Avenging Angel

by Justine Dare

  "He's still here, by the way. In the waiting room. He said if you had a chance to come out..."

  Regan nodded, rather numbly. Alex had stuck with her that night, been an incredible support dur­ing those first few hours when they'd feared Mindy would die. He'd been a buffer as the police had pushed for details she didn't have, and a rock when she'd had to call Mindy's invalid mother in Arizona. But she was surprised he'd come back.

  She whispered to Mindy that she would return, and walked out of the ICU. As she went into the waiting room, she caught a glimpse of riotous color at the end of the hall. Mitch had outdone himself this time.

  Alex rose the moment he saw her. Without a word, he came to her and pulled her into his arms. He hugged her tightly, and as unexpected as it was, Regan allowed herself to let go, to let someone else hold up the world.

  She buried her face in his shirt, listening to the strong, steady thud of his heart. His hand came up to cup the back of her head, then stroke her hair. She thought his heartbeat sped up a little, but then he was tilting her head back with both hands. He kissed her. On the forehead.

  "Everybody said to tell you they'll be fine, you just stay and take care of Mindy. Mr. Pilson was upset, too, and said he'd watch out for everyone."

  Disgusted with herself for being let down by that brotherly kiss, especially here and now, Regan didn't trust herself to speak and nodded instead. She took a step back, and he let her go.

  "How is she?" he asked.

  "She's still alive. That's about all the good news at this point."

  "Better than the alternative."

  Regan didn't mention that it quite possibly might not be, that Mindy might not come out of that coma. Or that if there was permanent brain damage, she might be better off if she never did. Alex was a smart man, she was sure he'd thought of all that.

  "I swear, if I saw that guy right now, I'd want to put him in the next ICU bed," Alex said, his voice grim.

  "It wouldn't help. He'd just make it all her fault and take it out on her again."

  Alex swore under his breath. "I never thought I'd say I understood a serial killer, but damn ..." He shook his head. "How are you holding up?"

  "I'm fine."

  He grasped her shoulders and turned her to face him. "You're exhausted."

  "I'm upright and walking around. Mindy's in there, full of tubes and needles."

  "That doesn't make you any less tired. Give yourself a break, Regan." "How can I—"

  She broke off as someone stepped through the doorway.

  She had never seen Mindy's brother before, but it didn't matter. He looked enough like Mindy to be her twin rather than three years older.

  "Marty," she said.

  His hollow-eyed gaze flicked from her to Alex, then back again. It seemed to take him a moment to process what he was seeing.

  "You're Regan?" She nodded. After a second's delay, he nodded, too. "She said you were pretty." Marty shook hands with Alex as he asked, "How is she?"

  "She's still with us." Regan wished she had bet­ter news.

  Marty rubbed his bloodshot eyes. "I got here as fast as I could. My mother called me in Portland, and I dropped my load and headed straight back."

  "You're here now, that's all that matters."

  "Will they let me see her?"

  "I'm sure they will," Regan said. She reached out and laid a gentle hand on his arm. "Be prepared. It's not very pretty."

  "That stinking bastard!" Marty's jaw clenched. "Did they catch him yet?"

  "No, not yet. They're looking for him. They'll find him."

  "Son of a bitch should be dead. I shouldn't have let her stop me the last time he did this to her. But this time I'll finish the job. I swear, I'll kill him."

  Regan sensed Alex tensing, and glanced at him before saying, "This might not be the best time to be making threats."

  "You mean because of that killer? I say good for him, whoever he is!"

  "Sometimes," Alex said, "so do I."

  Marty gave Alex an assessing look, then a sharp nod. "Where is she?"

  "It's around the corner and through the double doors. Pamela's her nurse today," Regan said. She pointed at the wall phone by the door. "Call from here and she'll let you know if you can come in now."

  He did, and was cleared. Regan impulsively gave him a hug. "Talk to her," she said. "Let her hear your voice. The doctors may say she can't hear you, but Pamela says you never know, and on this at least, I trust the person on the front lines."

