The Perfect Victim

by Linda Castillo

  "Be thorough. Don't hurry on my account." She turned her back to the wind, hoping the cold would take her mind off the stench of death that lingered like a dark cloud in the trailer.

  By the time Randall jumped to the ground next to her, she was shaking uncontrollably. It had started with just her teeth chattering. After .a few minutes the trembling had spread to her hands, her knees, until her entire body quaked with cold and the remnants of sickness.

  "I told you to wait in the car." Grasping the sleeve of her coat, he forced her in the general direction of the car. "Your stubborn streak is beginning to annoy me."

  "I could say the same thing about you."

  "You catch pneumonia and I'm off the case. I don't do hospitals," he growled, but his voice was too soft for the words to sting.

  Addison didn't miss the concern laced in between the nasty looks and harsh words. "Sorry I blew it, Talbot."

  "Don't apologize for something you had no control over."

  It was then, beneath the yellow light of the street lamp, that she realized he hadn't yet looked at her. Odd for a man who was a stickler for eye contact. "Why won't you look at me?" she asked.

  Randall unlocked the passenger door. "Get inside."

  Mechanically, Addison slid onto the passenger seat and removed her gloves, rubbing her hands together to warm them. He got in a moment later, started the car, and switched on the heater. "Feeling better?" he asked.

  Leaning back against the seat, she closed her eyes. "Peachy."

  "We need to find a phone."

  Her heart kicked hard against her ribs. She opened her eyes and turned to him. "Did you find something?"

  From the inside pocket of his parka, he handed her a small, black book. "This was on the top shelf in the closet."

  "A bible?" She stared at the tattered cover, almost afraid to touch it. Mildew and the tang of dust tickled her nose as she took it from him.

  Randall put the car in gear and pulled onto the street. "There's a newspaper clipping inside."

  Feeling acutely the weight of his gaze, she switched on the overhead light and paged through the bible. The yellowed clipping lay within the tattered pages halfway into the book.

  She slid it from its ancient nest with two fingers, unfolded the delicate paper, and saw it was from .the November 21, 1974, edition of a paper called the County Crier. She began to read.

  LOCAL GIRL ALLEGES RAPE

  Al Stukins, Reporter

  A sixteen-year-old Siloam Springs girl reported on Tuesday that she was repeatedly raped and sodomized by an out-of-state student who had allegedly paid her for a night of sex. A spokesman for the local sheriff's department reported that they have been unable to substantiate the charges due to the lack of physical evidence and allegations that the woman was under the influence of LSD and possibly marijuana at the time of the incident. As of this afternoon, no charges have been filed.

  Chapter 18

  Jack Talbot leaned back in his wheelchair and watched the computer screen roll by with each click of the mouse. He'd been writing code for so many hours he barely noticed the twitching in his eyes or the tight muscles at the base of his neck. He'd lost count of the hours. As far as he knew, it could have been days since he'd last eaten or showered or talked to another human being.

  But he was so damned close.

  "Come on, you sweet bitch." The screen continued a seemingly endless scroll. A blur of names and dates flew by. He slowed the flow of data when he saw the list of babies born on August 20, 1975, in Dayton's Good Samaritan Hospital. Delivering physician, Dr. Heimer Kourt.

  "Yeah, baby, talk to me." He clicked the mouse. A dozen names scrolled by. Alpha order. He clicked the mouse. Halfway down the page, the name Agnes Beckett materialized.

  It was the closest thing to an orgasm he'd had in five years.

  Victory, as sweet as a lover's kiss, made his chest swell. His breath jammed in his throat. With a trembling hand, he touched the monitor, leaving a greasy smear where the name Colleen Glass appeared. The name of her doctor. Heimer Kourt. He clicked the mouse and searched to see if the father had been named.

  And he froze.

  He stared in disbelief, knowing that somehow his high tech lover had failed him, "This can't be." He punched the Print Screen key. The laser spit out the name in indisputable black and white. "Sweet Jesus."

  The bell on the alley door jingled. Surprised, disoriented from so many hours of work, Jack spun his chair around, expecting to see Randall. Instead, it masked man dressed in black leveled a semiautomatic pistol at his chest.

  Adrenaline danced through his midsection, but stopped at his hips. With an eerie calm, Jack noticed the silencer, realizing immediately he'd discovered the truth too late. His only thought was that he would never be able to tell his brother what he'd found. The injustice of it nearly sent him from the chair.

  He cursed his legs.

  Helpless to flee or to protect himself, knowing he could never reach the .22 revolver in the top drawer of his desk, Jack stared at the man as his heart pumped furiously. "The whole world knows," he said. "You're too late. You fucking bastard."

  He watched powerlessly as the man's finger tightened on the trigger. Instinctively, he braced against the impending impact. A thousand thoughts rushed through his brain. The state of his life. The people he would leave behind. Cold, hard fear hammered at him as he imagined pain and blood.

