Avenging Angel

by Justine Dare

  There was a long silence then. Regan felt as if she'd said too much, and Alex looked like he had enough to deal with right now. At least he was try­ing, she told herself. And actually, it said a great deal about him, and about how foreign the concept of abuse was to his life, that it was so hard for him to comprehend.

  "Let's go back to the cocaine," he finally said. "It's simpler."

  "Sad, isn't it, that that's probably true?"

  He nodded, looking about as weary of the whole thing as she felt right now. "What do you want to do?"

  "Just wait, I think. I really don't want the police involved with that, not on top of everything else. At least, not yet."

  She watched him, wondering if he would go along. Before the thought fully formed, he did. "I can understand that."

  "Maybe knowing their hiding place was found will stop them. I know," she added at his doubtful look, "it's not likely. So I'll be watching, too. And I'll do some searching inside the house. And maybe the cameras would be a good idea."

  "Don't do that searching alone. I'll go with you.

  We can say I'm checking for inside damage from the roof." She sighed. "I suppose."

  He pulled over a napkin and wrote something on it. "That's my cell. If you suspect something and I'm not there, call me."

  She looked at the number he'd scrawled in a bold, confident hand. Then at his face. "That's a bit above and beyond the call, isn't it?"

  "No."

  The short, simple answer said so much, yet left out so much. And she wondered late into the night why a simple roofer would bother to get involved.

  "Ben, you're certain of this?"

  Lynne stayed silent as Durwin addressed the captain. "Yes, sir. We both agree. It's not the same guy."

  Lynne was pleased Durwin had included her in front of the captain. In fact, the old guy had been acting a little oddly ever since they'd left the mur­der scene last night.

  "And you're sure because ...?" Captain Greer asked.

  "No ritual," Durwin said succinctly.

  Greer sighed. His normally clear brown eyes were looking bloodshot this morning. "Lynne, would you do me the favor of being a little more specific than your closemouthed partner?"

  Lynne hesitated, wondering if she'd be stepping on Durwin's toes if she answered. She glanced at him, and to her surprise he nodded at her.

  "Answer the man," he said gruffly.

  Hastily, Lynne gathered her thoughts. "As Ben said, the ritual is missing. The first three victims were all found in the same position, facedown, their knees under them, as if they'd been forced to kneel. Their hands had been placed together, as in prayer, as if he'd made them pray for forgiveness. So far we've managed to keep the details of that out of the press."

  "I remember that from the reports," Greer said. "Didn't the ME and CSI say they were positioned after death?" At Lynne's nod he asked, "And this victim?"

  "Flat on his back, no arrangement at all. As if he was just dropped there. And no defense wounds on his hands like the others, either."

  "Anything else?"

  "He still had his watch."

  That was the clincher for her. She knew most ser­ial killers took trophies from their victims, and in the case of the Avenger watches were apparently his trophy of choice. Perhaps symbolic of his vic­tim's time having run out.

  "Maybe he was interrupted this time."

  "I don't think so," Durwin put in. "Indications are the man was killed where he was found, which was out of sight in that brush below the bluff. An­other reason I think it's not the same suspect. The other three were found in the open, in paved, com­mercial areas. That's part of the reason clues have been scarce. No branches to snag fibers or hair, no dirt for footprints."

  Slowly, Greer nodded. "So you think it's a copy­cat?"

  "Or somebody taking advantage of the situation to get rid of the victim," Durwin said.

  "All right," Greer said, accepting their assess­ment. "I'll assign Kelso to that one as a separate case. You two continue as you were. And take any­body you need to help with the grunt work."

  "Any decision on a task force yet, sir?" Lynne asked.

  "I don't know, but I have a meeting with the chief this afternoon. This may help him stall for time."

  "So he'll go public with the news it's a different killer."

  "He'll probably have to." Greer seemed to hesi­tate. "Are we certain there's no connection to the shelter?"

