The scarlet edges of rage crowded his vision and he sucked in a stinking breath, fighting back a scream. Everything he’d believed, all the circumstances of his life – it was a lie. Panic thrummed through his veins and he physically forced himself to study the smoking body, memorizing the horrifying tableau and dipping deep into the well of hate in his soul. His spirit quieted then and the despair morphed inside him, settling into a molten and searing ball of fury.
Without a backward glance, he retreated through the courtyard gate and melted into the woods, dabbing at the sweat beading his upper lip. He trotted at a slow but steady pace toward his car and brought his breathing and thoughts under control.
Until today, he had considered the murderous little cabal his silent partners. Granted, he had no idea why some of the same names had landed on both their kill lists, but between them and the work they had completed so far, the world was a far better place. Since learning their identities several months ago, he had traced them to this slice of redneck paradise and watched, moving with caution to learn the rhythms of their lives. But he hadn’t stalked silently; instead, he had poked and prodded into their personal lives to see how fragile they were. If they were made of the right stuff, perhaps he would’ve approached them, wormed his way into their inner circle. He wanted to understand their motivations and discover who else they had marked for termination. The trio was careful, and that he appreciated. They must’ve known about this victim for some time, because they hadn’t visited this little store since he’d been tracking them.
But any semblance of camaraderie he felt for this odd group of executioners vanished at the sight of their latest victim. In its place sprang the germ of revenge – they had bested him, understanding his own life even better than he had. And from their knowledge, they had taken his father from him. Again. A hope he hadn’t known existed, extinguished before it could form. They were now the enemy.
His mind focused on his new prey with an eerie intensity. He would extract payment from each of them for what they had cost him. Payment in full.
CHAPTER 3
CASS WORKED STEADILY, PAUSING only to haul broken sections of cabinet to the backyard and toss them on a growing burn pile. The air conditioner had been off since she and Bruce started work early this morning, and they had left the doors and windows open in hopes of catching a breeze. Instead, the summer heat built as the day wore on, bringing a healthy dose of sticky humidity that caused the dust and grit from their demolition project to hang nearly motionless in the air. Cass stopped to wipe the sweat from her face and take a swig of cold water. It had taken the better part of the day to remove most of the wall and base cabinets from the kitchen, leaving only one cabinet squatting in the corner.
She had no complaint; sweat was her salvation. The physical work cleared her mind and her fears about the future wept out through her pores. She could forget about Mitch Stone and how much pain she’d endured since that devastating night in the spring. Her dreams were still riddled with the image of his face as she remembered it through the small window in the ICU door – pale, motionless, devoid of life. The phantom scent of a burning building caught her at the most improbable of times and alternate outcomes to that night played continuously through her mind. It had been over six weeks since she’d been suspended from the police department, and even though she’d found solace in hard labor and power tools, doubt over the outcome of the Firearm Discharge Board review had taken a toll.
She’d spent the time during her suspension – the banishment, she called it – getting reacquainted with the two of the six Elliot brothers who lived with her in their father’s house. Harry, the third oldest, was a recent addition as he and his wife had separated only weeks earlier, a bitter event that left the normally genial Harry in a state of perpetual irritation. Bruce had left home some years ago to study drafting, but had returned after graduation to teach at the local college. Never married, at thirty-three Nell and Abe Elliot’s middle child was considered a tasty catch by the local female constituency, and Bruce played that role to his advantage; always interested, never committed. The siblings and their father spent many evenings laughing at the past and dissecting local events, careful to skirt the most painful part of their early lives – the arrest of their oldest brother Jack when Cass was four years old, and their mother’s untimely death only a year later.
They also talked about the Elliot home, a ramshackle affair rented by a kindly family to Abe and Nell when they were first married and eventually sold to them on very favorable terms. Cass had to agree that the place needed work, and in fairness to Bruce and his scheme to modernize the house, she could finally see his vision for the kitchen. He’d spent evenings browsing the internet for appliances and floor coverings, and his weekends prowling lumber yards to find perfect cuts of maple for the cabinets. His goal was to create a kitchen that would’ve made their mother proud. Cass, Harry, and Abe groaned every time Bruce asked for more money, but his excitement was so great that none of them had the heart to shut him down.