  After he'd gone back into the ICU, Regan sank down into a seat. Alex knelt before her, putting his hands over hers on the arms of the chair.

  "I can imagine how he feels," he said, "but I hope he's got the sense to keep his mouth shut."

  Regan nodded wearily. "At least the medical costs won't be a problem for her family, thanks to Mrs. Court

  ."

  "She takes care of her own, and she includes Rachel's House in that contingent."

  She looked up at that. "Yes, she does. Does she include you, too?"

  "Sometimes," he said, sounding a bit odd. He glanced at his watch. "It's a little early, but let's go get some lunch while Marty is in there. You need to eat."

  She wasn't sure she wanted to leave, but as if he'd read her mind he added, "We'll go someplace close. They have your cell number, right?"

  She gave in. She wasn't at all hungry but sup­posed he was right, she did need to eat, so she could keep going.

  "All right."

  It wasn't until they were seated in a little shop a block away, with a couple of healthy-sized sand­wiches before them, that he said, "I was almost afraid to ask you to do this. You and I in a restau­rant seem to attract bad news."

  "We do, don't we?" She gave a halfhearted chuckle. "I think I forgot to thank you for all your help the other night."

  "No thanks are necessary."

  "Yes, they are. I don't know what I would have done without you."

  "You would have done what had to be done."

  Soon they were walking back to the hospital. As they approached the main entrance Marty was coming out, heading toward the parking lot. He was walking like a man with a mission, and even from here his expression was dreadful. Concern spiking through her, Regan called out to him. He kept going.

  They took the stairs to the third-floor ICU, not wanting to wait for the annoyingly slow elevators. Pamela reassured them that there was no change in Mindy's condition.

  "I was scared," Regan said. "We saw her brother leaving, and he looked so angry...."

  "He was," Pamela confirmed. "But there's been no change. It may have just been the sight of her, so beaten up."

  Relieved, Regan went back in to sit for a while with Mindy. Alex even came in briefly, talking to the girl in the teasing tone he'd always used with her, as if he knew she had a bit of a crush on him but also knew it was all in fun. And he stayed, al­though Regan had told him he didn't have to.

  At four, Regan decided she would go back to Rachel's House and give them the latest news. Alex followed her in his truck, saying he wanted to fin­ish up more work before he wrapped for the day.

  When they arrived, Mitch was out front, watch­ing Ricky Grant playing with a toy truck in the yard.

  "Hello, Ricky," Regan said.

  "Hi." He glanced at Mitch, then back to Regan. "He said it was okay if I played outside, as long as he was here."

  "It's fine," Regan assured the boy, flashing a smile of thanks to Mitch.

  "How is she?" Mitch asked.

  "Holding on," Regan said. "The flowers were beautiful, Mitch."

  He shook his head as if the gorgeous bouquet was a negligible effort, but thanked Alex for play­ing delivery boy before saying, "She's always so nice to me. Did you know she sent my mother a birthday card? All I did was mention that I didn't dare forget it was coming up, and she remem­bered."

  "No," Regan said, I didn't know." But she wasn't surprised. For all her occasional youthful careless­ness, Mindy had a kind heart.
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  Marita appeared in the doorway. "Spaghetti's on," she announced, and Ricky abandoned his truck and ran inside with all the eagerness of a growing boy. "Stay and eat, Alex," Marita said. "You, too, Mitch."

  She was bending the rules, but in this case Regan thought it might do them all some good. Alex ac­cepted with a grin.

  "Mitch?" Marita asked.

  "I can't, I have an appointment," he said, looking genuinely sorry. "But thanks. Thanks a lot." "Next time," Regan said.

  "Yes, next time." He looked toward the door where Ricky had run inside. "He told me about his father. How he wants to kill him and his mother, that he even tried twice. The last time just a couple of days ago."

  Regan felt the old familiar churning in her gut, and quashed it with an effort. "An old, ugly story," she said.

  "A man who could do that to his own son ..." Mitch began, then trailed off. Regan had no answer for him, and after a moment he turned to packing up his gear and she went inside.

