Blood Walk (A Lacey Fitzpatrick and Sam Firecloud Mystery Book 8)

by Melissa Bowersock

  SIXTEEN

  Sam had a headache.

  They were watching the news. While Lacey would have preferred to keep the ring on, she’d finally put it back in the case next to Sam’s and set it on the coffee table where she could admire it from the short distance. Every time she looked at it, it stunned her all over again.

  Sam rubbed his forehead.

  “Do you want a couple aspirin?” She glanced at her watch. It was a few minutes to seven. The news was almost over. She was hoping there might be some mention of a “person of interest” being taken into custody, but wasn’t really surprised there wasn’t.

  “It won’t help,” Sam said.

  “No?” She absently watched the final story unfold, a feel-good human interest piece. “Why not?”

  He rubbed his forehead more intently, as if he could rub away the creases there. “He’s angry again.”

  “Angry…?” She sat upright, reached for the remote and clicked off the TV. “Ed?”

  “Yeah. He’s really pissed. At me.”

  “Do they have him?”

  “No.” The rubbing continued. “He can’t go home. They’re searching the house.”

  Lacey turned toward Sam, pulling her feet up under her. “Is he there, watching?”

  “Yeah. He’s about a half a block away.”

  Lacey jumped up and got her phone. “I’m calling Tommy,” she said, punching the button.

  “Belvedere.”

  “Tommy, it’s Lacey. He’s watching you.”

  “What?” His voice went from distracted to intent in a nanosecond.

  “He’s watching you. You’re in the house?”

  “Yeah. He wasn’t home, but we had a warrant so we went on in. We found everything, Lacey—the car, the gloves, the saw, blood. Everything. It’s all here.”

  “That’s great,” she said. “But he’s out there. Sam said he’s about a half a block away, and he’s pissed.”

  “Can he tell what direction?”

  Lacey touched Sam’s shoulder. “Can you tell where he is from the house?”

  Sam frowned, the creases deepening in his forehead. “I feel like… he’s east of the house. Shit, he’s moving. He knows I’ve got him.”

  “Moving where?”

  “Taking off. Through bushes. Like last time.”

  “So he’s on foot?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Tommy,” she said into the phone, “he’s on foot and he’s moving. He’s east of you.”

  “I’m losing him,” Sam said suddenly. “He’s moving fast. I don’t think he’s on foot anymore. He must have grabbed a cab or gotten on a bus. He’s heading away.”

  Lacey relayed that to Tommy. “Can he tell which direction he’s going?”

  “Which way?” she asked Sam.

  “South!”

  “I’ll get back to you Lacey. Thanks.”

  The line went dead.

  Lacey tossed the phone down next to the jewelry box. Again, she hesitated to interfere with Sam’s process, but she could tell it was distressing for him. She laid her arm loosely across his shoulders and rested her cheek against his arm.

  She’d be ecstatic when Ed was in custody and could no longer range the city streets.

  After several long moments, Sam let out a heavy sigh.

  “I’ve lost him.”

  Thank God, Lacey thought. She wasn’t worried about him escaping for long. The PD would have good photos and good information to broadcast now; it was only a matter of time before he was caught.

  She said as much to Sam.

  “Yeah, I think you’re right,” he said. “I’ll sure be glad when this is over.”

  “Not your normal, everyday medium stuff, is it?” she asked.