  "You mean, are any of the residents themselves suspects?" Durwin asked. When Greer nodded, Durwin gestured at Lynne. "She's done those inter­views."

  Lynne was already shaking her head. "I don't think so. There's one with a prior assault charge, but it was dismissed as self-defense. There are no indications strong enough to counter the unlikeli­hood of a female as the killer. As an accomplice ... I don't know. It’s possible."

  Greer sighed. "Conspiracy. Just what we need."

  Lynne made sure her voice was even before she spoke this time. "Investigator Garrison's profile in­dicates it's probably a solo act. He thinks the Avenger aspect would prevent the killer from using anyone at Rachel's House to help him."

  "He's got the best gut in the county on this stuff, so we'll go with that," Greer said. "But keep push­ing for any ideas from the shelter people, no matter how far out."

  They both nodded and turned to go.

  "Lynne, can you spare me another minute?"

  "Of course," she said, turning back as Durwin left.

  "Close the door, will you?"

  Uh-oh, Lynne thought as she did as he asked.

  "The chief told me that at the least he'll probably have to accept the sheriff's office offer of their head homicide expert."

  Uh-oh indeed, Lynne thought. "Yes, sir."

  "You have a problem working with him?"

  "Nothing that will interfere," she said, hoping her voice didn't sound as odd to him as it did to her. But working in close step with her ex-husband was an idea that put a strain on more than just her voice.

  "Good."

  She walked out of her boss' office thinking she'd been lucky when the biggest problem she'd had was working with cranky Ben Durwin.

  "It's true, Alexander."

  His mother sounded as tired as he felt. He'd called her with the shocking news, and she had immedi­ately set to work ferreting out the truth of the matter, personally calling the police chief and anyone else who had the information she wanted. Finally they had to face the fact that the Court family had been living within a block of a batterer so typical it made them feel blind and stupid to have missed it.

  Priscilla Wheeler had been treated repeatedly for telltale injuries: black eyes, broken bones, contusions.

  It had taken a while for the police to gather her records, but once they had, the evidence was all there in grim black and white. Different doctors, different hospitals, but put together a horrific pattern.

  "Right in our own backyard," his mother said wearily. "And for all my fighting for the cause, I never saw it."

  "It's not like you were close to them, Mom."

  "But I saw Priscilla on occasion. And never pushed when she would make some obviously false excuse for having missed this or that func­tion." She sighed. "Perhaps we can help her now."

  "I met Will more than once, and never suspected a thing," Alex said. "You never expect to find some­thing like this so close to home."

  "That's no excuse."

  No, his mother had never been one for excuses. And if he knew her, this would fire her to even more intense involvement.

  "What would you have done?" he asked, sud­denly curious. "If Dad had ever ... you know."

  "I'd like to think I'd have left him alive," his mother replied. Then her tone changed abruptly. "That was facetious, and this is not a joking matter. I cannot imagine your father ever doing such a thing, but I loved him with all my heart, so perhaps I would have given him a second chance. But only one second chance. Unless he struck you in that way. There are no second
chances for anyone who hurts my child."

  Alex smiled. His mother was still a lioness when it came to her cub, never mind that he was capable of taking care of himself. He doubted that would ever change.

  Regan would understand that, he thought. And then, as if she'd read his thought, his mother asked, "How is Regan?"

  "Torn, I think. She's upset about another murder, but relieved there's no connection to Rachel's House on this one."

  "Which reminds me," Lillian said. "Lewis Raines told me something, in strict confidence."

  "Which you're about to betray by telling me?"

  "Because I trust you to keep it to yourself," she said pointedly.

  "Yes, ma'am," he said in the exaggeratedly duti­ful tone that usually made her laugh. She didn't.

  "They're reasonably certain William Wheeler was not killed by the same person as the others."

  Alex let out a low whistle. "So that's what she meant, that there was more to it."

  "Who?"

  "Detective Garrison."

  "I spoke to her. I liked her."

  "Regan does, too."