  An instant later, a nine-millimeter slug exploded in his chest.

  * * *

  Addison read the article twice before she let herself breathe, before she let herself feel. She told herself she'd already known what happened to Agnes Beckett, that this shouldn't be hitting her so hard. But to see the truth on paper shook her. One by one, the ugly words crept into a brain that didn't want to believe. The emotions swirled inside her like debris kicked up by a violent tornado.

  She steeled herself against the pain, choking back the outrage, the injustice, and the bitterness that followed. Her only thought was that she had been conceived through a vile, incomprehensible act. An act of violence that made her feel dirty and sick to her stomach.

  Forcing a breath into her lungs, she lowered the article, carefully folded it, and tucked it back into the bible. That poor girl was Agnes Beckett."

  "Probably."

  She looked down at the article. "He raped her. My ... birth father."

  Randall's jaw flexed.

  "They discredited her by mentioning drugs. My god."

  "I think this town has a dirty little secret tucked away into its neat gutters," he said.

  The thought jolted her. "What do we do now?"

  "What's the byline on that story?"

  She quickly scanned the article. "Al Stukins." She fought the hope rising in her chest. God, how she wanted to get off the emotional roller coaster.

  ''There's our witness."

  ''The story was written twenty-five years ago. He could be anywhere now."

  "Or he could still be here in Siloam Springs."

  Randall parked the car curbside across the street from McNinch's Bar. Its neon Beer on Tap sign glowed at the front window. "This is where your birth mother used to work," he said.

  "This is where you spoke with the waitress."

  "That's right."

  Addison remembered vividly the night he'd told her about Agnes Beckett's sordid past. ''The one who told you Agnes Beckett was a prostitute?"

  He nodded. "We can ask a few questions and have a sandwich if you're up to it."

  "I'll settle for a soda and some information."

  * * *

  The familiar aromas of fried food, spilled beer and cigarette smoke hit Randall in the face like a blast furnace the instant he walked through the door. In the last year, he'd spent more time than he wanted to admit in bars just like this one, drinking himself into oblivion, trying not to think about the state of his life.

  He wanted a drink now. Wanted it so badly he could already feel the burn of whiskey at the back of h
is throat, that heady rush of alcohol to his brain. He wondered if the need would always be there to torment him. He wondered if he would have given in to that need yesterday if Addison hadn't been there.

  Shaking off the cold, and thoughts he didn't want to deal with at the moment, he scanned the room. To his right, a scarred wooden bar rail the length of the room. Behind it, a burly-looking woman with a receding hairline watched them out of the comer of her eye. From the jukebox, Eric Clapton belted out an old rock and roll song about a woman waiting for another love. Except for the group of men playing pool at the back of the room, and a thin young man hovering at the bar, the place was nearly empty.

  Randall was acutely aware of the male eyes sweeping to Addison. A knot of territoriality tightened in his gut with surprising force. Casually, he put his arm around her shoulders, telling himself it wasn't a possessive gesture. He guided her to a corner booth. "Good thing we had reservations," he said, sliding into the red vinyl seat across from her.

  Dark smudges of fatigue marred the porcelain skin beneath her eyes. Her lack of color worried him. She'd put up a valiant front, but he knew the strain was beginning to wear her down both emotionally and physically. She wasn't prepared to deal with half of what was being thrown at her. Dammit, she had enough to deal with without him complicating matters because he couldn't keep his hands off her.

  As he stared into her fragile eyes, he almost wished he hadn't slept with her. Almost. She was beginning to mess with his head. More than just his head, if he wanted to be truthful about it. Crazy thoughts for a man who should be chomping at the bit to get back to his career. He hadn't intended for things to get so damn complicated. He hadn't intended for a lot of things to happen.

  Across the table, she offered a wan smile. He had the sudden, overwhelming urge to reach out, pull her to him, and crush that lush mouth against his for just one more taste.

  "Where were you just now, Talbot?"

  He smiled, wondering how she'd react if he answered truthfully. "You don't want to know," he said easily.

  The last thing either of them needed was another close encounter. If he went to bed with her again, his resolve to resurrect his failed career back in D.C. might not survive.

  Reining in his libido, he let his gaze travel to the bar. "See the barmaid?" he asked.

  Addison turned in the booth and glanced toward the woman behind the bar. "The one missing both eyeteeth?"

  "Her name is Dixie. I spoke with her the last time I was here in Siloam Springs."

  "She knew Agnes Beckett?"

  "They worked together for a few months."

  Craning her neck, Addison regarded the woman thoughtfully. "I want to talk to her."

  Randall knew she wasn't going to like what the people in this town had to say about Beckett. He wished he could protect her from the truth, from getting hurt. But she deserved the truth. Even if it wasn't pretty.

  "That waitress has lived in this little town for about ten years,” he said.

