by C. K. Raggio
HERON PARK
by
C.K. Raggio
DEDICATION
For my Uncle Carl.
My love of words and books is all because of you.
XXOO
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Acknowledgments
Copyright
CHAPTER 1
The moon illuminated the beach in its midnight glow, but the woods looked dark as a cave. He strolled from the soft sand onto the hard-packed dirt trail, his steps remaining light, soundless. Yellow eyes stared at him from the brush. A raccoon chattered then scurried for the nearest tree.
A dog growled from behind him. “Leave it,” he commanded without turning around, and the growling ceased.
He rubbed his hands together. The time had come for another. Goosebumps rose on his arms. Torture was such a thrill.
The memory of each woman’s scream vibrated against his skull. The panicked, the hysterical, the tortured. Every one had sounded so different, but they replayed like a symphony in his mind until he killed again. His new victim would rise above the others, drowning out the dead.
He’d chosen women unaware of their surroundings. Women who were selfish and so consumed by their own lives that nobody else mattered. He had a list of ten he’d followed at the park. They walked, or jogged with their pets, ear pods in, music so loud he could hear it. Some stared into space. If they didn’t have dogs to warn them of his presence, he’d be able to trail a foot behind and they’d never think to look back.
He took a deep breath and pulled the hood of his hunting jacket lower over his face. His muscles twitched with anticipation and he lengthened his stride. He brushed branches from his path and moved behind the cover of the trees. Now he waited. She would come to him.
CHAPTER 2
Nurse Tina Conner glanced at the chart of her next patient. Complaining of stomach flu. She sighed. Great, just what she needed, another one. It was like a damn epidemic had broken out. She pushed aside the blue curtain and neared the bed.
Mr. Curlin’s skin was pasty white. His eyes seemed to double in size. He gagged. Tina bent to retrieve the vomit basin. Too late. Vomit spewed from his mouth. An irregular stream of green globs, amidst orange fluids, splattered her head.
She clamped her lips together as his puke dripped through her hair, down her face and plopped to the floor. She darted away from him, her back hitting the privacy curtain. Mr. Curlin hunched over the side of the mattress and continued to vomit onto the white tile of the ER. She wiped a hand across the goo on her cheek and fought back the gurgle in her own stomach.
The man’s partially digested dinner burned her nostrils like week old road kill and fajitas.
“Sorry, Miss,” the old man said.
The bitter taste of bile rose in her mouth and she ran for the woman’s locker room.
Inside, she made the mistake of glancing in the mirror. Her hair was a mass of green and brown slime. Her stomach folded and she retched into the stainless steel sink, her gut burning with the intensity.
When it finally eased, she stripped out of her scrubs and ran for the showers. She rubbed a washcloth over her body until her skin was red and raw, shampooed her hair three times and still didn’t feel clean. How could she? It was the fourth time that day someone had barfed on her, and she still had five hours to go. Why did I agree to cover Darla’s graveyard shift tonight?
While she dressed and pinned up her damp hair, a crackle came over the loudspeaker.
“Nurse Conner, you’re needed in the ER, immediately. Nurse Conner, to the ER.”
She checked her face one last time, and did a quick cleanup of the mess she’d made in the sink, disinfected her stethoscope, and rushed out of the locker room.
A gurney flanked by four nurses and two doctors pushed through the doors of the ER. The little boy was no older than four. Tina’s hand went momentarily to her chest. There was so much blood for such a tiny body.
Dr. Harrison glared at her from the side of the gurney. “Conner. Get over here, they’ve lost him twice already.”
Tina hustled forward. Now was not the time to think of anything but this boy’s life. She took over at the bag valve mask as they wheeled the boy toward surgery. A man’s voice screamed out hysterically. Tina glanced back before the doors swung shut.
Three nurses held a middle-aged guy by his shoulders. “Frankie! Frankie! Please, God. Don’t let him die. Please, don’t let my little boy die!” the man repeated over and over.
Tina blocked him out and tried to focus on helping to keep the Grim Reaper from stealing his son. She exchanged one IV bag for another and injected it with each of the drugs the doctors called out. Dr. Harrison pulled the blood-drenched gauze from the little boy’s chest and abdomen. Another doctor inserted an endotracheal tube down his throat.
She swallowed down a lump as Dr. Harrison peeled back the final strips of bandage. A piece of metal jutted from the boy’s chest and a thick slab of glass from his abdomen. His heart rate dropped. Then stopped.
No, no, no! Tina pulled the crash cart closer to his bedside.
Dr. Harrison placed the paddles on the still chest. “Clear.”
The shock from the defibrillator lifted the child’s small form almost a foot off the table. Nothing.
“Clear.”
No movement on the heart monitor.
“Once more,” Dr. Harrison said. “Clear.” The boy jerked, but stilled. No pulse. He was gone.
A weight crashed down on Tina’s shoulders. Only five minutes had passed since the boy was brought in. He hadn’t stood a chance.