  It was a pleasant evening after all. For the first time since they'd been there, Donna and her son joined them at the table, and Alex managed to keep the boy laughing through most of the meal. Donna herself seemed edgy, however, and although it wasn't unusual for a newcomer to be nervous, es­pecially when this was her first time in a shelter sit­uation, Regan made a mental note to take the woman aside and see if perhaps there wasn't some­thing else bothering her.

  For dessert they made hefty inroads into a gallon of ice cream, with Alex reducing them all to laugh­ter with his efforts to get Ricky to come up with things that rhymed with spumoni.

  Later, after Donna took the boy upstairs to tuck him in, the rest of them sat around the living room, listening to more of Alex's stories about his travels, and the various troubles he'd gotten into through lack of understanding of local customs. It did them all good, Regan thought, to sit around and laugh with a man. When the phone rang Regan, still chuckling, had to catch her breath before answer­ing.

  When she realized it was Detective Garrison, the last of her amusement faded. Her fingers tightened around the receiver.

  "I'm sorry, Regan. But there's no doubt on this one."

  She knew, instantly. "It's Joel, isn't it?" "I can't state positively, but that's the preliminary ID."

  "And it's like the others, not like the last one?" "Yes."

  The Rachel's House Avenger had struck again.

  CHAPTER 10

  "I'm glad he's dead. He was a stinking coward, and he deserved to die."

  Lynne Garrison sat looking at the young man across the table from her. She took in the rebellious set of his jaw, the fierce anger in his eyes. But most of all she saw the resemblance to the young blond woman she'd interviewed at Rachel's House, the woman who now lay in the hospital in a coma.

  "Personally," she said, keeping her voice even, "I think dying's too easy, because then it's over for them. I think they should be put in whatever situa­tion it takes to terrorize them, for as long as they terrorized their victims."

  Marty Baker went very still, studying her. A little of the anger receded, but the stubborn set of his jaw remained.

  "Marty," she said, leaning forward slightly, "you know why you're here."

  "I said I was glad he's dead. But I didn't kill him."

  "You threatened to kill him last year."

  "When he nearly killed my sister the last time? Yeah, I did. So?"

  "I'm not saying you didn't have reason to feel the way you did."

  "I didn't do it then, either. He was still alive, wasn't he?"

  "But you were angry enough to kill him."

  ''Mindy begged me not to. So I took a long-distance haul, to cool down." He crossed his arms over his chest. "He got what was coming to him. And I'm sorry it wasn't me that did it," he ended with em­phasis.

  "Where'd you get that cut on your hand?"

  "I told you, I slammed my fist against my truck door. There was something sharp sticking out."

  Lynne wasn't sure she bought that story, if for no other reason than Marty's truck had been immacu­late, polished to a high gleam, and spotless inside and out. He was obviously very particular, detail-oriented, and tidy. Which fit the profile of their killer.

  "I'm already having your truck impounded for investigation."

  "Hey! That truck's my living!"

  "And this is about death, Marty. They'll go over every inch of your truck. Are they going to find your blood, or somebody else's?"

  "You think I'm stupid enough to kill some guy and lug him around in my truck?"

  Lynne sighed. She tried another tack. "Tell me something. Why do you think your sister stayed with Joel?"

  She'd read the file on Mindy, she knew the an­swer, but she wanted to hear it from him.

  "How should I know?"

  "I think you do know. You grew up in the same house."

  "You mean our old man? Yeah, sure, he slapped us around. And Mom." He frowned. "You mean that stuff about her thinking that's the way it's sup­posed to be, because of how he treated Mom?"

  "I mean that children who grow up in abusive homes are more likely to accept violence as a means to resolve conflict. They may never learn self-restraint because they've never seen it practiced."

  "You think I killed him because my father beat me up?"

  "I think," Lynne said, "that there are a lot of things here that would look bad to a jury."

  He went still. "Am I under arrest?"

