The White Carnation

by Susanne Matthews

  It was after eleven when they pulled into their lane. They’d left the lights on inside and out, and the small log building looked friendly and inviting. Unlocking the door, he ushered her inside. The message light on the phone was blinking.

  “It’s déjà vu,” she said. “We sit here watching television how many nights, and the phone is silent. We stay out late twice, and there’s a call each time. Must be Murphy’s Law.”

  He chuckled. “Someone might think we were playing hooky.”

  “You? Playing hooky? Never. Work always comes first. It’s a trait we share. Babysitting me is your job. I was with you. Therefore, you were still working.”

  Rob pulled her to him and kissed her. He pulled away slowly. “I love my job.”

  “More like you love the fringe benefits.”

  “That, too,” he said, dropping another kiss on her mouth before releasing her and walking over to the phone. Picking up the receiver, he keyed in the numbers. He listened.

  “Rob, it’s Trevor Clark. Call me as soon as you get this. There’s been an unexpected development.”

  The man didn’t sound happy. Rob hung up and then lifted the receiver again to dial Clark. “Pour us a drink, will you?”

  Faye poured whiskey into two glasses, handed him one, and took a sip of hers. He watched her pace nervously as he waited impatiently for the call to connect. Hopefully, the news was that they’d caught a break, not that something had happened to blow another hole in their theories. Trevor answered, and Rob forced his gaze away from Faye to concentrate on the call.

  “Hey, Trevor, I just got your message.” It felt strange to be calling his superior by his given name, but he’d asked him to.

  “How are things going?” The tone of Trevor’s voice didn’t assuage Rob’s discomfort.

  “About the same. Getting cabin fever. What’s up? I know this isn’t a social call.”

  “It isn’t. I’ve got news, news that you’ll like and some you won’t. Here’s what we know …”

  Rob listened attentively. The more he heard, the worse he felt.

  “You’re sure?”

  “Absolutely. No doubt this time.”

  “Okay. I’ll go back into town for it tomorrow. Good night.” He hung up.

  “Something’s wrong. What happened?” Faye said as soon as he put down the receiver. He couldn’t keep this from her, but he wasn’t prepared to share everything with her tonight. Some things could wait until the morning when he picked up the mail.

  “We have new evidence, but I’m not sure what to do with it. The puzzle pieces are growing tentacles.”

  “Rob, you aren’t making sense. What did Trevor tell you?” Her fisted hand and the stubborn tilt of her chin testified to anger and frustration barely held in check. He didn’t blame her. He was almost on the verge of exploding himself.

  “They found Mr. and Mrs. Smith, the people who brought Meredith Howard’s baby to the hospital.”

  “Where?” Her voice was eager and her eyes bright. “Did they tell them where they got the baby?”

  “No. Their throats were slit. They were found floating in the Charles River.”

  “My God!” He watched the color drain from her face.

  “Although he doesn’t have the weapon, Amos has confirmed the knife used to slit their throats was the same one used to kill Lucy Green.”

  “That links the cases. You were right,” she said, her agitation palpable. Her color returned as quickly as it had left. “I knew you’d figure it out. It just took longer than you expected. Meredith Howard, the Harvester’s fifth victim, had a baby, but not one fathered by the man we assume is the Harvester. We’d connected the Smiths to Meredith and the Harvester, and now that we’ve discovered they were killed with the same knife used on Lucy, we’ve linked the cases. Why aren’t you as fired up as I am? We’ve finally got a solid lead.”

  “Because we still don’t have the damn motive. The Smiths had answers I needed, but someone shut them up. All I have now are questions no one can answer. Nothing fits.” He ran his hand through his disheveled hair.

  “Do you really believe that? Can we really be that far off base here?”

