by Joanna Wayne
“Well, he told me he lived in Grantville, but he told Sally he lived in LaGrange, so I guess he was lying.”
“What about the description you gave me?” Caroline asked. “Was that accurate?”
“Yeah. I told the truth about that. I don’t know how he found out I talked to you, but he did.”
“Or else he just figured you would break eventually,” Sam said. “He might have already planned to run you off the road as a way to make you even more afraid. It could have been coincidence that it happened the same day you talked to Ms. Kimberly.”
“Did you see him that day, Trudy?” Caroline asked. “Do you know for sure that it was Billy who rammed your car?”
“I didn’t see his face. I was too scared and too busy trying to keep the car on the road. But it was deliberate, and who else would do such a thing?”
She repeated her description of Billy for Sam while Caroline tried to paint a visual picture in her mind. Blond hair. Tanned. Average height. Average build. No distinguishing marks. Well dressed. Smooth talker.
Sam made a few notes, then rubbed his whisker-studded chin with his hand as if he was still trying to figure all this out. “What kind of vehicle does he drive?”
“Usually he was in a red sports car, but he was driving a black pickup truck the day he ran me off the road. Guess he didn’t want to mess up his car just to kill me.”
Sam asked a few more questions, but it appeared that Trudy had either told all she knew or she was sliding back into her fear zone.
“We’re going to get out of here now,” Sam said, “and let you rest, but I want you to keep thinking about what you told us. If you remember anything else, give me a call.”
“I will.”
Caroline took Trudy’s hand and squeezed it. “You’re very brave.”
“Thanks.”
“But what happened to change your mind about talking to us?”
“It was that article about you, the one where they said you were an orphan and that your mother had thrown you in a trash can. They made it sound like you were dishonest for changing your name, but I don’t agree. And I just figured if you can be out there trying to help find Sally’s killer when you’ve had such a hard life, I should do my part. I mean, I have great parents who love me and they’re going to stand by me no matter what.”
So the article Caroline loathed had actually accomplished something worthwhile. It might even lead them to the Prentice Park Killer. There was no way of knowing when a break would come.
CAROLINE WISHED she could go home and spend a little more time on her appearance before going to her meeting with John, but she couldn’t be late. In the morning rush, she hadn’t had time to shampoo her hair or apply makeup, but she’d have to do.
Sam had been just as rushed. He’d forgotten his wallet at her house. Fortunately she’d had an extra key, the emergency one she kept in the car. She’d let him take it.
She exceeded the speed limit more than once and made it to the office with three full minutes to spare. On time for the final verdict. She’d love to tell John that the article might be instrumental in capturing the serial killer, but then he’d insist she print the whole story about Trudy, and she wasn’t going to do that until the killer was apprehended and she knew Trudy was safe.
A reporter with scruples. She was living proof that they did exist. She rushed in and went straight to John’s office.
“If you’re looking for John, he’s not here,” Ron said.
“Where did he go?”
“He didn’t say, but I saw him get in his car and drive away about an hour ago.”
“Thanks.”
A reprieve, but it irritated her, especially after the way she’d rushed to keep their appointment. It puzzled her, as well. It wasn’t like John to miss an appointment.
She went back to her desk, but she was in no mood to work—not until she knew whether or not she had a job.
Too nervous to just twiddle her thumbs while she waited, she took out the notes she’d taken about Billy’s appearance. Blond hair, tanned body, smooth talker, sharp dresser. Not very specific. Not enough to convey a good visual image.
She doodled on piece of scrap paper, then picked up a clean sheet of printer paper and started sketching a man. If Trudy had been able to describe the shape of the head, it would have been a lot easier, but since she hadn’t, Caroline started with an elongated egg shape. Eyes close together. Trudy hadn’t said that, but when Caroline pictured someone evil, she always imagined the eyes close together, and bushy brows.
But that wouldn’t fit with the “nice-looking” comment Trudy had made about the guy back at the restaurant. So Caroline changed the eyes and erased part of the brows. The ears and nose would likely be nondescript. If they’d been large or misshapen, Trudy would have noticed. So Caroline drew them in, all average, and added a mouth. Kind of thin. Not sure where that came from.
“What you drawing there, Caroline? The man of your dreams?”
She looked up. Ron was standing there, holding a stack of folded newspapers and a cup of steaming coffee.
“Definitely not the man of my dreams,” she said.
“I saw that article about you in that gossip magazine. You ought to sue them for slander.”
“I thought about it, but they’d just chew up and spit out any attorney I can afford.”
“I heard that John was foaming at the mouth.”
“I’m not even sure I’ll still have a job after today.” She probably shouldn’t be saying that around the newspaper office, but if Ron knew about it, she was certain everyone else did, too.
“He won’t fire you. Controversy sells more papers than complacency. The phone’s been ringing all morning in circulation. Everyone wants to read your accounts of the murders just to see what all the fuss is about.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“I was surprised to hear you once lived in Meyers Bickham.”
“Had you heard of the place?”