  He regarded her with his dark, bottomless eyes. “No. Not at all.”

  ~~~

  SEVENTEEN

  The next morning, Lacey waited until mid-morning to call Tommy. She knew he was up to his eyeballs in evidence-gathering.

  “You get any sleep?” she asked him.

  He laughed without humor. “Are you kidding? I think I finally passed out about four a.m., then started in again an hour later.”

  “Sorry,” she said. “But you’re getting good stuff?”

  “Everything,” he confirmed. “Like I said, we have the gloves, the saw, the knife. There’s bits of blood in both the car and the house, enough, I’m sure, to ID the victims. He may have thought he was doing a thorough cleaning job, but…”

  “No such, huh? Single guys never clean well. Good news for us.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Did you guys get a look at him at all last night?”

  “No.” Tommy sighed with frustration. “Never saw him. He must have hopped a ride somehow and got out of the area fast.”

  “He seems to be good at that,” Lacey said. “And moving out of Sam’s range.”

  “What is his range, anyway?” Tommy asked. “Sam’s, I mean.”

  It was Lacey’s turn to laugh. “I have no idea. He’s never had a connection like this before. He doesn’t know what causes it, but thinks it’s heightened emotion. But we’re just guessing.”

  “Weird,” Tommy said. “Well, we’re plastering the city with pictures of this guy, so we’ll get him. Unless he plans to run to the tip of Baja, someone will see him and call it in. We’ll get him.”

  “I know,” she said. “And we can be pretty sure he’ll be too busy hiding to go on any more hunting expeditions. Okay, I’ll let you get back to your work.”

  “Thanks, Lace. Talk to you later.”

  Lacey felt jangled. IDing the guy meant she and Sam had done their job, but until Ed was in custody, it wasn’t a done deal. She felt an odd, disjointed sense of loose ends that needed tying up, yet it was out of her hands. Unless Sam got a fix on Ed later, they were done.

  She turned her mind to more mundane things that had been pushed aside during the investigation. Housecleaning, paying bills—all the things she would readily put aside if a more urgent matter came up. But they couldn’t track down a killer every day.

  She also needed to get busy with the wedding plans. Even the simple churchless ceremony had details that needed to be settled. She shot off an email to Roxanne, Sam’s sister-in-law. She and Sam’s brother, Gabe, were handling much of the arrangements. Since Lacey didn’t have a clue where, exactly, the ceremony was going to be, she was leaving it to Roxanne to arrange for chairs and whatever else was called for. Roxanne had also insisted on having a reception at their house following the ceremony, and since she was used to hosting the large Firecloud gatherings, Lacey left it to her.

  In large contrast to the cartoonish bridezillas of TV and movies, Lacey’s role in the planning was actually minimal, which was perfectly okay with her. Unlike some brides, the outward expression meant less to her than the heartfelt joining of two souls. She laughed. Maybe Sam was converting her into a Navajo and she hadn’t even noticed.

  The one knotty issue for her was what to wear. She knew Sam wouldn’t care if she wore jeans and a t-shirt, and she’d actually thought about that. Sparked by the possibilities, she went and got the ring and slipped it on her finger. It was so amazingly beautiful. She loved the clear turquoise stone, the color so vibrant amid the tiny diamonds, and although turquoise might not be considered a precious stone by white cultures, it was to the Navajo. It wasn’t like any other wedding ring she’d ever seen; it was totally unique, just like Sam.

  Sighing, she began to browse online for something special enough to go with the ring.

  By late afternoon when she began to consider dinner options, she felt good about the day. She’d accomplished quite a bit and had even forgotten about Ed for a while. No call from Tommy meant no news, but it would come.

  She was standing in front of the fridge, trying to put together dinner in her mind—Potatoes? Pasta?—when the doorbell rang. In this apartment complex, it wasn’t unusual to have people at the door: students doing fundraising drives, marketing
researchers, religious groups offering fellowship. She closed the fridge and went to the door, ready to politely refuse whatever it was.

  She opened the door with an inquisitive smile.

  The smile quickly faded.

  A slight man, dressed in dark jacket and pants. The shock of dark hair falling over his forehead, half covering a Band-Aid. But the eyes—dark brown irises that were fully surrounded by the white of the eye.

  She grabbed the edge of the door to slam it shut, but she was a second too late.

  Ed jammed a Taser into the muscle of her upper arm and pulled the trigger.

  The pain exploded throughout her body, flashing through her like lightning, and burning as hot.

  She felt herself falling to the floor, falling into darkness, and could do nothing to stop it.

  ~~~

  EIGHTEEN

  When Lacey awoke, it was slowly, groggy from the enforced sleep. She lifted her head, the weight of it impeding her, and the movement brought puzzling feelings of tightness, restraint. She opened her eyes and stared down at her feet. Her calves were wrapped with duct tape, tied to the legs of a dining room chair.