  Addison turned back to him, her eyes jumping with excitement. "Do you think she might be able to help us find Al Stukins?"

  "It's worth a shot." He watched the barmaid approach the booth. "The burgers aren't bad."

  She groaned.

  The barmaid snapped down two menus and two glasses of ice water. Her movements were the short, decisive movements of a woman who'd spent too many years waiting tables and too many hours on her feet.

  "Hi, there," she said with the slightest hint of a twang. "What can I get you to drink?"

  Randall put on 'his most charming smile. "It's Dixie, right?"

  She turned narrowed eyes on him before baring a hit-or-miss smile. "I never forget a face." She tapped her pencil against her temple. "You're that private detective feller. Randy."

  "I was wondering if you'd mind answering a few questions."

  "Are you kidding? This is the most excitement I've had all week." Pulling a green order pad from the pocket of her smock, Dixie propped a chubby hip onto the table. "What do you want to know?"

  "Did you know Agnes Beckett?" Addison asked abruptly.

  A host of emotions scrolled across 'the woman's face. Surprise. Suspicion. Curiosity. "Damn shame about what happened to her," she said cautiously.

  Caught up in the moment, Addison didn't seem to notice the barmaid's reaction. Randall watched the exchange, knowing that if Addison didn't slow down, she could very well spook Dixie and blow the opportunity.

  "What was she like?" Addison asked.

  "Well ..." Dixie's face pinched. "She was a damn good waitress. Hard worker. Fast, too. Kept up with the orders."

  "What about personally?"

  The waitress's eyes flicked from Addison to Randall and then back. "Darlin', she kept to herself mostly. Lived in that little trailer park at the edge of town."

  "Did she ever mention ... family?"

  "Can't say she did. Lived with a guy for a while. A trucker, I think. From what I understand, she never had any kids."

  Randall didn't miss the hurt that flashed across Addison's face. Something inside him winced at her pain.

  "You kin?" Dixie asked.

  "We're friends of the family," he cut in. Reaching across the table, he took Addison's hand, not surprised when he found it cold.

  He looked at Dixie. "Do you know where we might be able to find a fellow by the name of Al Stukins?"

  The waitress wrinkled her nose and put the pencil eraser against her temple. "Stukins," she repeated slowly. "An old guy?"

  "That's right."

  "There used to be a Stukins lived down on County Line Road just past the railroad trestle. Raised Appaloosa horses until just a few years ago."

  Randall leaned forward. "So he's still around?"

  "Last I heard, his son moved him into the old folks home over on Route 40. Shitty thing to do, considering the old man didn't want to go. Billy Cruz was tellin' me he put up a hell of a fight, but he has that old person's disease, Al Heimer's. Poor old guy. Gettin' old's a bitch, ya know?"

  Randall groaned inwardly when he realized she was referring to Alzheimer's disease. He couldn't think of a worse affliction for a person he was going to question about an incident that took place more than twenty-five years ago.

  "Where's the old folks home?"

  "The old schoolhouse. Small place. Red brick building half a mile west on Route 40. Can't miss it." She slid her rear from the table and poised her pencil on the pad. "Randy, what's it going to be? Cheeseburger, fries, and a double bourbon on the rocks?"

  Pulling a twenty-dollar bill from his wallet, Randall pressed it into her palm. "We don't have time right now, Dixie. Thanks for the info."

  Rising, he reached for Addison's hand. "Let's go. I think we just got our first break."

  * * *

  Parson’s Home for the Retired was a two-story red brick building set back from the highway and nestled among the winter skeletons of fifty-year-old maples and oaks. Outside the double front doors, a stately blue spruce blazed with a colorful array of Christmas lights.

  "How can you call this a break?" Addison asked, annoyed that he'd interrupted before she'd gotten the chance to thoroughly question Dixie about Agnes Beckett. If she didn't know better, she might have thought he'd done it on purpose.

  "Stukins might remember something," Randall said.

  "He's got Alzheimer's, for chrissake."

  He pulled into a parking space and stopped the car. "Don't get cynical on me now, Ace."

  "Of course not. That's your job."

  Ignoring her, he swung open the car door and stepped into the cold. "Hopefully, we can get in without any trouble."

  Addison met him on the sidewalk, wondering how a man with Alzheimer's disease was going to remember something that happened twenty-five years ago. She hated it, but things were beginning to look hopeless again. .

  "If anyone asks, you're his granddaughter," Randall said. "You're in for the holidays from Ohio State and you want to see dear old Grandpappy, Can you hand
le that?"

  If she hadn't been so annoyed, she might have thought twice about what they were about to do. Admittedly, lying wasn't one of her strengths. But with so much at stake she felt she could pull it off. "I can handle it."

  "Goddamn Alzheimer's," he hissed, practically dragging her down the sidewalk. "I just hope he's not in the advanced stages."