“Of course. Sam, the white knight, saving Murray from heart attacks and incorrectly diagnosed deaths,” she teases.
“I’m not a white knight,” I mumble, trying not to think about how Grace had to face Deke Cochrane alone.
“Do you ever get used to seeing dead bodies?” Alicia asks.
“No. It’s crazy to look at someone’s body and know that there isn’t anything happening inside it. No thoughts, no heartbeat, no emotions. Look, I gotta go. I don’t want to leave the police waiting.”
“Talk to you later, white knight,” she says.
“Talk to you later,” I echo before hanging up. Talking to Alicia reminds me of why I liked her so much to begin with. She’s fun when she’s not being melodramatic. I glance at the text on my phone.
N 36° 51' 14.8758", W 75° 58' 35.3954"
ASAP
They’re GPS coordinates, but the fact that “ASAP” is below it means it must be a gruesome or strange death.
I start my Dodge Charger up. As I drive away from the house, the guilt over talking to Alicia behind Grace’s back slithers in and settles in the pit of my stomach. At least while I’m heading toward a body, I know one person had a worse day than me.
Chapter Three
Grace, 2015
(Thursday Afternoon; Escher Hall at George Mason University, Fairfax, Virginia)
“YOUR MAIN FOCUS shouldn’t be to dig into a student’s past or solve all of his or her life problems,” Professor Kingston lectures. “Your main focus should be to help the students figure out the source of their problems and help them find a way to cope.
“Why is that?” the blonde in front of me asks.
In the Escher Hall at George Mason, where I began to take classes in February, most of the students are in their late teens or early twenties. It’s a bit disconcerting, but after I had been called in to substitute at Waycroft less and less, and there appeared to be no midterm positions opening up, I decided it was time for a change. I was pursuing a Master of Education in Counseling and Development with a concentration in School Counseling PK-12. I managed to get a job at Stoddard High School as an English teacher through Kevin Deats, my old neighbor and the superintendent of the Murray, Virginia schools—Waycroft High, Chaplain Crawford Middle School, Briar Run Elementary and Murray Farm Elementary.
“I mean, what if you had a student that repressed childhood abuse? Wouldn’t it help them if you figured out about the abuse?”
“Ashley, right?” Professor Kingston asks. She nods. “Let’s pretend that you have a student with anger problems. You suspect that they were abused, but they don’t remember it. First off, it’s dangerous for anyone involved in counseling to try to get someone to recover memories—that’s why people talk about false memories. Second, how does that help the student? They still have anger problems. The cause is not important—the student could have been abused, he could have been bullied, he could just have the personality of an angry person. The effect is what’s important and those can be resolved through different therapies…which we will talk about on Monday. Good class, everybody. Read chapter eight of the textbook and answer the prep questions at the end. I want them typed in size twelve front and double-spaced. Two of your forgot to put your names on the top last time. Don’t do that again.”
As I gather up my books and shove them in my bag, I think about Francis Tate and Deke Cochrane, two young men I taught and was unable to help before they committed violence. Was I focused too much on finding the source of their pain rather than trying to treat it? Could their pain have been treated at all?
I walk out of the classroom and take out my cell phone, which had been set to silent during the class.
1 missed text
Sam: Hey. I got paged by the county police department. I had to bail on the meet-up with Rayna and the buyers.
SORRY!
I jump into my new truck—a red Toyota Tacoma and try to bite back the stream of curses I want to shout. I begin to drive, trying to figure out my next move. It will take me about forty-five minutes to get back to my old house, but Rayna’s meeting with the buyers is in thirty minutes. I could speed all of the way there, risking my life and others on the rain-splattered road or I could get ahold of someone else for help.
The only solution is Kevin Deats.
As I stop at a red light, I dial his number and put him on speakerphone. The ringing fills the truck.
“Hello?” Kevin answers.
“Hey, Kevin, it’s Grace.”
“Hey, lady, how are you? Are you just getting out of class?”
“Yep,” I say. “Are you at home?”
“I am.”
“Could I ask for a favor?”
“Sure,” he says. I love that about him—he’s always willing to help even when he’s not sure what he’s helping with.
“Could you watch for Rayna, my real estate agent, for the next half hour or so until she gets to my old house?”
“No problem. That’s easy. Are you running late?”
“No…I had my boyfriend, Sam, waiting for her, but he had to leave for his job. This is just turning into such a hassle. I almost wish I could give the house away.”
“Well, just take a deep breath,” he says. “You have a lot on your plate right now. You should drop by after you’re done with your agent. I have a new dog I’d like you to meet and it sounds like you could use some doggy-love right now.”
“That sounds perfect. Thanks a lot, Kevin.”
“No problem. Drive safe.”
“Thanks. I’ll see you soon.”
“You better.”
I click end call. I put my foot on the brake as the cars in front of me slow down for a stop sign. The endless line of red taillights blurred by the rain makes me think of blood droplets. I remember the feeling of Francis Tate stabbing me and the heat of my blood as it seeped up onto my skin. I glance down at my shirt, expecting to see blood, but it’s completely clean. By the time I look up, the cars have begun to move again.
The trail of blood droplets vanished as if they were washed away by the rain.
