“Your sister is here, Mrs. Sebring,” Rachel said, feeling her palms become sweaty and looking at the Orphan, the name Rachel gave all lost souls, standing feet away. “She wanted me to tell you…” Rachel relayed the message.
Mrs. Sebring gawked at Rachel for a moment before straightening her posture and slapping Rachel across the face. “How dare you.”
Rachel rubbed her tingling cheek.
Mrs. Sebring got off the bench. “You’re a sick woman, Detective Harroway.”
Blowing her nose a final time, Mrs. Sebring shuffled down the dirt trail and far out of sight.
Rachel stayed still for a while, holding her hand over her sore cheek. Peak was right, she knew. She couldn’t save all of them. Smiling pitifully at the wide-framed woman before her, Rachel stood, brushed off her pants, and headed down the trail. The fall trees and ferns blurred as her mind raced. In what seemed like seconds, she was back at her car. She took a deep breath before turning the ignition and starting down her familiar lonely road.
She drove through the small Appalachian town and up the seven-point-six-mile winding road that separated Highlands from the rickety old 1892 Queen Anne manse. The street was lined with pin oaks and honeysuckle bushes. Like most of the surrounding area, autumn colors ruled the wilds of the 4,118-foot plateau where the town resided.
The twin peaks of Hadley House grew out of the burgundy, gold, and deep-red leaves. Like most years, many of the trees surrounding the four-bedroom, three-bathroom relic were barren of leaves long before the rest of them. Long branches stretched out their boney fingers and reached for the pale-green walls of the old house. The windows showed no light and were surrounded by stained-glass squares: violet, indigo, and amber, with dust gathered in the corners.
I really need to clean that, Rachel thought as she locked her car and dragged her feet up the steps to her big, hollow house. Even on quiet nights, the house seemed to groan. Directly at the entrance of the house, stairs jutted up to the second floor with a little turn that led to a railed balcony. When Rachel and Brett, her ex-husband, bought the house a decade ago, the realtor said that Hadley, the town’s first local physician, ran his practice out of his home and watched over his patients from that balcony. Before Rachel purchased the property, a family of four was gunned down mercilessly on these very floors. Their Orphans found rest at the cost of Rachel’s art career and, a few years after, her marriage.
Rachel double-checked the front door lock and shoved the safety bar under the egg-shaped copper knob. She marched through the living room with the ancient grandfather clock and into the kitchen, where she locked and secured the back door as well. After, she ventured upstairs, the steps and floor creaking under her feet, and into the master bedroom at the far back. She stripped off her clothes on the way to the bathroom and took a much-needed shower. Though her cheek no longer ached, the slap replayed in her mind. Did I do the right thing? Her question was lost in the void. Having the Gift was a solitary walk—her institutionalized mother’s journal told her that—but Rachel didn’t start feeling it until she made it her life goal to send as many Orphans home as she could before she joined their ranks, a reality that was never far off since she was one of two lead detectives in a small, quiet town that seemed to attract serial killers.
After putting on a nightgown, Rachel double-checked the bullets in her Glock 22 before sliding the weapon under her ex-husband’s pillow. She fell back into the large bed and stared up at the ceiling. Like most nights, it would take her at least two hours before her mind stopped racing, and her dreams were weirder still. The moment Rachel shut her eyes, her phone rang.
“This is dispatch. We have a 10-67.”
Under the lamplight, Rachel jotted down the address on her wrist. There’d been another murder.
Rachel arrived at the two-story log house high above the classy part of town. Multiple squad cars and personal vehicles packed the circular driveway. Forensic analysts were moving in and out while police officers secured the area. It seemed as if Rachel was the last one to arrive. She and Detective Peak, who enjoyed being fashionably late, but only when he could use his daughter as an excuse.
The lights were on in the house and cast a glow through the tall, rectangular window. Cameras flashed within. Silhouetted crime photographers created a circle around the woman resting her face on her plate and snapped away.
A friendly officer got the front door for Rachel as she approached. Her hands in the pockets of her leather jacket, Rachel stepped past the Appalachian cop, a local like the rest that came from a long line of Highlands police officers.