Although she still burned over the fact that Sheriff Hoffner was taking his sweet time in signing her back on to work, in a way, she relished the time off. Her early mornings were devoted to exercise and Cass was tighter and leaner than she’d ever been. Solitude on the days when Harry, Abe, and Bruce were away at work was also an odd sort of blessing, as Cass could slow down and think carefully about how best to pursue the man who had raped her six years ago.
The temptation to simply forget what had happened never tugged at Cass. Instead, her life changed course, becoming a methodical hunt for the man who had hurt her. Thinking about that night, even today, brought a rush of anger so powerful it was palatable. But she’d turned that fury into forward motion. Her initial efforts to identify her rapist were rudimentary, involving scanning the newspapers every day. Over time she’d become more sophisticated, utilizing internet search alerts to pull relevant rape cases to her inbox, and trolling the interagency traffic for similar crimes. At least twice each day she checked for results. So far, nothing had popped.
Cass finished her water and leaned the crowbar against the wall, unable to stifle the urge her thoughts had brought on. She climbed the stairs to her room. As usual, her inbox was empty and the spam folder overflowing with offers to make her penis larger. Disappointed but not surprised, she returned to the kitchen and studied the lone remaining cabinet.
She slid the crowbar between the countertop and the cabinet, jammed it home, and levered the top up. It sprang free with a shriek. Cass turned at a giggle to find a tiny ballerina watching.
“Hey, Auntie Cass.”
Cass switched the burbling police scanner off and smiled at her niece. Phoebe was swathed in pink, from her ballet slippers and seashell pale tights and tutu, to her fuchsia leotard. Cass wiped the dust from a seat at the scuffed kitchen table and lifted the five-year-old to the chair. “You look gorgeous. What are you up to?”
“Going to jazz class.”
“Why are you wearing your ballet outfit?”
“I’m a princess, Auntie Cass, and this is my gown.”
“Oh,” Cass said, as Harry entered, guilt on his face.
“Can you take her?”
“Bruce said you’ve got a meeting?”
Harry pulled gingerly on the refrigerator’s duct-taped handle. He removed a pitcher of orange juice and poured small glasses for the three of them. “Do you remember the Martins?”
“Sure. Old money.”
“We’re doing some work for them and they’re not happy with what the interior designer is planning.” He glanced down at Phoebe, but the little girl was bobbing her head to an internal rhythm, oblivious to the fact that the interior designer was her mother.
“Why don’t they talk to her?”
“Drama.”
“Ah.” Harry and his estranged wife Carly shared an architectural and design business and were known for their innovation. Carly also had a well-deserved reputation as a diva, and the firm
had lost several clients over her refusal to change her interior design plans to suit the client’s wishes.
“I need to smooth things over and knock the designer off her high horse. Can you take Feebs to town?”
“Sure,” Cass said, glancing down at her filthy clothes. “When?”
“Class starts at seven-thirty.” Harry leaned down to kiss his daughter’s cheek and be kissed in return. “I’ll pick her up. Thanks, Cass.”
She looked at the dusty kitchen clock as the screen door slammed shut. An hour and a half to go. “Okay Feebs, what’s next?”
“Supper.”
“Right.” Cass ran a finger along the stove top and looked at the grit it gathered. “I’m not cooking tonight.”
“Uncle Bruce always cooks.”
“Good point. How about a burger from Chubby’s?”
“Can I have a chocolate shake?”
Cass considered the fallout that would arise from the inevitable spatter on Phoebe’s pink ballet outfit, and decided that Carly’s wrath was well worth the price of retaining favorite aunt status. Even if it cost Cass a new leotard and tutu. “It’s not Chubby’s without a shake.” She tried to work her fingers through her tangled hair. “But I need a shower. Want to come upstairs and watch TV while I get ready?”