“I had a friend who was there for a while when he was a kid. He says if you lived through Meyers Bickham, you can live through anything.”
“I lived there less than a year. I don’t even remember the place. I guess it’s probably been torn down by now.”
“Naw, it’s still there. Condemned, though. I imagine they’ll tear it down soon. Just an old church with a bunch of busted windows. You can’t even tell it was ever a home for kids whose mamas ran out on ’em.”
A church. Steep, dark stairs. The images from her recurring nightmare crept through her mind, and as always she felt a cold shiver of fear. “I didn’t realize it had ever been a church.”
“Oh, yeah. Had a tall spire and everything. Mostly my friend remembered the rats. Big, gray ones. He’s grown now and still scared to death of rats.”
Caroline shuddered. “Me, too. Horrified even by mice.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“I’m fine.” She looked up at the sound of voices outside her cubicle. John had returned.
“I guess I better get back to work,” Ron said. “John wants me to check the dispensers often today and refill them when they sell out. You’re a hot item, Daphne.”
“Caroline. Daphne no longer exists.”
“Whatever.” He took another look at her drawing. “That guy looks familiar.”
“Really? Where have you seen him before?”
“I don’t know, but he looks familiar.”
That spooked her. The killer could have been here, and it was possible Ron had seen him. Just an average-looking guy, kind of cute. But cruel. He liked to hurt women. And to kill them.
She couldn’t think about this anymore now. She had to see John and find out if she was going to eat next month and still have her marvelous old house to sleep in. Besides, Sam had a name. The Prentice Park Killer would likely be in jail by dark.
CAROLINE WALKED into the Prentice Country Club dining room at ten minutes after twelve. The crowd was sparse. T
here was a group of about twelve women at three round tables in the back, mostly gray-haired. Caroline recognized some of them from the articles she’d done when she was covering social events. A life she could barely remember at this point, though it was only three weeks past.
The rest of the group was a mixture of women in tennis attire, men in their golf slacks and polo shirts, and a few tables of men and women in business suits. The country club was casual during the day and weeknights, but turned semiformal on Friday and Saturday nights.
It wasn’t the kind of snooty atmosphere you got in an exclusive club in a big city, but for a rural Georgia town, it was about as classy as you’d find. Becky fit in like cracked pepper on pizza—spicy, but needed to liven up the place. Caroline didn’t fit in at all. Becky never seemed to notice.
She waved at Caroline from a table near the back window. There was a bottle of champagne chilling in a bucket next to her. Caroline dodged a waiter carrying a tray of salads and joined her friend.
“More champagne? This isn’t another celebration, is it?”
“Could be. How did it go with John?”
“‘Well, after giving this careful consideration,’” she said, mimicking John’s serious tone, “‘and after talking to the chief of police and getting a last-minute phone call from Detective Sam Turner…’”
Becky did a quiet drum roll by smacking the back of her spoon against a folded napkin. Caroline laughed.
“John agrees that the tabloid blew everything out of proportion and that since I am doing a good job, there’s no reason to let me go.”
“Good? How about you’re doing an excellent job? I had all my friends call the circulation department this morning and arrange to subscribe so that they could read the coverage by Caroline Kimberly.”
“That explains the action in circulation. But does that mean none of your friends took the paper before?”
“Not many. We’re the Internet-news generation. Newspapers are too slow. But you kept your job. That calls for champagne.” Becky motioned for the waiter, who came, white towel folded over his arm and ready to pour. They clinked glasses. “To your job,” Becky toasted.
“And paying my bills.”
“Now I have a little good news,” Becky said.
“You postponed the wedding.”
“Bite your tongue! This is top, top secret, so you can’t breathe a word—not until it’s all said and done.”
“So give. What’s up?”
“Jack and I are eloping.”
“When?”
“I can’t tell you, but soon.”
“But just yesterday you were planning a big wedding. You asked me to be your maid of honor.”
“I know, but we just can’t wait.”
“Oh, Becky, I know you’re infatuated with Jack, but it’s so quick. How can you be sure it’s love or that Jack’s even being honest with you?”
Becky reached over and put her hand on Caroline’s. “When you fall in love, you’ll understand. Be happy for me, Caroline.”
She wanted to be. She really did, but she had this ominous feeling in the pit of her stomach. Maybe it was the murders and Trudy and all the terrible things she dealt with day after day, but it frightened her that Becky was jumping in so deep with a guy she barely knew.
But she’d said all she could. When they finished lunch, she left quickly. She couldn’t fake enthusiasm for the wedding, and she really did have work to do.
She spent the afternoon in the mayor’s office, then rushed back to the newspaper to write up an article on his proposal for bringing more tourists to town for the annual spring pilgrimage. The pilgrimage was one of her favorite events, but this afternoon her mind kept going back to Becky—and to Sam.
Love. Strange that Becky was so sure of it when Caroline found it so daunting and undefinable. Something definitely existed between Sam and her. He’d been on her mind almost constantly since she’d met him. Even when she was angry with him, the chemistry between them was so strong she couldn’t think straight.