The interior of the house was welcoming, with many unique vases, fruit bowls, and family photos. By the tidiness of the place, it seemed as if the homeowners were expecting an esteemed guest. She had gotten someone else entirely.
“Give me the skinny,” Rachel said as she made her way to the cadaver.
“Woman dead at the table. Poisoning most like.” Officer Jacob Jones, a blond, slender man with a wooly mustache, walked with her. “Neighbor called it in.”
“What neighbor?” Rachel asked, taking note of the family photos. A mother and daughter. There were a few of a man in an army uniform.
“A jogger, he says,” Jones replied with his usual Southern twang. “Comes up this path every few nights to get his cardio. He saw the body through the window, thought it to be suspicious, and called it in. Say, Rachel, you up for that church potluck this Sunday? My wife’s making her signature green bean casserole.”
“We’ll see, Jones,” Rachel replied, knowing that murders took up most of her free time. “Where can I talk to this jogger?”
“Outside.”
“Now you tell me.”
Rachel ventured outside to find that Detective Peak was already speaking to the man in the black tracksuit. The jogger had a youthful face, trimmed brows, a muscular physique, and a V-shaped body. He nervously tapped his foot, watching the coroner prod at the body through the window.
“Let me get this straight,” Peak said. “You like watching her through the window?”
“It’s not like that at all,” the jogger protested. He turned to Rachel. “Thank the lord, I can finally talk to a normal person.”
Peak smirked at the comment.
“I’m Detective Harroway,” Rachel extended. “I want to hear what happened tonight, Mr.…”
“Dekker,” the man replied. “Jimmy Dekker. I live a little farther down the mountain. Two miles, to be precise.”
“What brought you up here tonight?”
Dekker bounced his gaze between the detectives. “What I’ve explained to every cop in this gosh darn place: every Tuesday, Wednesday, and Saturday, I jog up the mountain and back to my place.”
“It’s Thursday,” Peak said dryly. “Nearly 1:00 a.m.”
Dekker boiled. “I’m not some pervert!”
“No one said you are, Mr. Dekker,” Rachel said calmly. “Do you often break your routine?”
“I’m a fitness instructor. Mostly old ladies. I know the importance of structure, but sometimes I like to push myself. This week, I’m running two miles every night. This is my favorite route because the incline offers the best cardio. It’s not rocket science.”
“Over the last few nights, have you seen anyone visit Mrs. Stix?” Rachel asked, pulling out her pocket notepad and pencil.
“No. I know she’s been going out a lot lately. Leaves the kid home alone. Not that it’s any of my business.”
“I see,” Rachel replied. “You know a lot about Martha’s activities.”
“No—I… We’ve been neighbors for a long time. I noticed a pattern, that’s all.”
“How long do you spend up here before making your descent?”
Dekker looked as if he were about to pull his hair out. “What is wrong with you two? Martha Stix is an attractive woman, but do you think with looks like mine I need to spy on a cougar like her?”
“Do you?” Peak asked plainly.
Dekker
ran his hand through his hair.
Rachel changed the conversation. She learned quickly that he stumbled across the body forty-five minutes earlier, around 12:15 a.m. He saw no one leave or enter the premises during or after that time. Though Martha was dead, there had been no sign of her daughter, Mallory.
After taking down Dekker’s statement, Rachel handed him her business card. “Thank you for your help, Mr. Dekker. We’ll be in touch.”
“Yeah, sure,” Dekker said. “You believe me, right? I wasn’t spying on her.”
“I believe you,” Rachel replied and let the man go on his way.
When he was out of earshot, Rachel turned to Peak. “He was definitely watching her.”
“You think?” Peak remarked sarcastically.
“We’ll keep an eye on him. He may know more than he’s letting on.”
“Agreed. The simplest solution is often the right one.” They started back to the house, crunching dead leaves underfoot. “How did your meeting go?”
“Not well,” Rachel replied.
Peak didn’t pursue the topic. They marched inside and approached the woman lying on a plate of blood, wine, and vomit.
