by C. J. Kyle
Miranda didn’t appear the least bit fazed by his charm. “Okay. Forget the article for a minute. Nothing I can do about that, and I’m pretty sure you’d take issue with me strangling that Helen woman.”
“Yes, yes I would.”
“So, where are you at with all this?” she asked, gesturing to the files spread out around the office. “It’s Sunday. Please tell me you have something.”
“Finn and I have been bouncing ideas around and I have eyes on Anatole all day. I’m doing my job, Miranda.”
“Don’t snap at the pretty lady, Tuck. Didn’t your mama ever teach you—”
Miranda jerked her head toward Finn. “That crap really work for you?”
Finn held up his hands in mock surrender and Tucker silently gloated. “My bad.” He raised an eyebrow at Tucker.
Miranda swore. “It’s”—she checked her watch—“almost noon. We don’t have a lot of time here.”
She was damned prickly today. The article probably hadn’t helped. But Tucker didn’t mind since it seemed the prickliness was mostly aimed toward Finn.
“We’ve been discussing possible victims. Trying to narrow down who we might need to keep watch on,” he said. “We still have anointing the sick and holy orders.”
“I’m thinking we should find a list of citizens who might have terminal illnesses.” Finn leaned back in his seat, away from Miranda.
Miranda shook her head. “He wouldn’t kill someone just for being sick. He’d have to see it as a sin to cleanse. A sickness they could have controlled maybe.”
Finn plucked the cigarette he kept behind his ear. “Some people think smokers are asking for their cancers. An obese person with diabetes? A prostitute with gonorrhea? Shit like that?”
“It’s possible, but with the exception of the prostitute, none of that sounds overly sinful to me, unless he sees it as gluttony maybe,” Miranda said.
Tucker’s cell phone chirped. He gave them an apologetic smile before answering. “Ambrose.”
“Chief, it’s Sam Murray.”
Tuck held up a finger and left the office so he could listen without distraction. He’d been waiting for this call for days, but having a deputy coroner call on a Sunday usually wasn’t good news. For him, he hoped that wasn’t the case. “Hey Doc. Tell me you’re back in Christmas.”
“If you’re free in about two hours I will be.”
“My office?”
“Make it mine. I have Michael Levi’s autopsy report.”
SAMANTHA MURRAY’S OFFICE was warm and stuffy, which did nothing to help slow the sweat collecting under Tucker’s collar. The pictures spread out on her desk were no more horrific than any other autopsy he’d been witness to, but somehow, these were making his hands clammy. If Miranda was right, another murder just like this one could happen again in a matter of hours.
“There are half a dozen cuts across his legs and arms,” Sam said. “They’re deep, but missed the major vessels so he bled out slowly. Until he was garroted, anyway.”
Tucker popped an antacid.
“His jaw was pretty much shattered and his spine was broken in two places,” she continued. “His neck was nearly severed and clumps of hair were pulled out at the roots.” She pointed to a bald spot near Michael’s scalp above the left ear.
“Nothing under his nails? Maybe his knuckles if he put up a fight?”
“Only dirt under the nails. No evidence of anything biological left on the body belonging to your killer.” She pulled out another picture and handed it to him. This one showed a man’s bare abdomen, pre-autopsy, his ribs punctured with gouges the size of baby fists.
“Knife wounds?”
She nodded. “Could be. It’s an odd knife though. Kind of curved, you see?” She pointed to the photo at three sloppily placed, almost crescent shaped wounds between Michael’s ribs. “Doubt you’re dealing with a surgeon or anyone skilled with knives because there’s no finesse here.”
He pointed to a section of thin scratches below Michael’s navel. “What’re those?”
She passed him a magnifying glass. “See for yourself.”
He bent over the photo and held up the glass. Tiny scratches, barely an inch long, made out the numbers 196 518 across Michael’s lower belly.
“Jesus.” He thought of Anatole and his stomach clenched. A priest washing away a victim’s final sins? Casting judgment before God could? “What the hell do those mean?”
“No idea. But, Tucker?”