But even after making love, she had no idea where she stood with him. He hadn’t said a word about his feelings toward her. And he hadn’t mentioned seeing her again. If it was up to her, he’d be back tonight, and tomorrow night and the night after that. She wanted to feel his lips on hers. Wanted to lie in his arms with her naked body pressed against his. Wanted him inside her.
Her body grew warm. She finished the article and shut off her computer. Everything else she had to do could wait until tomorrow.
She started to call Sam, then changed her mind. She didn’t want to seem desperate to see him. And even if she just called to ask how the search for Billy Smith was going, he might think she was putting him on the spot—or that she was pushing the edges of their personal relationship to get information for a story.
If he missed her, if he wanted to see her tonight, he’d call. And if he didn’t…
Love always, Peg.
GEORGIA WAS OVERFLOWING with males named Billy Smith. All ages. All colors. All religions. All socioeconomic groups. And any number of occupations. But there were no Billy Smiths in La Grange or in Grantville, at least none anywhere near the right age to be the guy they were looking for. So the guy was not only a rapist and possibly a killer, he was a liar. No surprise.
“Man, this is frustrating,” Matt said, groaning and stretching his neck. “We finally get a decent lead, and it bogs down in sheer numbers.”
“We need more. I need DNA or prints, something I can match up with FBI and Georgia criminal records. Or I need a picture of the guy.”
“Didn’t you say you know of a super-talented composite-sketch artist in San Antonio?”
“Yeah. I’m going to try to get in touch with her tonight. I’d like to have her fly up and talk to Trudy tomorrow. If anyone can get an image from Trudy’s mind to a piece of paper, it’s Josephine.”
“At least it’s not a full moon tonight,” Matt said.
“There wasn’t a full moon the night Ruby was killed.”
“You’re right, and full moon or not, I have this crazy premonition that he’s going to strike again real soon.”
“That’s called instinct,” Sam said.
“Are you thinking the same thing?”
“Yeah. He likes a media circus with all three rings going, and his hold on the news and talk shows is slipping. The president beat him out for top billing on Channel Six tonight.”
Matt heaved a sigh. “And of course, it’s likely the guy lied about his name. He could be anybody from anywhere.”
“Anybody from anywhere with a sharp knife and a habit of applying it to women’s throats.” Sam was thinking out loud more than making conversation. Mostly he was thinking about Caroline and the killer’s penchant for letting her know he was watching her. If the tabloids had known about that, they’d have had an even bigger field day. And might have sent the guy completely over the edge.
“Are you working until all hours again tonight, partner?” Matt asked.
“I’ll work awhile longer. I guess you’ve got a hot date.”
“Medium hot. But promising. What about you? Are you seeing your reporter lady?”
“I don’t have a reporter lady.” But in spite of his statement, he could see Caroline even now. In her black teddie, looking up at him with those big brown eyes. Damn. This wasn’t going to work. He should stay away from her altogether. He was no good for her.
He waited until Matt left, then pulled the picture of Peg from the drawer. “I let you down. I promised to get your killer, but I didn’t. It was the least I could have done.”
He’d loved her so much. But she was gone. Now if only the guilt would die, as well.
CAROLINE PARKED her car in the garage, grabbed her briefcase from the seat beside her and climbed out of the car. The worst thing about winter was coming home when it was already dark. She liked to spend time outdoors, puttering in the garden or sometimes taking long walks through the neighborhood.
The
old houses intrigued her. They had so much more personality than the ones that seemed to spring up overnight in the newer subdivisions. All with history. All with roots. Her roots were in a trash can and stored at Meyers Bickham.
An old church. A dark basement. Big gray rats. It sounded far more like the setting for a horror movie than a state-run facility for children no one wanted. When this was over, she might visit the place and see if she could put her nightmares to rest. It was bound to look different to her now than it had when she was seven.
But right now she had living nightmares to deal with.
She started toward her back door, then stopped. The top had blown off her garbage can again. Fortunately the new outdoor lights Sam had insisted she put in illuminated the area well. She picked up the lid and fit it back on the plastic bin. Something moved in the bushes just outside the ring of light.
Her heart jumped to her throat, then settled back in a chest that seemed too tight to hold it.
It was only the wind.
Once inside, Caroline made herself a salad and ate it at the kitchen table she’d bought at a thrift store. The same table where she and Sam had eaten breakfast this morning. And where she’d sliced cheese last night after they’d made love.
She picked up her plate and took it to the small office at the back of the house, where she turned on her computer. She would not waste an evening thinking about Sam or fretting over whether he’d call.
Setting her half-eaten salad on the edge of her desk, she logged on to the Internet and checked her e-mail. Twenty-five new messages. She wasn’t up to wading through them.
Almost without thinking, she typed “Meyers Bickham” and hit Search. She doubted she’d find anything, but now that she knew she’d lived there for a while, she’d like to know something more about the place.
She scanned the list of entries and soon found what she was looking for: Meyers Bickham Children’s Home. The link was to an article written in 1994. She double clicked and went to the site.
In the Shadow of the Spire