Nurse Bonnie Raycroft frowned and turned to Tina. “That’s the father out there. His drunken wife crashed their car into a parked dump truck. She got off with a few broken ribs. The kid flew through the windshield. No Goddamn seatbelt.”
Dr. Harrison hung his head and removed his bloody gloves and jacket. “Nurse Raycroft, why don’t you come with me to tell the father. I’ll probably need a hand with him afterwards.”
They pushed through the doors and Tina looked at the boy’s blood-soaked face. What a waste. The mother should’ve been the one to die, not this innocent child. Scattered around the deep gashes from the shattered glass was a face full of freckles. Blood matted down the boy’s mop of curly hair.
Tina covered him with a sheet as the father screamed out from beyond the doors. No words this time, only heart-wrenching noise. Footsteps pounded on the floor, moving closer.
She strode to th
e end of the bed, ready to cut him off before he could see the body. Dr. Harrison’s brown hair came into view through the small window. The footsteps stopped, but the wailing continued. Tina closed her eyes and leaned her palms against the cool steel of the crash cart. Her night couldn’t get any worse.
~~~
Detective Cassandra Logan braced as another boat raced by the mouth of the inlet. She maneuvered her ocean kayak so the bow faced the onslaught of foam-peaked waves.
Dark water sloshed over her lap, cooling her bare legs. She let her small craft coast over the large swells, then sliced through the water, fighting the wake of the passing boats.
Keeping a steady pace, she paddled toward the twenty boats already spread throughout the inlet. Long Island Fishing Charters must’ve had a good catch yesterday. There were never this many boats around at this time.
The early morning sun crept over the horizon. The beams of light cast an amber glow over the open water. Cassie closed her eyes and inhaled the fresh, salty air.
She let her thoughts drift as she turned her boat and headed home. The FBI was visiting her precinct today. Nine months ago a woman went to walk her dog at Heron Park and never returned. Four months ago, it happened again.
Cassie worked Homicide, but it became an all hands on deck situation. They hadn’t found either woman’s dogs, a fiber of clothing, or a body.
With the cases still open, but no evidence pointing to murder, she wondered why the FBI would want to speak with Homicide instead of Missing Persons.
She stopped to rest. Two men wrangled a striped bass onto their boat deck. She squinted at the name on the stern, smiled and pulled within shouting distance.
They caught sight of her and held it up.
“Not bad, Bill,” she yelled. “That’s a nice fish.”
“It’s my first thirty-pounder this season.” His ear-to-ear grin said it all. “Nothing but schoolies till now. Heard you went fishing over the weekend, any luck?”
Cassie shrugged. “Fifteen was the biggest. We went jigging out in the ocean, guess we should’ve stayed inland. You use live eel to catch that?”
“Always.” He beamed at her.
“I’ll try ‘em next time we’re out. See you at the Captain’s meeting.” She gave them a quick wave and paddled away.
The men fell quiet behind her and she bit her lip to hide her smile. It was warm for October and she’d stripped down to a bikini top. She knew they’d stopped to gawk at her. Their silver and blue streaked fish forgotten for the moment.
Cassie was far from vain, but had no trouble admitting her confidence. Her tall, athletic frame was all but hidden in the sleek boat, but what they could see was more than enough to get their tongues wagging. She never in her life had to work hard to stay fit. Diet wasn’t a word in her vocabulary.
But, she’d been smoking cigarettes since she was fourteen, and now at thirty was trying to quit. Exercise was the only thing that helped her handle her difficult addiction. Hence, why she was kayaking at the ass-crack of dawn. I must be nuts.
Just thinking about quitting brought on an urge to have one. Like those smoking commercials on television. Every time they showed a blackened lung or a person missing toes from blood clots, she’d want to light one up. She cringed at her own stupidity, plowing her paddle harder into the churning water.
Cassie’s arms ached as she pulled past her father’s clamming boat and up into the shallows. She hauled herself out, shivering as the cold water lapped her ankles. She lugged the kayak up the beach to the shed, and propped it against the side.
Taking a second to catch her breath, she stared at the wraparound porch of her two-bedroom beach bungalow. The stain on the deck was wearing in places. It would need a new coat after the winter.
The rocking chair she’d bought over the summer moved with the breeze. She wished she could plant her ass in the chair and watch the boats passing through Fire Island Inlet.
She could never get sick of the view. Never miss what would be considered a normal backyard. Instead of grass there was sand, and instead of a fence, there were reed-covered dunes.
The back door opened and Sam poked his head out, a cup of coffee steaming in his hands. Cassie put a hand on her hip. “You know it wouldn’t kill you to call before you came over. What if I had company?”
Blond hair lighter than her own peeked out from under his backward baseball cap. “Sorry. I knocked, figured you’d be in the shower right now.”
His eyes darted up her body, something flashed in their depths, but for only a moment
He checked his watch. “Aren’t you going to be late?”