  “I don’t know what to think anymore. I can add up the evidence we have a dozen ways and get a different theory each time.” Rob pulled her into his arms. “There’s something that links everything together, and we’re missing it. We’re still working with assumptions rather than proof, and they’re worth a dime a dozen. The Smiths got that baby from someone, but who? Whoever killed them did so with the same knife used previously to kill Lucy. Why were the Smiths and Mrs. Green killed? Killing with a knife is messy business. The Harvester doesn’t like a mess. He uses poison. This is the only thing keeping your cult theory alive. Trevor believes we have two different killers, linked in some solid way. If the Harvester is calling the shots, his accomplice is tying up loose ends.”

  “Am I a loose end?” Faye asked, her voice shaky and filled with fear.

  Rob touched his lips to her hair. “I won’t let anything happen to you, I promise. Finish your drink, and we’ll go to bed. We need to get up early and go into the village. Trevor sent another package. He’ll call as soon as he has more information.”

  • • •

  The sound of Faye’s even breathing assured Rob she’d finally fallen asleep. Even after they’d made love, she hadn’t been able to settle any more than he had. Getting up without disturbing her, he walked to the railing running along the edge of the loft. The windows exposed the clear night sky to his view. It was amazing how many stars he could see here compared to home. Even when he took the boat out for the night and anchored at World’s End to watch the sunset, the midnight sky wasn’t like this. The glow from the slice of moon visible through the pine trees silvered the clearing around the cabin. He’d be content to spend the rest of his life here, but until they identified and caught her rapist and fingered the mole Rob would assume the worst—that Faye could still be in danger.

  How much longer would the ruse at the hospital work? What if the mole knew she wasn’t there and was just biding his time before telling the Harvester? Trevor believed he had a handle on the guy but wasn’t ready to name him just yet. Trevor had told him more, of course. The State Department had confirmed all of the victims’ passport pictures had been taken at the same Fotomat in Boston, leading to the conclusion that the Harvester’s victims were selected there. How were the owner or the photographer involved? So far, they hadn’t been able to talk to anyone since the place was temporarily closed.

  Was the Fotomat owner the Harvester or just another minion doing triage for the bastard? With the change in MO, Faye’s cult theory still seemed the most plausible. There was no definitive proof that the man who fathered the children and the Harvester were the same man. It was an assumption they’d all agreed on.

  Now, the team concurred that the Harvester most likely hadn’t killed the Smiths and Lucy Green, but could that killer be the rapist? Rape was a violent crime and so was stabbing, but the victims hadn’t been stabbed. No, their throats had been slit with one stroke. Amos had described it as military precision. The case was getting more complicated and frustrating by the minute.

  Faye moaned and started to thrash. Rob hurried over to the bed, got in, and tried to pull Faye into his arms.

  “No! No! Go away!” She tried to push at him, caught in a nightmare. She’d always been prone to them, and Dr. Chong had mentioned them as a side effect of the drugs Faye had been given.

  As she often did when caught in a nightmare or overly stressed, Faye talked in her sleep, responding to anyone who talked to her. He’d settled her more than once at the hospital those first few days and attempted to do the same now.

  “It’s okay, honey, it’s me. No one’s going to hurt you.”

  Faye moaned deeply and tears crawled down her cheeks, but she was lucid enough to understand his comment.

  “The clown ... at the party … at my door … the flower … make him
go away.”

  Rob stilled as his mind raced back three weeks. Faye had had a dream about a clown and a flower the night they’d arrived. In the hospital, when he’d asked her what she recalled from Saturday morning, eventually she’d said a flower—the last thing she remembered was a flower. He knew some sleep-talkers could answer questions honestly and, although he’d never tested the theory, what harm could it do to try it now?

  Faye continued to whimper softly against him, still caught in the dream. “Faye, sweetheart, is the clown still there?”

  “Yes,” she whimpered. “He’s bending over me, talking to me. Make him go away. He’s going to hurt me.”

  Her breathing increased as she plunged deeper into the terror only she could see. He hated to do this, but it might be a solid lead. “Honey, I’m trying to get to you, but there are a lot of clowns here. Can you describe him to me? What color’s his hair?”

  “It’s green.”

  “All green?”

  “Yes.”