  "You two are getting along all right, then?"

  "Me and Regan?" He was startled by the little spurt of warmth he felt just at the sound of their linked names. "Sure. Why wouldn't we?"

  He wasn't about to tell his mother that, up until the phone call, the night he'd taken Regan to dinner had been one of the best evenings he'd had in a long time. Mom had been at him to settle down for a long time, but since her idea of that included gluing him­self to a desk at CourtCorp, he was in no hurry.

  "By the way," she said, "we heard from Jakarta. The leak was who you thought it was, and it's been handled."

  Alex let out a breath of relief. "Good. I'm glad. That'll do our manager good, too. He felt pretty bad about that component getting into the wrong hands."

  "He said to thank you."

  "Yeah, yeah," Alex said. It was his job, after all.

  After they'd hung up, Alex leaned back in his chair, rubbed his eyes, and then his right shoulder, which had been telling him lately just what it thought of this new activity he was subjecting it to.

  If this kept up, he was going to have to slow down his work or be faced with coming up with an excuse to hang around after the roof was done. He was done with tearing off the old roof, had the new plywood sheathing down, and had started nailing the new asphalt shingles down on one section.

  He could drag out the trickier stuff like doing the valleys, ridge vents, and the flashing around the chimney, but eventually he was going to be done. His mother had given no indication that anything had changed in her view. He was to stay put, his mission the same as it had been.

  He could get her back. Joel Koslow knew he could. He could make her come back to him, just as he always had. She'd never leave him for good, he knew she wouldn't. She didn't have the brains, for one thing. And that was the way he liked it.

  "She's not worth it, Joey. No woman is. I hate seeing you mooning over some worthless bitch."

  "Hey, Pop, Mindy was okay, when things were right. I had her trained, she knew how I liked things."

  "You can train another one," his father pointed out.

  "Yeah, but I liked this one. I want things back the way they were."

  "Easier to get a new one."

  "I hate that. It took me a long time to find Mindy. Most women are just above themselves, think they're too good for a guy."

  "If you take her back, you'll have to break her for good," the senior Koslow warned.

  "She'll do what I say."

  'If that was true, she wouldn't be in that place, she'd be where she was supposed to be."

  "She'll be back. She knows she's nothing without me. She adores me."

  "If she adores you, why'd she report you when all you did was teach her a little lesson?"

  "She got talked into it by some whiny bitch cop, I bet. She'd never think of it on her own."

  "Women are nothing but trouble, son. I tried to warn you about that one. She's just like those oth­ers, seems like she knows how things ought to be, but then they pull this kind of crap."

  "She'll be back, Pop. She'll be back, and when she is, I'll straighten things out once and for all. She'll—"

  The ringing of his phone cut him off. He picked up the receiver and said hello. He heard the voice that responded and then, slowly, a wide grin spread across his face. He kept the phone to his ear, but punched the mute button and looked at his father.

  "I told you she'd be back!"

  CHAPTER 8

  After a week, Regan began to relax a little as they settled back into their old routine. It was quieter than she could ever remember, and the women of Rachel's House were slowly unwinding. For the moment, every abuser in the city was lying low. Thanks to the Avenger, whoever he might be.

  The new video cameras on the exterior of the building probably helped, too. Mrs. Court

  had ac­celerated the schedule, because of what was hap­pening, she said. Regan wondered if perhaps Alex had mentioned it to her. He didn't seem at all in­timidated by the formidable woman, and it seemed too coincidental coming on the heels of their con­versation.

  But today, on a lovely, sunny afternoon, it was hard to believe anything could really be wrong. Mindy, Marita, and a couple of the others were out in the yard weeding and trimming, since Mitch had been sick and missed his last two visits. Mr. Pilson was here, helping out and chatting with everyone. The newcomers, Donna Grant and her son, were in the house. Even though they had managed to es­cape the boy's father, they were still skittish, uncer­tain. Regan understood that and had told them to stay comfortably inside.