She’d known Sam since she was a kid. Her father had taken him in when Sam’s family life had fallen to pieces, but enough already. She hated that he thought he could just pop in whenever he felt like it. She didn’t want to be a bitch, but she would never consider dropping by unexpected at his house. She shivered. With the way Sam dated she would sure as hell walk in on something that would riddle her with night terrors.
She jogged up the steps, nudged against the hard, corded muscles of his arm, and went into the house. “I’m guessing you and Dad are going fishing?”
He took a sip of his coffee. “Yeah, I was just coming by to check what I needed to pick up at the tackle shop.”
“Can you guys please not allow the dogs to go running through my house after they get off the boat? Last time I had mud, fish blood, and sea water all over the floors.”
He tried to hide his snicker with the coffee cup.
“Sam? I’m serious.”
He grinned at her. “Yes, I’ll make sure to wipe both Snow and Sable’s paws when they come in next time.”
Grr. How the hell was she supposed to stay mad at him when he flashed his dimples like that? She grinned back, her frustration dwindling. “Thank you.”
She watched him head for the boat and took one more deep breath. Even the smell of low tide could bring her a sense of calm. She guessed it was something comparable to horse people loving the smell of manure. Strange, maybe even a little disturbing, but when you’re passionate about something there wasn’t any part you didn’t love.
After a quick shower, she pulled up her mass of blonde curls into a ponytail, and ran out the door. Her phone rang just as she got into her Jeep.
“Logan,” she answered.
“Hey, Cass, it’s Dad.”
She smiled at the sound of his gruff voice. “Hi, Dad. What’s up? I’m on my way to work.”
“Oh, okay. I won’t keep you then. Just wanted to double check about dinner tonight.”
When her father retired from clamming, he gave Cassie her childhood house the same day he signed the papers for his new one. The stipulation was that he’d be over three times a week for dinner.
“I’ll be here. Sam said you guys were going fishing. Check around the six can buoy. I just saw Bill Newman bring in a thirty pounder.”
“Heard they were bringing in some big ones.”
“You guys better get a move on if you want to catch the tide.”
“On my way. Sam just pulled in. Oh, before I let you go. Peggy at the diner said that FBI agent was in late last night. Said he’s a real heartthrob. Will you be meeting him today?”
Cassie rolled her eyes. Ugh. Not again. “Yes, Dad. He’s supposed to be in this afternoon to ask a few questions about the two girls who went missing. But wait, I’m confused. I thought that guy who owned the deli was my type, or what about the guy from the fishing club? Actually, what about Sam? You know tall, green-eyed, rugged Swede that you pretty much adopted when he was fifteen. Remember him?”
“Please, I’ve given up on you two, it’s a lost cause.” He exhaled. “You’d have made some gorgeous ones, you and Sam. Guess I’ll never have any grandkids to spoil.”
Cassie started her car and pulled down the driveway. “All right, Dad, you’re being a tad dramatic. You have plenty of time left and so do I.”
“Whatever you say, sweetheart. Have a g
ood day and be safe. Hopefully, we’ll have fish for dinner. Maybe you should try showing some leg in that meeting today. If you get lucky, we can have a guest over tonight as well.”
Sam’s voice chided in the background and both men laughed.
“Dad, really? So inappropriate, and I don’t even want to know what that jackass had to say. You guys are lucky I left the house, or I’d be putting a bunch of bananas on the boat.”
“Hey now, be sweet. We have enough bad luck fishing these days.”
Cassie snickered at his serious tone. Fishermen were as bad as athletes when it came to superstitions. Never change the name of a boat if it already has one, never name a boat after your wife or girlfriend, and bananas on a boat were a huge no-no.
“Keep it up and it’ll get a lot worse. Love you, see you later.” She ended the call before he could add anything else.
She slowed her truck, coming to a complete halt as a seagull dropped a conch directly in front of her in the street. The bird ignored her idling vehicle and swooped down. It broke the shell open the rest of the way with its beak and began to feast. She huffed. 7:55 showed on the dash. She leaned against her horn. The bird took to the air in a flurry of feathers and squawks.
By the time she crossed the Robert Moses Bridge she was officially late. She pounded her palm against the steering wheel as she came up behind a line of cars.
Damn roadwork.
Of all the days for her to be late, it had to be today. Shit. Hernandez was going to skin her alive.
~~~
Tina’s mind was a whirlwind of thoughts as she walked the trails in Heron Park. She ranked the past day in the top five worst of her life. The father’s scream rang over and over in her ears. The smell of vomit lingered in her nose. The little boy’s bloody face would be in all her dreams.
She stopped and took a few deep breaths. Her Yorkshire terrier, Rooter, whined at her feet. He’d gotten his leash tangled on some bushes and was sitting patiently waiting for her to get him free.
“Oh, I’m sorry, buddy,” she murmured. “You’re right. We came here so I could clear my head not get wrapped up in it.” She knelt next to him and untangled the leash, laying a soft kiss on his brown and tan head. He licked her nose in return.