  Rob’s heart raced. His gut said if they could find this clown, he’d lead them to the Harvester.

  “Saw him at the tea. Looks like the Joker,” she whispered.

  He couldn’t let her be tortured this way any longer. Waking her suddenly might not be the best way to do it, but he couldn’t think of any other way to drag her from the terror. He reached for the bedside lamp and turned it on. “Honey, wake up,” he said loudly, shaking her. “You’re having a bad dream.”

  She awoke, blinking her eyes at the brightness of the light, and threw herself into his arms. He let her cry and waited for the tears to ease. He rubbed her back, murmuring into her hair until he felt her calm. She continued that sup-sup hiccupping and settled into his chest. Her voice, tear-clogged and hesitant, was barely above a whisper.

  “Saturday morning, when I answered the door thinking it was you, there was a man at the door, a man I’d seen at the tea party Friday afternoon. He’d followed me around like a puppy dog. He was dressed like a clown, but not a typical one. He was made up to look like the Joker in that cheesy Batman series we used to watch. You know, the old one with Cesar Romero as the Joker? He wore a bright purple tuxedo with a big flower in the lapel—it was a giant carnation. Smoke came out of it.” She shivered, and he pulled her closer. “I don’t remember anything else. Rob, I’m scared. I’m so scared.”

  “It’s okay. I’ve got you. You’re safe.” Holding her tightly to him, he resolved to call Trevor in the morning and have him look into clowns in the Boston area, specifically those who’d worked that tea party. How hard could it be to find the Joker in Boston?

  • • •

  From the kitchen, Faye watched the animation on Rob’s face as he listened intently to whatever information Trevor had this morning. Rob was right. They had to know why Lucy Green had been killed. Her death had opened this can of worms. In fact, without her murder, they might not have known any of this. She shivered. The Harvester would’ve come for her, and she’d have ended up like the others. Her stomach churned.

  Faye yawned and collected the remnants of their breakfast. After the nightmare, which she vaguely remembered, she hadn’t slept well, eventually managing a few hours only because Rob had held her in his arms. That in itself was another reason why she was so edgy this morning. Where would their relationship go once the case was over? Could they go back to the way things had been before the scandal? There was still a lot of baggage to sort through, unanswered questions, and of course the conflict caused by their jobs. Love hadn’t been enough the last time, but with her life in his hands, she’d grown to trust him. She’d made a mistake. Rob would never have set her up like that, but if not him, who, and why?

  She raised her hand to her temple, massaging it, praying the nascent headache wouldn’t develop into a migraine. The lack of sleep had left her tired and irritable. Maybe she was coming down with something.

  Rob walked into the kitchen and put his arms around her. He nuzzled her neck for a few seconds before turning her to face him. She needed his closeness today more than ever. The fear that usually fled in the daylight seemed to have a firm grip on her this morning.

  “Trevor says hi. He’s going to check with the groom’s family, which provided the clowns for the tea, but from their online brochures, it looks like they don’t have a Joker-style clown on their roster. He wants you to give me as clear a description as you can. He thinks it might be a rental, and there are several places that rent costumes in Boston. The more specific you can be about the outfit, the better. I really need you to focus on his face. Try to see his features beneath the makeup. I know it won’t be easy, but this could be an important lead. It could be how he approached the others, too.”

  She pulled away. “I’ve told you everything I remembered. Isn’t that enough?” Her tone was abrupt; she didn’t want to go there again. He put his arm around her, pulling her into him, and she went willingly. Held in his strong, muscular arms, pressed against his chest, his steady heartbeat throbbing beneath her cheek, she was safe. Nothing could hurt her here. She sighed. “I’ll try, but …”

  “I realize he scares you, Faye, and the memories are unpleasant, but you’re the only lead we have. What about the rest of him? Was he short or tall, heavy or slim? Caucasian? I know he wore white grease paint with a silly, red smile painted on his face, but what about a mustache? A beard? His eyes? He looked at you, didn’t he? Was he wearing glasses? I know you don’t want to do this, sweetheart, but think back, please.”