  She jerked her head up. Stars danced before her eyes, but she could feel the same tightness around her wrists, behind her, and across her mouth. The industrial smell of duct tape filled her nostrils.

  “Oh, finally decided to wake up, eh?”

  Ed sat on the couch, facing her. The chair she sat on was turned outward from the dining room table so she faced him.

  The Taser lay on the coffee table between them.

  A slow smile spread across Ed’s face.

  “For an ex-cop, you aren’t very careful,” he said. “I’d have thought you’d be a little more cautious about opening the door before knowing who’s out there.”

  Lacey was totally awake now, the full realization of what had happened serving to jolt her into awareness. Her eyes darted about the room—for what, she didn’t know: understanding, an avenue of escape, a sense of time. She saw the bright LED numbers on the satellite box: after four p.m.

  Sam!

  She focused on Ed. The boyish look was tinged with creepiness due to the smirk and the hard glitter of his eyes. His hair was shaggy, feathered over his ears as well as hanging over his forehead, and a smatter of pimples dotted his chin and neck. The abused boy turned monster. The victim turned perpetrator.

  “We’re just going to have a nice little visit until Sam gets home,” he said. “Sam Firecloud. I’ve heard a lot about him. And I’ve felt him in my head.” He glowered at her, then pointed to the bandage on his forehead. “You see this? That first time he got in here and I tried to get away from him—I fell and hit my head on a rock. I could’ve gotten a concussion.”

  Lacey remembered that time, how the impressions Sam had been getting suddenly just… stopped. So that was why. Ed had fallen unconscious.

  “He shouldn’t have done that, gotten in there. He didn’t belong in there.” He leaned forward, his hands steepled below his chin. “We can’t have any more of that.”

  A cold chill vibrated up Lacey’s spine.

  “Urgh.” She struggled against the duct tape around her wrists, tried to kick out her feet, but the tape was firmly wrapped.

  “Go ahead,” Ed said. “Try it.” He grinned. “You’re not going anywhere. I hope you’ve peed recently because you’re not getting out of that chair anytime soon.” He glanced at his watch. “What time does Sam get home?”

  “Argh!” She pushed the sound out as harshly as she could, hoping her contempt was apparent.

  “Sorry, I didn’t catch that.” He smiled at his own joke. Getting slowly to his feet, he picked up the Taser. “I can take the tape off your mouth, but you have to promise not to scream.” He held up the Taser and ambled over to her. With one hand, he peeled up a corner of the duct tape, just enough to get a good grip on it, but then he held the Taser directly in front of her eyes. “Deal?”

  She had to work to calm her breathing, to not flinch away from the Taser. Finally she swallowed down her panic and nodded.

  Ed kept the Taser at the ready, but gripped the corner of tape and pulled, jerking the full, wide strip off her mouth and cheeks.

  She hissed in a breath, refusing to cry out against the stinging pain.

  Ed stood over her and watched her for a moment. When it was obvious she was not going to scream, he smiled.

  “Very good. You’re smarter than some.” He walked back to the couch.

  Lacey wondered who those “some” were who had not followed instructions—and what had happened to them.

  Free to speak now, all sorts of appeals crowded her mind: he wasn’t going to get away; he was going to be caught; he was going to pay. But she knew it would all fall on deaf ears. She sat quietly and returned his stare without an ounce of fear.

  That smirk again. “What? Nothing to say? No pleading, no trying to talk me out of this?”

  She wondered what “this” was, but left that unspoken. “Would it matter?” she asked instead.

  The smirk stretched into a grin. “Nope.” He leaned forward, resting his arms on his thighs. “Now, when does Sam get home? Him I want to meet.”

  She kept her eyes from straying toward the digital clock and managed a casual shrug. “Different times. Depends on his work.”

  “Why do I doubt that?” he said. He bounced the Taser in his hand as if testing its weight. It was a subtle threat, simply drawing her eyes to the device, but a threat all the same.

  “I can’t tell you anything if I’m unconscious.”