The little girl nodded and pulled a sparkling tiara from behind her back. “Mommy won’t let me wear it outside ’cause I might lose it. But it’s okay if I’m with you, right Auntie Cass?”
Cass recognized the crown Carly had received when she was named Fire Ant Queen some years ago. It was a tacky thing made of paste jewels that formed hearts and something meant to resemble a fire ant. Her heart warmed at Phoebe’s transcendent grin as she settled the shiny crescent on her niece’s head, and she wondered only briefly how much a new tiara would cost.
CHAPTER 4
OFFICER HUGO PETCHARD LICKED his thumb and smoothed his eyebrows down. Fresh from the shower at the police station, he leaned against a lamp post. It was after six o’clock, and rush hour traffic – what there was of it in a town as small as Arcadia –– had died off. He glanced around and swiped his arm across his forehead, surreptitiously sniffing his armpit and catching only a whiff of Old Spice.
A figure hurried around the corner of The Golden Gate Café’s little building and Petchard recognized Junie’s slender form. His heart thudded against the cage of his ribs. He opened his mouth to call out but she darted inside before he could muster the words. In only an instant the door opened again and there she was, framed by the apricot hue of the early evening sun. His breath caught in his throat. He found her perfect in every way. Well, except for the height. He was five foot ten and in flat shoes, Junie was a good two inches taller. Otherwise, there wasn’t a flaw on or in the woman. Smooth skin, strong arms, narrow hips, gorgeous black hair. Eyes of the purest, darkest brown Petchard had ever seen. A patient, funny personality. And she liked him.
She liked him.
He watched as she called a good-bye over her shoulder, adjusted her bag where it hung across her body, and started at the sight of Petchard. A frown creased his brow. His normally composed Junie looked flustered. Something he’d never seen before. A smile found its way to her mouth and she waited while he made his way down the sidewalk to her.
“Hello, gorgeous,” he said, kissing her cheek.
“Hello, lover,” she replied, her voice a husky purr. “I thought you’d be at home having dinner with your family and getting ready for church. You must be tired after your long day protecting us all.”
He preened. “I had to stop and say goodnight. How’s your headache?”
“Gone. I managed to take some pain medicine before it got too bad. You’re so sweet to remember.”
Petchard took her hand and led her to the employee parking lot at the back of the café. “Are you sure you don’t have time for a movie tonight? You could come to church with me and we could see a late show. Or we could have dinner. I still want you to meet my family.” At her look of panic he added, “When you’re ready, of course.”
Her features softened and she touched his lips with a finger. “Not tonight. I have to wash my hair.”
Petchard suppressed a grin at this display of feminine vanity. Junie’s hair was short. Not as short as his own thinning blond crew cut, but short enough that a good toweling would dry it in no time. Perhaps she would use the evening to perform the other mysterious and somewhat terrifying rituals that women thought necessary to maintain their beauty. He watched as she unlocked a battered old Honda, and wanted again to offer to buy her a newer vehicle. Or loan her the money to buy one. But he held his tongue. She’d already rebuffed his offer in the kindest of ways. He cleared his throat. “Maybe tomorrow night?”
“Perhaps,” she said, presenting her cheek for another kiss. “Let’s see what tomorrow brings.”
Junie slipped into the car and the rust bucket turned over on the second twist of the key. Petchard blushed when she blew him a kiss through the windshield. Through a haze of adoration, he watched as the object of his affection backed out of the parking lot and drove away.
CHAPTER 5
THE STENCH OF BURNING flesh was ripe even in front of the store when Detective Carlos Martinez stepped outside to clear his head. Several emergency vehicles cluttered the station’s forecourt and spilled onto the county road. Swirling lights bounced around the small area, creating a nauseating psychedelic patina. He was grateful that no sirens pierced the still evening.