  She'd had to have a talk with Donna when she'd heard her telling the child that his father wanted to kill them both, explaining that right now nothing was gained by further terrifying the already fright­ened little boy. The woman had seemed offended, something most of the women she met didn't have the energy for, but she had retreated quietly to the room they'd been assigned.

  "We should send Mitch flowers," Mindy said. "He's always doing them for us."

  Regan smiled widely. Mindy had just taken a big step, although she doubted she realized it. But thinking of doing something for someone else was a tiny step out of victimhood, and it gave Regan hope for the girl.

  "That's not a bad idea, Blondie," Marita said. "Shall we pick him some?"

  "I don't know," Mindy said, looking around. "He's awfully particular about where you take them from. When he was picking some to take his mother, the other day, it was like he'd throw the world out of balance if he took the wrong one."

  "Mitch," Marita said with a grin, "is particular about everything in his garden."

  "And it's beautiful," Mr. Pilson put in. "Anyone for lemonade?" They all chorused a yes, and the man smiled delightedly and trotted through the hedge to his house.

  "He's so sweet," Mindy said.

  "Yes. He never misses a chance to help, even if it's just to carry groceries in for me," Marita said in agreement.

  "He helped me with that file cabinet when it got stuck last week," Regan said. "We definitely got lucky with him for a neighbor."

  A sound from above drew their attention. With a sideways glance at Regan, Marita said, "Now, there's a man with some real nice particulars."

  Mindy giggled. "And he's showing them off today."

  Regan blushed. In the heat, Alex had pulled off his shirt about an hour ago. About the time Mindy had suggested they go out and catch up on the gar­den chores. Regan hadn't made the connection until the unguarded moment when she'd glanced up and seen him. For the longest time she'd stood there, probably gaping.

  "So when are you going out again?" Mindy asked her.

  "He hasn't asked," Regan said, turning away be­fore she couldn't blame her high color on the sun any longer.

  "He will," Marita told her. "He's just working up to it, that's all."

  "I thought you didn't quite trust him," Regan said, remembering when the
woman had warned her to be cautious, saying she just had a feeling.

  "I just said I thought there's more to him than we're seeing," Marita pointed out. "Not that he's hiding something bad."

  "Unless it's 'bad' in a very good way," Mindy said, giggling again.

  Mr. Pilson returned with a tray and frosty glasses full of lemonade that he passed around. Regan took a long drink of hers, and thanked the man for thinking of the perfect drink for a hot day. She also admired the tray itself, a black and red lacquered piece that looked oriental to her.

  Alex didn't come down off the roof, nor did Mr. Pilson invite him, which was unlike the kindly man. But speaking of Alex, that wasn't the only thing unlikely around here of late. The reaction of the women of Rachel's House, Regan thought as she plucked dead petals off of one of Mitch's prized roses, didn't make sense to her. She would have expected them to warn her off, to tell her not to trust any man. She hoped it was a good sign that they didn't, that it was a sign they realized there were good men out there. Men like Alex.

  Because he was a good man. He was obviously a hard worker, and he also tried hard to understand Rachel's House and the occupants. Most men just here to do a job wouldn't bother.

  The cordless phone clipped to Regan's belt rang once, then stopped. She frowned, reached for it, hit the talk button, and held it to her ear.

  "—right outside, I'll get her."

  Irritation shot through her. She'd given Donna a copy of the house rules, which included the resi­dents not answering the business phone, but either she hadn't read them or hadn't understood it was for their own protection. Regan headed for the house at a run.

  Donna beat her to the front door. Looking per­fectly calm, she smiled at Regan and said, "Phone call for you. A Mrs. Court

  ?"

  Okay, maybe the chewing out Donna deserved would have to wait. Or maybe she should just give Donna the benefit of the doubt; she was new at this. "Those rules I gave you when you got here? Read them."

  Donna frowned, but Regan hastened past her to her office and picked up the phone and uttered a slightly breathless greeting.