  She felt her skin grow clammy as the acid in her stomach churned. God, I don’t want to do this, but I have to. How many women will he rape and eventually kill if I can’t help?

  She closed her eyes and melted into Rob’s heat, trying to draw strength from him.

  “He was definitely white. I don’t know why I’m so sure of that, but I am. He was tall, about six-two, shorter than you, and he was slender, almost skinny—the purple tuxedo was loose on him, as if it had been made for another man, so it probably was a rental. I don’t remember any facial hair, but everything about him after the smoke is hazy. I think his eyes were blue but not like yours, deeper in color, no glasses. There was something about his eyes …” Her eyes filled with tears slipping unheeded down her cheeks. “Every time I try to remember more, I feel sick to my stomach.”

  “It’s okay. You did great. I’ll email what we have to the sketch artist. She can work with that. The costume shop should remember him.” He stared down at her, his brow wrinkled. “Are you feeling okay? You didn’t eat much breakfast this morning.” Concern laced his voice.

  “I’m not hungry. I guess last night bothered me more than I thought it did, and now this … I’ll have a cup of mint tea. It’ll calm my nerves. You realize my rapist can’t be the person who killed Lucy Green. He was at the tea with me most of the afternoon. I think I might’ve left before he did.”

  “We know that now, but since Trevor and Amos agree the Harvester and the man who killed Lucy Green and the Smiths aren’t the same person, we’re back to thinking it’s two men working together.”

  “Does Trevor have anything new on the Smiths?”

  “He does. Let me get your tea, and then I’ll fill you in on the rest of what he told me. It looks like you were on the right track after all.”

  Rob released her and went into the kitchen. Faye hugged herself, trying to dispel the chill she felt no longer in his arms. She’d always disliked clowns, but why had her rapist—and she was certain that’s who he was—disguised himself like that? The Joker wasn’t a typical clown nor did he inspire as much fear as the one from the more recent Batman movie, so why that costume? My God, he’d followed her around the previous afternoon. The idea that the monster knew her well enough to know seeing him dressed like that at her door would throw her off horrified her more than anything else did. He’d been taunting her, punishing her for some slight. She recalled the eyes now—manic eyes that were hauntingly familiar.

  “Are you okay?” Rob asked, hand
ing her a mug of mint tea.

  “Not really. I know you said he’s been watching me, but it’s as if he managed to get inside my head. Drugging and raping me weren’t enough. He had to terrorize me, too. Who is this monster?”

  “He’s a psychopath, Faye, he has to be. Nothing he does makes sense on any level you and I can understand. Come sit outside, and I’ll give you the latest news. Trevor’s people worked on this all night, and it looks as if they may have found your cult.”

  Faye grabbed his arm with her left hand and turned him around, her former tiredness forgotten. “How? Where?”

  “They’ve identified the Smiths. Their real names are Mabel and Isaac Williamson, last known address Grants, New Mexico, near Bluewater Lake.” He opened the door for her.

  “New Mexico?” Her voice rose in her surprise as something about Bluewater Lake teased at her memory. “What the hell were they doing in Cambridge? Why the false name? Is it a black-market baby-selling business after all?”

  “Maybe, but Trevor and his BAU agents don’t think so. The Williamsons and a few dozen of their closest friends used to be on Homeland Security’s watch list. Someone’s probably going to lose their job over this.”

  “Used to be? How does someone get struck from a watch list?”

  “When someone screws up. The group was quite active in the sixties and seventies, but then they settled down into a communal existence, kept to themselves, and stayed out of trouble. Some of the more militant members of the commune died, and some bureaucrat looking to save money moved the commune’s name onto the inactive list in the late nineties and forgot about it.”

  “Any of the activists still living would be elderly now. The Williamsons weren’t that old—mid-forties maybe.” Her palms were wet as her anticipation rose. Rather than sit in the Adirondack chair, she moved over to the picnic table and perched on its top. From this vantage point, she and Rob were eye to eye.