He lifted his chin in greeting to the young officer posted at the gas station’s front door. The man nodded while pressing a handkerchief over his nose and mouth. Drawing a shallow breath, Martinez looked more closely at the forecourt. Firefighters rolled up their hoses and an officer was stringing yellow crime scene tape in a wide perimeter around the store. Goober sat on the tailgate of the forensics guy’s pickup, his mouth slightly ajar, eyes staring vacantly into the shadows crowding the county road. After seeing the torched body in the little courtyard behind the store for himself, the detective considered Goober’s means of coping by shutting out the world quite reasonable.
After more than thirty years with the Forney County police force, Martinez thought he had seen the worst that humanity had to offer. From cases of domestic violence where a woman’s head was swollen to almost twice its normal size due to a beating, to knife fights, gunshot wounds, smotherings, drownings, and even the aftereffects of a bowling ball slammed into a skull.
But this, what had happened to the man who died behind The Whitehead Store, was an exceptional kind of evil.
Martinez blew his nose to try and force the smell of seared flesh from his sinuses. As a fire truck growled away from the scene, he noticed movement near a patrol car blocking the road. A small man paced in the gloom cast by the setting sun, speaking quietly into a handheld recorder. He changed direction when he caught sight of Martinez. As he drew nearer, the detective groaned inwardly. Wally Pugh, the Forney Cater’s roving reporter, had the pointed features of a weasel. His beady black eyes darted from Martinez’ face to the store’s door as his narrow body moved in a sinuous, almost hypnotic stroll toward the gas pumps. He wasn’t a bad guy, Martinez knew, and had supported the police force after The Church of the True Believer debacle several weeks ago despite the negative coverage the major news outlets had provided.
He met the reporter just past the gas pumps, ran his strong hands over his face and steely crew cut, and crossed his massive arms over his broad chest. “Hey, Wally.”
“Detective Martinez. What happened back there? It smells like somebody barbequed a skunk. Goober’s almost comatose and won’t say a word.”
“How’d you hear about it?”
“Scanner. They said something about a burning zombie. Did somebody get roasted?” Wally held the recorder out between them and pushed a button.
Martinez considered his words. Dealing with the press was Sheriff Bill Hoffner’s responsibility and a chore the man seemed to relish, but Hoffner
was out of town and the Forney Cater needed something to print. Martinez steeled himself for a dance around the facts. “We have one dead body.”
“A zombie?”
“Yeah. Night of the Living Dead does Forney County. Come on, Wally.”
“Who is it?”
“We don’t know.”
“What happened?”
“We’re not sure, but the body is burned.”
“How badly?”
“Pretty severely.”
“Accidental?”
“We’re still investigating.”
Wally’s delicate eyebrows shot up. “Murder?”
“Like I said, we’re still investigating.”
“Who found the body?”
Martinez hesitated. “Goober.”
“Is he a suspect?”
Are you kidding? Martinez thought. “No. That’s all I’ve got for you right now, Wally. I hope we’ll have an ID later tonight. Check with the ME’s office or give me a call before you go to print.”
Wally eyed Martinez, nose twitching as he sucked his teeth. He switched the recorder off. “Any chance I can get back there and take a photo?”
“Not tonight. How about one of the front of the store? Keep Goober out of it. And leave him out of your story. I don’t think he could handle attention like that.”
The reporter nodded and wandered away, tucking his recorder into a pocket and lifting a digital camera from around his neck. Martinez watched him go, then turned to the little red mower parked near a gas pump. A two-gallon can was bungeed to a platform behind the seat and Martinez snapped a paper towel from a nearby holder and loosened the cap to peer inside. Maybe one-quarter full. He unscrewed the cap on the mower’s gasoline tank and bumped the little machine. From the sloshing and glint of light on liquid, Martinez guessed the mower was almost empty. According to the cash register, the store’s last transaction was conducted at five eighteen. A purchase of three gallons of gas for cash. Probably used to barbeque the guy out back, who must be the store’s owner, Calvin Whitehead. Or perhaps an employee. Martinez tightened the gas cap and turned to focus on Goober, who was wringing his baseball cap between his hands.
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