“Yeah?”
“The other body you had me pick up—the teen—I don’t have his reports yet, but I can tell you, he has the same thing scratched on his stomach. Different numbers, but same placement.” She flipped through a notebook she’d pulled out of her purse. “816 135.”
Silence hung between them for a long moment. “Nothing?” she asked.
“No.”
He had no clue what those numbers meant. He needed to see if the Dayton victims had anything similar on their bodies. Maybe there was something in those files that explained it. If not, maybe Miranda knew.
He grabbed his hat. “Get me something soon.”
It wasn’t a request.
TUCKER SPED FROM Doc’s office on the opposite side of town back to the station. How was it he had more questions than answers again?
He turned onto Main Street and pulled over in a pharmacy lot. His whole body was cold, and it had nothing to do with the weather. One of the reasons he’d left Chicago was that it had become more and more difficult to separate his own memories from the cases he’d faced. Now, he found his brain continually returning to his youth and the smiling face that would never smile at him again.
Ricky’s face in that granary was haunting him, and now that he’d seen Levi’s autopsy photos, he was imagining Ricky on that same cold slab, waiting to be sliced open yet again. The brutality in that kid’s life was never-ending.
Olivia. Ricky. Something in him ached, and before he could put thought to his actions, he pulled his phone from his pocket.
“Hello?” His sister’s voice was painfully familiar, and yet completely foreign on the other end of the line.
“Gloria? It’s Tuck.”
There was a long silence. Some breathing. Then . . . “Tucker? Is that really you? Turn down the television! I’m on the phone!”
He smiled, picturing her folding laundry while his niece and nephew watched Nickelodeon. Did the twins even remember him? He hadn’t seen them since they were in diapers. They had to be at least six now. Maybe seven.
“Yeah, it’s me. How is everyone?”
“All right. Tommy, no. Not now. I’ll get you some milk in a minute. How are you?”
He was having trouble figuring out when she was talking to him and when she wasn’t, and it took a second to realize the question had been directed at him. “I’m . . . good. Homesick maybe. How’re the twins?”
“Up to no good. Listen, no one’s been able to reach you. Is this your new number?”
He sighed. “Yeah. Keep it.”
“So are you done staying away? Are you coming up for the gala?”
The gala. Christ. Was that why he’d had the itch to call? He’d forgotten all about the annual fund-raiser. “I can’t. There’s this case—”
“There’s always a case,” Gloria grumbled. “She was your sister, too, Tuck. This charity keeps her alive.”
Every memory kept her alive. He didn’t need to put on a tux and pass around a plate for victims’ advocacy to make it any more so. It had been a mistake to call.
“Do me a favor, tell Mom and Dad I said hi, but don’t give them this number, all right? I’ll . . . try to visit when all this is settled, but for now—”
“Same old Tuck. Living your life without any remorse over leaving the rest of us behind. You should be an uncle. A brother. Hell, a son . . . whether they deserve one or not. They’re not perfect, Tucker. But neither are we.”
No, they weren’t. His parents had tried to be the best parents they could
be, but for their family, that had meant passing the kids off to nannies and speaking to their children only when they wanted it to be known they were disappointments. Which was always.
“Soon, Glor. Not yet.”
Another silence deadened the line, and just when he thought she’d hung up, she said, “Dad’s sick, you know.”
Tucker clutched the phone tighter. “What do you mean?”
“Heart issues. He might have to have surgery. Come home, Tucker. Please. I can’t do all this alone.”
Guilt sickened him. He’d been able to escape the life he hadn’t wanted, but he’d left his baby sister behind to hold down the fort, alone.
“I really do have a case here. But give me a few weeks, a month . . .”
“Right. Good-bye, Tuck.”
This time, the silence was deafening.
Chapter 30
“I KNOW YOU reminded me this morning and I forgot. I’m sorry.” His cell phone pressed against his cold ear, Josh Longwood rushed from the late night pharmacy, the prescription for his daughter in one hand, the candy his son needed for school in the other. He couldn’t believe he’d forgotten the medicine of all things. He’d never hear the end of the nagging now. Kissing ass was his only option. “Yes, I got the stuff for Jack’s party, too.”