Chapter Four
Grace, 2014
(November; Sam’s House, Murray, Virginia)
I WASN’T SURE how much space you would need,” Sam says, opening the top drawer of his oak dresser. “So, I cleared out this one and half the closet.”
Sam’s house is an American Craftsman bungalow painted pale yellow with white window frames. A large window allows pedestrians to see what looks like a window display for a distinguished furniture store. They might think, what a nice place to live and they would be right. But they can’t feel the detached feeling the house has—there’s no personality, no photographs, nothing to signify it’s more than a presentation.
The house is beautiful—everything was made with great attention to detail and everything follows the same earthy color pattern. It’s like a five-star hotel, relaxing and luxurious, but it doesn’t feel like home.
Or maybe I’m just homesick for my family’s farm.
“It’s perfect,” I tell him. “I probably won’t need that much space…I’ve donated a lot of my clothes when I moved from Ohio, and then I donated more before I packed up my stuff to come here. Where did you put your clothes that used to be in this dresser and the closet?”
“Oh, I just boxed up my winter clothes…and some of my summer clothes.”
I nod. “I really hate to inconvenience you—”
“Grace, it’s not an inconvenience,” he says. “We both know that you couldn’t have stayed with the Schneiders much longer. Either you would have killed them or they would have killed you. This is the best option.”
“I know…it’s just…unconventional. We’ve only known each other for a couple of months…”
“Well, we’re unconventional people, so it works.”
“True.”
“You can take my bed,” he says. “I’m fine sleeping on the couch.”
“What? No,” I say. “I’m the guest here. I should
sleep on the couch. I’m not going to take your bed.”
“I’ve spent a good portion of my life in college—thirteen years, in fact—I am used to sleeping in random places. I’ve fallen asleep on gurneys more times than I’d like to admit.”
“Which is why you should sleep on a bed for the rest of your life.”
“I’m fine, Grace,” he says. “Please, take the bed. It’s not a big deal.”
I set down my suitcase and sit down on his bed. I pat the space beside me. “Or maybe we could share it.”
He raises an eyebrow, but sits down beside me. “So, you’re apprehensive about moving into my house, but you’re okay with sharing a bed?”
“Well, I don’t take up that much space on a bed.” lean toward him and kiss his lips. I feel his lips part and his warm breath ripples across my lips. His arm wraps around my waist and pulls me closer. His hands slip under my blouse and trace along the scars on my abdomen. The scars are from when Francis stabbed me. I used to hate them, but Sam loves them in the same way he loves every other part of me—completely, reverently, passionately, so I’ve learned to accept them.
His body presses against mine until my back is against the bed and he is leaning over me. He kisses the tip of my nose as his thumb caresses along my jaw. “Do you know what my life was like before you?”
“Diagnosing and healing hearts?” I tease.
He kisses the side of my mouth. “It was patients and schedules and appointments…and meetings. Nothing really mattered. There wasn’t any purpose. When I met you—I mean, after the shooting and we began to get to know each other—there was this feeling that I had found something that I never knew was missing. And it has felt that way every day that I’ve known you. I meant it when I said I loved you at the hospital. That wasn’t just relief or stress talking. I love you and, it may be a little too soon, but if I can offer you a place in my home when you’re struggling to live with the Schneiders, I am more than willing to offer a bed and a drawer.”
“And maybe some of your bathroom, too?” I ask, smiling.
He grins. “Just a little bit of that, too.”
I wrap my arms around his neck and pull myself up to kiss him. Everything is perfect and my life is finally repairing itself since Francis’s attack. For the first time, when I close my eyes, I see my future instead of my past.
Chapter Five
Sam, 2015
(Early Thursday Evening; Neabsco Creek, Pearland, Virginia)
THE FIRST THING I SEE is a silver Honda Civic that is chained to a tow truck. Water drips off the edges of the car, so I can assume that it came out of Neabsco Creek. When I pull up beside the two police cars parked at the end of the bike trail, I know that the death must be grisly. The two police officers and the tow truck driver are all avoiding looking at each other and the atmosphere is full of revulsion.
I get out of my car and grab my forensic kit. I approach the car, and an intense feeling of despair grips me. As I spot the body, the skin stripped off its face and the front of the skull crushed, I can feel the bile acid start to rise up my throat. I quickly turn on my heel and walk a few steps into the woods before hurling up my lunch.
I dry heave for a couple of minutes before wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. I close my eyes, but I don’t think the image of the desecrated body will ever vanish from my conscious mind. I can only presume it’s a man from his broad shoulders and large hands, though there wasn’t much signs of aging, so he was likely in his late teens or early twenties. I can still see the bloodstain trailing down the man’s white shirt and black leather jacket with a smaller amount of speckled on his tattered jeans. When I walk back out of the woods, one of the police officers is waiting for me in front of the Civic.
“Pretty gruesome, huh?” he asks. “That’s why we needed someone special to come down here. This is the first murder that Pearland has had in…forever. The last murder was probably of Native Americans back when Columbus sailed the ocean blue…there certainly hasn’t been one in my lifetime. So, we called down to the Murray Police Station….and here you are.”