Wearing blue latex gloves, a white coat, a collared shirt, and a tie with black cats on it, Coroner Woodrow Gates lingered next to the body. His thin hair was white as snow, and his nearly silver eyes studied the cadaver intently. “Martha Stix. Thirty-nine years old. Cause of death: poison.”
“Was she assaulted in any way?” Peak asked.
“Not by the looks of it.” Gates glanced up at the wineglass. “It appears the Yellowtail did her in.”
“Anastasia was killed by wine, as well. So were Carolina, Cora, and Jasmine,” Rachel thought out loud. The other four murders were similar: a single mother poisoned and her child taken. “I think it’s time to put out a PSA about wine. It could save a few lives.”
“My ex-wife would hate me even more,” Peak commented.
After the forensic photographers finished, Gates checked the woman’s jeans pockets and leaned her head back. Her lifeless eyes were dry and half-open. Her body was limp, like a sack of meat. She wore wholesome attire to hide her curves.
“No scratches on her neck,” Peak pointed out. “She didn’t claw her throat out, at least.”
“The poison was subtle,” Rachel remarked. “Just like all the others.”
“A Beautiful Death,” Gates said soberly, reciting one of the many names of the poison.
The three of them reflected on the statement.
“I’m going to take a look around,” Rachel said, in her own way telling Peak that she was going to find Martha’s Orphan.
Rachel walked through the open living room, past photos of Martha‘s daughter from ages one through eight. She was a sweet-looking child with long brown hair and an angular face. She had a subtle, almost mischievous smile and intelligent eyes. Rachel’s stomach knotted when she thought about what the killer had in store for her. Like with the other four children taken, Rachel had no clue as to the killer’s motive behind the abductions. Her mind went to the worst places.
She moved into the kitchen. The place was well stocked with cooking supplies and organic ingredients. Judging by the notches on the chopping block, Rachel thought Martha was an active cook. A forensic analyst knelt at the open door of the fridge and withdrew the fatal bottle. Only a third of the red wine remained inside. The analyst popped it open and gave it a sniff. He gestured for Rachel to do the same. She obliged.
“Sweet,” Rachel said, not expecting such an alluring smell from a deep-red wine like that.
Rachel lifted the bottle to the light and spun it in her hand. Only under direct illumination could the blended berries and small root flakes gathering at the bottom be seen. By the crimson crust around the bottle’s rim, it appeared the bottle had been opened days prior. Rachel guessed the killer arrived tonight, saw the bottle and poured in the toxic formula. Before Martha had finished her first glass, it was over. Did the killer know when she would drink it? Did he know she would die tonight? The daughter is missing, so he must’ve been waiting, but for how long? Patient killers were also the most dangerous. Most murderers acted out of impulse, rage, or revenge. Patient killers honed their craft. Some of them waited months, sometimes years before they struck. The Poisoner, however, was on a spree. It might sound horrible, but more crime scenes meant more chances the killer could mess up.
The wine brand was Yellowtail. The last murder was Skinny Girl, the one before that was Beringer, before that was Hess, and the first was Pepperwood Grove. All of them were red wines that the victims seemingly drank voluntarily. Does their name mean anything? Rachel had been asking that question for months, but none of her theories stuck. It was those types of small details that drove great detectives mad. Until Rachel had something solid, she shoved the brand names into the back of her mind.
After the forensic analyst bagged the wine bottle, he left the kitchen. Rachel examined the magnets on the refrigerator. Suddenly, Rachel became light headed. She felt something pull at her as she studied the multicolored plastic alphabet letters on the freezer door. As if being moved by some invisible hand, the letters swirled on the white surface and formed a word. Mallory.
Rachel drew out her notepad and wrote down the word.
The letters scattered and then re-formed.
Will.
Rachel awaited the last word.
Die.
Rachel’s forehead throbbed with a splitting headache. Her knees weakened, and she found herself collapsing. Quickly, she caught herself on the kitchen island.