He listened to his wife’s panicked voice on the other end of the line and tried to calm her down. “Her inhaler will help. I’ll be home in a few minutes.”
He closed his eyes and lifted the phone from his ear to give himself some relief from her berating. When she took a breath, he said, “I know and I said I was sorry. My meeting ran late and . . .” He sighed. “Yes, I’ll hurry. Love you, too.”
Swamped with guilt, he disconnected and fumbled to get his keys out of his pocket. He had no one to blame for the mess his life had become but himself. He’d forgotten about his children, for cripes’ sake. Again. He was a shit of a father.
He leaned against the driver’s seat and shut his eyes. He couldn’t keep living like this. This double life. This lie. It was killing him, and even worse, it was hurting the people he loved most. His wife. His children. But if they ever found out . . .
He couldn’t stand the thought of it. Not for the first time, he told himself to end it. But other than the hour every night he spent tucking his kids in, the only happiness he had came from the life they knew nothing about.
No matter how desperately he wanted to be a good husband and father, he couldn’t stay away from his lover. He’d finally accepted that. He couldn’t tell Sara that he wanted a divorce, and he couldn’t tell David that he was married with two children.
So many lies. Sometimes, even he couldn’t remember what was truth and what was fiction. Last week he’d told Sara he was working late. He was supposed to have met David for dinner. Instead, he’d found himself at his office, wondering why the hell he was there.
His phone rang again. Certain it was Sara with another rant, he nearly shut off his phone. It was David. The usual gut-wrenching longing made his finger tremble as he hit the accept-call button.
“Hey babe,” David said. “Bed’s already cold. You sure you can’t come stay the night?”
Josh sighed. He’d stayed the night with David only three times in their relationship. It was becoming harder and harder to find excuses to leave when, in truth, all he wanted to do was stay.
“I wish.” Josh put the phone on speaker, looked at the image of David staring back at him from the caller ID. How much would he give to wake up in David’s arms? Have breakfast? Spend the day walking the park or riding the Ferris wheel without worrying about what others might think of him?
His throat gave a painful squeeze. “You know I wish,” he said again.
As far as David was concerned, Josh could never stay because he lived with an un-understanding, sickly mother who required his help at all hours of the evening. Too frail to live alone.
Another sick lie. Josh’s mother had been dead for a decade.
He looked away from the phone. Stared out the window as he listened to David turn on the charm. A can of whipped cream, David says. Kisses, everywhere, he says.
A tear tickled the tip of Josh’s nose and he brushed it away, feeling like a pathetic ass.
A shadowy figure joined his in the glass. A man was hunched over from the cold, quaking as he rocked back and forth, huddled beneath his hooded, dingy coat.
“David, I have to go. I’ll call you back in a bit.” Without waiting for a response, Josh tossed the phone onto the passenger seat and bolted from the car. “Hey man. Off the ca—”
The man whirled, and in an instant, something metal struck Josh in the face, knocking him to the pavement. His head slammed against concrete, and he fought to keep his eyes open, struggled to raise an arm against the second attack coming toward his throbbing skull. He rolled in time for the lead pipe to hit the asphalt and scrambled for the keys he’d dropped in his haste to get out of the car. They were a sorry excuse for a weapon, but they were the only thing within grabbing distance.
The world spun, and the need to vomit seized him as blood ran down his forehead, over his left eye. He reached again for the keys, ready and willing to stab the son of a bitch in the eye, but as his fingers brushed the cool metal, a rag was stuffed into his mouth and his arms were jerked and bound behind his back. Something thick fell over his head, cloaking him in darkness as arms wrapped around his stomach like steel bands.
He kicked out, trying to catch the bastard behind the knees, but he couldn’t see. Disoriented, he kicked the wheel of his car instead. Most of his movements uncontrolled and manic, he managed to contact something with his fist, pummeling whatever it was to the bone. He heard a grunt, felt the weight of his attacker on him for an instant. He gagged, vomit rushing up his throat, choking him behind the cloth filling his mouth.