“Here I am,” I say, taking a deep breath. “What exactly happened here? It doesn’t look like the body is newly deceased.”
“We’re not sure. Two swimmers found the car earlier. They were teenagers…I think they were doing some skinny-dipping since the weather’s been unseasonably warm for this time of year. We decided to pull it up in case someone had crashed and drowned. The teens said they had no idea a body was in it after we discovered John Doe here. I ran background checks on the two of them, but they’re squeaky clean. The car has Ohio plates. Some of the guys are trying to get ahold of the owner, but the guy’s license plate says that he’s forty-nine years old, he’s two hundred and twenty pounds, and he’s six four, so…I don’t think this is the owner unless the killer did a liposuction and used lots of aging cream.”
“He could be the killer, though.” I look back into the car. I try to look at the body as a puzzle instead of someone who was once living. I still want to vomit.
“It seems that the killer wanted the guy’s identity to remain unknown. The killer was smart enough to know that the body would eventually be found. The face is gone, including the whole bone structure, so it would be difficult to reconstruct. From what I can see inside his mouth—it appears that the jaw is broken—his teeth are missing. I’d bet his fingerprints are gone, too. The killer was meticulous. He is very skilled at what he does.”
“So…what? Do you think this was a serial killer?” the policeman asks.
“Um, I can’t be sure,” I say. “It’s definitely someone who enjoys killing. You don’t go through this much trouble for logical reasons. Now, Mister…um…”
“Officer Ty Halloran,” he says.
I nod. “Officer Halloran, could you get someone to call the regional forensics lab in Manassas, Virginia to let them know that they need to collect a body and a car? I’ll talk to the director of the forensic biology lab, Dr. Bridget Carter, personally. She’s going to want to know a lot of information before she gets down here and it’s easier if I tell her directly. You’ll also want to look into any missing persons reports in the area to see if anyone from sixteen years old to twenty-four years old is in them…then get ahold of the jurisdiction of the car’s owner and get them to send over missing persons reports as well.”
Officer Halloran nods. “I suppose that we can conclude that this guy’s death wasn’t painless.”
“Yes,” I say. “It wasn’t painless, though from the slice mark around the carotid artery, it still occurred rather quickly. From the bloodstains on his clothes—and thinking from the perspective of a killer who didn’t want his victim to struggle—the killer slit his throat and then mutilated his face.”
“Ouch,” Office Halloran says. “It almost sounds like you’ve met your fair share of killers. Do you have a lot of them in Murray?”
I remember Deacon Cochrane, a boy that wasn’t even legal age, but he had still committed four murders. “I’ve met enough to know they shouldn’t be underestimated.”
I look away from the dead man. He was young, too, but instead of being the killer, he was the victim. I need to figure out who he is, so his family can grieve for their loss instead of wondering what happened to him. I glance back at the woods. Monsters are everywhere—they don’t just lurk in the dark depths of the forest.
Chapter Six
Grace, 2015
(Early Thursday Evening; Kevin Deats’s House, Murray, Virginia)
KEVIN HANDS ME A BEER as I gaze around his living room. This is the second time I’ve been inside his house. The first time was because I needed to get out of range of a deranged murderer who was hell-bent on killing me. This is the first time I could take note of the details of his home.
Or at least I could if there wasn’t a yellow Labrador retriever puppy rolling all over my feet, trying to get me to pet him. I pick him up and he wiggles so hard that he almost falls out of my hands. I set him on
my lap and his warm tongue licks me a few times before he begins to nibble on my thumb. “What’s his name?”
“I haven’t figured one out, yet,” Kevin says, sitting across from me. “The local animal shelter acquired four pups that were left at their door by somebody and he’s one of them. I’m thinking I might keep him. I’ve been a foster parent to a few dogs, but this one…this one is special.”
“Wow,” I say. “Do you two need to be alone again?”
“Nah,” he says. “You’re better at conversation. So, did the buyers like the house?”
I grimace. “They didn’t seem too enthusiastic. I would think it was just an act in order to get me to lower the price of the house, but they seemed pretty dismissive of the house. The wife said that the photos made the house look much better than it is and the landscaping is nonexistent.”
“Really?” he asks. “She seems rude.”
“Well, she has a point,” I say. “The trees around the house have branches that look like they could break at any minute and the grass looks pretty dull.”
“If you really want it to be improved, I know a guy who does landscaping. His name is Steve Rolf. I actually helped him hire a new guy a couple weeks ago, so he owes me a favor,” Kevin says. “Do you want his number?”
“That would be awesome. Thank you.”
As he gets up to grab a pad of paper and pen, I notice a framed photograph on his table. In the photograph, he looks nearly a decade younger and he has his arm around a woman with blond hair, cut in a pixie-style. She’s a little bit chubby, but it adds to the warmth she exhibits and her contagious smile.
“Are you married?” I ask, wondering if his wife was at work or doing errands the last time I was here and why he hasn’t mentioned her before.
“Uh, no,” he says, handing me a phone number. “I mean, I guess. I don’t know. Are you still married if your spouse passes away?”
Disturbed Mind (A Grace Ellery Romantic Suspense Series Book 2) Page 2