laptop, sat on the bed, and pulled up the information she’d found earlier.

  Kathryn Church.

  She lived approximately thirty minutes away, in Newcastle. Satellite maps revealed a country road with lots of trees and rolling hills.

  Who was she really, though? And why had she wanted to talk to Jared?

  Earlier in the day, she’d put the woman’s name into every database available. The basics were easy enough to find: Caucasian, thirty-six years of age, born on May 26, 1978, brunette, brown eyes. She grew up in Sacramento, went to college at UCLA, where she studied psychology, and then moved back to the area and started her own practice.

  As Lizzy searched further, she found an article written by Kathryn Church two years ago. The subject matter was repressed childhood memories. Apparently, the woman believed, like other psychologists, that repressed memories could be recovered through therapy. Colleagues argued that prolonged therapy in many of these cases only served to create false memories. But Kathryn remained adamant, convinced that her own repressed memories had come back to her more than a decade after the incident. According to the article, Kathryn had been hesitant to talk about the event she’d suppressed, but once she became an advocate for others in her position, she’d come forward with details of her trauma.

  Lizzy scanned the article for some mention of those details.

  Proponents of the existence of repressed memories believed that these traumatic events could be recalled decades after the event, usually triggered by something as simple as a particular song or taste. Skimming over endless citations and references, Lizzy finally found what she was looking for: as an adult, Kathryn Church had been watching her best friend’s child by the pool. A rubber ball rolling into the pool set off alarms and the memories came rushing back. Without warning, Kathryn was ten years old again. Her family had just moved into a neighborhood in Sacramento.

  Left to admire her new bedroom on the second floor, she peered out the window, which happened to give her a bird’s-eye view of the neighbors’ backyard. They had a pool with a diving board. Excited at the possibility of new friends, Kathryn watched a little girl and an older boy, who turned out later to be the girl’s brother. The girl pointed to the red rubber ball that had fallen into the pool. They were on the far side, which gave her a clear view. The boy nodded his approval, and Kathryn’s heart raced as she watched the little girl go to retrieve the ball. After she fell in, the boy stood at the edge, watching as her little arms and legs flailed, churning the water’s surface. Finally, her head popped up out of the water, and her fingers grasped the edge of the pool.