  “Hmm,” he said. “True enough. Well, let’s see what else you’ve got.”

  He rose to his feet and strode past her to the kitchen. She heard him pulling open cupboards, rattling drawers. She glanced at the clock. Sam would be home in less than a half hour.

  “Oh, nice,” she heard. Ed came out of the kitchen with a large knife. He stood in front of her and admired it. “It actually could use a good sharpening,” he said, “but not bad. What else?”

  He disappeared into the bedroom. She heard drawers opening, closet doors sliding. She tried again to wiggle her hands free, but the wraps of tape wouldn’t budge. She leaned forward and looked at her legs. Those, too, were wrapped multiple times. Nothing but a knife or scissors were getting through all that tape.

  He finally emerged from the bedroom, Lacey’s 9mm in his hand. He went back to the couch and sat down, examining the gun.

  “Nice,” he said, holding it up. “From your LAPD days? I’ve never used a gun.” He pointed it at Lacey.

  “No, knives and saws are your tools of choice,” she said. She got a sudden idea. “So was the bone saw your mother’s? Was that something she brought home from work?” She noted the way his jaw tightened at the mention of his mother. “What about the knives? Were they your mother’s also? Or were those yours? Did you have anything of your own, or was it all your mother’s?”

  Ed glared at her. “You’re clutching at straws,” he said, but the low growl underneath the words said differently.

  “Well, you lived with her, right? Right up to the time of her death. Did you have any control over anything there? Or did she control it all—including you?”

  His eyes were dark pools, but a small muscle in his jaw jumped. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Don’t I?” she asked. “Sam told me. He was in your head, remember. He told me how your mother molested you, how she used to get her sick thrills by bringing on your erection, by bringing you to orgasm. And you couldn’t do a thing about it. Try as you might to resist her, she had more control over your body than you did. Isn’t that right?”

  “Shut up,” he ordered. The words were clipped, bitten off.

  He might not have spoken.

  “She took everything from you. She took your power, your self-esteem, your autonomy. Because even when you were away from her, like at school, you knew how helpless you really were. Totally helpless. At her beck and call. H
er plaything, whenever she wanted you. Her toy. And there wasn’t a damn thing you could do about it.”

  “I said shut up!” As soon as the angry words were out, he clenched his jaws shut, as if he could contain the rising emotion.

  “And then she died in that car accident,” Lacey continued. “And she was gone from you. There was no way of getting revenge after that, was there? No way of paying her back, breaking free, settling the score. So you just seethed for a year, didn’t you? All that energy that you would have used taking a stand, fighting back, it all just bubbled and bubbled inside, didn’t it? Until the anniversary. Until January fourth, the day she disappeared and you were left with no way to fight back. No way to free yourself from her, ever.”

  Ed stood up abruptly. At first Lacey feared she’d gone too far, but he didn’t approach her. He began to pace, walking back and forth, the gun in his hand. His agitation was obvious.

  “So you went out,” she said, her voice low. “You went out looking for her—women like her. Women who gravitated toward your little-boy-lost routine. Women who wanted to seduce you, wanted to toy with you. Wield their power over you. And you found them. Killed them. Cut them.”

  He faced her then. Stood directly in front of her, the gun in both hands. He clenched it; she could see it shaking in his hands.

  “You don’t know.” He sneered at her. “You have no idea what I went through. What I did.” He licked his lips, attempting to regain some control.

  “Sure I do,” she said. “Sam told me. How you stabbed them over and over. He watched you do it. He was in your head, remember? He saw it all.”

  “Stop it!” Ed put a hand to his forehead, clutched it as if a massive headache had taken hold. “Stop it! Get… out!”

  “Is Sam in there now?” she asked. “He is, isn’t he? He’s in there, watching everything you do, feeling what you feel. The pain, the anger, the loss of control. Because, yes, you’re out of control again, aren’t you? No matter what you do, you can’t seem to control yourself. Your words, your feelings, your life. You’re still in the grip of your mother, aren’t you? Her hands on you, her mouth on you. Controlling you. You’ll never be free, no matter how many you kill.”