  "If you don't come up with a better story, that could happen. You saw your sister in the hospital, saw what Joel Koslow had done to her. You lost your cool, in front of witnesses. You disappeared for sev­eral hours, and when you came back, you told your comatose sister it was all going to be all right."

  "I told her that because I'd calmed down, she didn't have to worry about me doing anything to him."

  "But no one can verify your story of where you were during that time period. The time period in which Koslow was murdered."

  "I told you, I was alone. I drove around."

  "Looking for Koslow?"

  "I just drove. Along the coast. And then I came back. That's when you guys grabbed me." "You just drove for six hours?"

  "That's what I do, I drive. You got a problem with that?"

  At his belligerent tone Lynne decided it was time for some shock tactics. She stood, leaned, and slapped her hands down on the table in one swift motion. Marty jumped, startled.

  "My problem," she snapped, "is that I've got four dead men, and so far you're my absolute best suspect!"

  Marty paled. "Four? What the hell are you talk­ing about?"

  "Martin Baker, serial killer. Is that the title you're after? You want to go down in the history books along with Bundy and Ramirez and Dahmer?"

  He shrank back in his seat. "You're crazy!"

  "Or maybe you just like reading about your work in the papers/seeing it on the news. You like that name they hung on you, the Avenger?"

  "That's what you're talking about? You're still trying to hang those murders on me?"

  He looked astounded. Lynne noted it, but kept on. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't."

  "Because I didn't do it! You know that. I told you where I was when that first guy got offed."

  He'd done more than told her. When they'd called him in after the connection to Rachel's House had been made, he'd shown her his log­book, that said he'd been on the road to San Fran­cisco at the time of the murder. They'd confirmed the delivery had been made in San Francisco, and let him walk. Since last night she'd been wondering if perhaps they'd been a little premature.

  Lynne sat back down. "Then talk to me. Make me believe you."

  He took a couple of deep, audible breaths. She gave him that much time.

  "I've got a captain and a police chief who are on my case bad," she said. "Tell me why I shouldn't just wrap you up and hand you to them."

  "Why would I kill three other guys? It was Joel who hurt my sister. I don't give a shit about any­body else!"
>
  "Maybe you're as smart as you think you are," Lynne said. "Maybe you planned to kill him all along, but killed the others to make it look like we had a crazy on the loose."

  "But that would be crazy," Marty said, sounding desperate. "I'm not crazy. I can't say I wouldn't have killed him if I had the chance, but three other guys I don't even know?"

  The buzzer on the intercom on the wall of the in­terview room sounded. Durwin's voice came through.

  "You need to hear this."

  The subtext, since he wanted into the room with their suspect, was that Marty also needed to hear whatever Durwin had turned up. She opened the door.

  Durwin strode in, a piece of paper in his hand. He glanced at Marty with an expression she could only call a smirk. But she was fairly sure the atti­tude was for Marty's benefit. When he looked at her, glanced at the paper he held, then back at her as if signaling something, she was sure of it.

  "We've got him."

  "Oh?"

  "I got to thinking we should have checked a little closer the first time. So I called that company he made the delivery to, up in San Francisco, asked them to dig a little deeper."

  Marty shifted in his seat, as if he'd suddenly real­ized they were talking about him.

  "And?" Lynne asked, playing along.

  "When we called before, they just confirmed the delivery by asking the guy who'd been working that day. But now they checked their written records. Turns out, our boy made that delivery all right. About ninety minutes late."

  "So?" Marty said. Following Durwin's lead, Lynne didn't look at him.

  "Here's the original supplemental report on his interview after the second murder." Durwin handed her the paper. "Look at the timing."

  She did. And then, finally, she looked at Marty.

  "What?" he asked, brows furrowed. "So I was late. Happens all the time."

  "Ninety minutes late," Lynne said. "And leaving an hour and a half after you said you did puts you right here in town at the time Cal Norman was murdered."

  "That sound you hear is your alibi flying away," Durwin said.

  "I didn't leave late," Marty protested. "I had a problem on the way, with an airbrake line."