The headache left, and her body felt normal again. She looked at the refrigerator, and all the magnetized letters were back in their original, scrambled locations. Her heart throbbed. What was that? The Sense had not hit that hard since she first discovered the Gift. She felt something drawing her to her right. She saw Martha Stix standing next to her. The woman wore a fall sweater and jeans just like her cadaver in the other room. Her eyes were dry and her pupils dilated. Wine, blood, and bile slithered out of her mouth and hung at the bottom of her chin.
“Martha?” Rachel called out.
The woman’s lip quivered. Her body trembled. She stepped back and pointed a finger at Rachel.
“You,” she said with a cracked voice.
In an instant, the Orphan darted out of the room.
Without much choice, Rachel chased after her. She pushed through the dining room and slowed her speed after getting a few odd looks from officers digging through trash cans or running black lights over the walls, floor, and ceiling. Rachel gave them a quick smile and then started up the stairs. She reached the upstairs and saw a door slam at the end of the hall.
Rachel walked that way, keeping her footsteps silent and precise. She tried the doorknob. With a long, drawn-out creak, the door opened, and Rachel stepped into the bedroom. The walls were painted sky blue, and there were different birthday party banners. There was a twin bed, a dresser, and a desk that was covered in books. A corkboard hung above it with a collage of various fashion models cut out of magazines. All of their eyes had been blacked out with a Sharpie, giving them a demonic appearance.
Martha sat in the corner. She had pulled her knees close to her chest and was rocking back and forth. The middle-aged woman clutched a teddy bear and mumbled something incomprehensible. Her long brown hair fell over her mature but pretty face.
With careful steps, Rachel moved forward as if approaching a terrified animal. “Let me help.”
“My baby’s gone,” the woman mumbled. “My poor baby is gone.”
Rachel proceeded with caution, mindful not to provoke the grieving mother. “Did you reorganize those magnets?”
“No,” the woman mumbled. “No. My poor, poor baby.”
Rachel knelt down a few feet away from her. “I need you to talk to me. Can you do that?”
Slowly, Martha crawled to Rachel. As quick as a viper, the grieving woman jerked out her hand and clenched Rache
l’s throat. Rachel didn’t resist. Martha’s nails pressed into Rachel’s flesh. Tears trickling down her cheeks, the woman glared at Rachel. “What did you do with Mallory?”
“Nothing,” Rachel told the grieving woman.
Martha tightened her grip, constricting Rachel’s airflow. The detective grabbed at the woman’s wrist, but her hand passed through it.
“I’m… telling the… truth,” Rachel said, her breath shallow.
The woman dug her nails deeper.
“You’re… hurting… me,” Rachel gasped as she tried to push away the grief-blinded Orphan. The world began to darken. Tears fell down Rachel’s cheeks.
Martha’s eyes grew wide at the realization of what she was doing. She released Rachel’s neck and scrambled back to her corner. She moaned and whimpered while Rachel lurched over and gulped air. She felt her neck. It was as if the woman had never grabbed her. “Done trying to kill me?”
Martha nodded slowly.
“Tell me what happened to you tonight.”
Martha choked on her words. “I was making dinner for Mallory… oh, my innocent baby…”
“Focus,” Rachel told the distraught Orphan.
“I called her downstairs and had poured myself a glass of wine. As soon as I drank it, I started seeing things…”
“Like what?”
“Visions. Hallucinations. Things that weren’t supposed to be there. The room was spinning, and then… I saw nothing,” Martha explained. “My baby was gone. Who took her?”
“I don’t know,” Rachel said. I was hoping you could tell me. “What about your visions?”
“There was a figure. His head was like a pumpkin.”
Rachel took out her notepad and pencil. “Draw it for me.”
A pencil hovered and pressed its dark point on the page. It began to move of its own accord. When it finished, it showed a crude pumpkin mask with a series of metal staples holding the center together, and a black mouth of jagged teeth.
A shadow fell upon Rachel. She turned back to see Peak, watching her with a stern expression. “You should be glad it was me who walked in, not someone else.”
The Lost Orphans Omnibus: A Riveting Mystery Page 13