A blow struck his temple. The fight temporarily knocked out of him, he fell limp and his body was lifted as easily as if he weighed no more than a ten-year-old girl. His attacker smelled of sweat and Irish Spring, and Josh caught a whiff of onion through the cloth covering his face as he was tossed into a vehicle. As he tumbled inside, his head smashed something hard. The soft bounce of tires beneath his weight induced a stronger wave of nausea. He vomited again, swallowing it back down to keep from choking to death.
Stay calm. Jesus, just stay calm.
There was a loud bang, then silence cloaked him along with a sheen of sweat. A trunk. He was in a fucking trunk. As the vehicle began to move, Josh fought not to panic, desperate to remain focused on the turns to figure out where he was being taken. A left. A right. A long, endless stretch with no swerves at all. Then, a rutted road.
His head bounced, his body thrown about in the compact space. His nose smashed against the side of the car and warm, sticky blood dripped onto his lips beneath the gag. It had already been difficult to breathe. Now, with his nose clogged, tiny little gasps were barely giving him any air at all.
He thought of Sara, of her pain-filled face as she told their children that Daddy was dead. Fuck that. He was not ready to die. Not like this, damn it. Never like this!
The car stopped, throwing him against the rear of the trunk. His fingers grappled behind his back, searching for anything to throw at the bastard or stab at him or . . . Jesus, anything.
There was nothing. No more time to gather his bearings or form a real plan. No more time to think of his children and pray that they forgave him for forgetting them tonight. The trunk opened. Hands gripped his arms and lifted him upward. Jesus. He weighed a solid two hundred pounds, yet he was being lifted like a fucking woman. His stomach scraped against metal and he grunted as he was dropped to the ground and dragged over unforgiving concrete.
Where was he? How much time had passed? When would Sara report him missing?
Jesus. JesusJesusJesus.
The covering was snatched off his head and a chunk of his hair with it. Josh blinked. His surroundings slowly came into view as his vision cleared, but i
t was too dark to make out any life-saving details.
He heard a soft scratch, then caught a whiff of sulfur. A tiny flame sparked to life a few feet away, but the soft glow didn’t offer enough light to see anything that might help him. Just shadows. He watched candles flicker as their wicks caught fire.
The man kept his head down. There was no way to see who he was, but Josh did recognize something. The stained glass windows. Even dirt-encrusted and green from months of neglect, he knew he was in the old, abandoned First Baptist Church near the edge of town. Away from anyone and anything that might help him.
“Repent.” The voice vibrated near his right ear, bathing Josh’s neck in sticky, warm breath as the gag slipped away from his mouth.
He spat, desperate to rid himself of the coppery and acidic tastes trickling down his throat. He tried to twist, tried to glimpse the maniac holding him hostage. A knee to his back held him securely to the ground, making his attempts to move futile.
He tried to speak, but found a shaky voice buried beneath a fear he’d never known in his entire life. “What do you want?”
“Repent,” the man repeated, his voice so soft Josh could barely hear him. “Repent and this can all end right now.”
Josh fought against his bindings. What felt like wire bit into his wrists. His shoulders burned from the strain, and his whole body felt as though it had been pulled behind a pickup.
“R-repent what?”
But he knew. Even without the words spoken, Josh knew what this was about.
Someone had found out his secret. Someone was finally going to make him pay.
The weight lifted from Josh’s body and he seized his chance. He clambered to his knees, but his off-balance attempt to charge was waylaid. He slammed into a marble table instead. No, not a table. An altar. Jesus.
Hands gripped his ankles and jerked his feet from beneath him. Josh’s forehead connected with the unforgiving marble before slamming onto the floor. His nose gushed blood again and a steady drip from the gash on his head ran into his eye, blurring his vision. Strong hands clasped his leg just below the knee. White-hot pain cut into Josh’s thigh. Warmth pooled beneath him, instantly chilled by the cold in the vacant building.