She nodded, then let her head slump forward.
"A boy dog or a girl dog?" The Bloodsucker pressed, walking back to the picnic table. He folded the towel neatly and set it on the tray. The red and white umbrella, also on the table, caught his eyes and he smiled, thinking of himself walking through the rain with Anne under the umbrella. Just like Gene Kelly. "Tell me about your dog, Anne," he ordered sharply. "I told you, we can do this in a civilized manner or we can—"
"Okay, okay," she cried. "M-my dog is Pickles. She... she's a yellow lab."
His fingers closed over the cool steel of the scalpel, and he shut his eyes for a moment, enjoying the pleasure of the weight of it in his hand. "Is she a nice dog?" He turned to Anne, the blade of the scalpel glimmering in the lantern light.
She took one look at the scalpel and screamed.
"Anne... Anne," he tisked, drawing closer. "What did I tell you about screaming?"
Anne felt light-headed. She couldn't see through her tears, and she had to pee bad. "You... you..." She couldn't catch her breath. "You said d-don't."
"That's right," he breathed. "So let's practice, hmm?"
Anne watched, helpless, as he lowered the scalpel. She didn't even try to fight the bindings this time. She knew it was senseless. She felt the blade cut into her wrist again, more a burn or a sear than a cut, really.
All she could think about as the blood bubbled up was how devastated her mother would be.
* * *
Claire heard a tap on her office door and considered ignoring it. She was knee-deep in paperwork, had several calls to return, despite the holiday, and was expected to make an appearance in the town's annual Fourth of July parade this evening. She didn't have time to be riding in a parade, smiling, waving, and kissing babies, but considering how quickly her job was becoming precarious, she felt that she had to go.
She'd gotten a call an hour ago from Captain Kurt Gallagher, her ex-boyfriend from her state police days, giving her a heads-up that the state police were again officially "offering" their help on her unsolved homicides. They, as well as the mayor, would be putting pressure on her to accept before it was forced upon the Albany Beach police department, but she was being stubborn. She knew this town better than anyone, knew the people of the town. The killer was somewhere here, somewhere among them, and she was going to find him.
She heard the tap again.
"Yes?" Claire bellowed. "Stop scratching at the door and come in."
The door swung in a little, and her best dispatcher, who also served as her personal receptionist, stuck her shaggy-cut brunet head through the door. "I'm out of here and you need to be in line for the parade in forty minutes, but there's something going on up front you might want to check on," Jewel said. She popped her gum.
"What's that?" Claire didn't look up. Jewel's gum popping made her crazy, but after hiring and firing three people for the job before she found someone bright enough to type out a form and speak clearly on the dispatch mike, she had decided she could put up with the gum.
"Detective Robinson's taken a missing persons statement. Anne Hopkins."
Claire felt the blood drain from her face. Anne had grown up in Albany Beach and was attending college somewhere; like many college students, she had returned home to work for the summer.
Claire glanced up, slowly lowering her pen to the desk. Her cool office suddenly felt warm. Close. "How long has she been missing?"
"I was listening through the door, so I didn't get too many details. You know how Robinson is—"
"How long?" Claire repeated.
"She left work last night about ten. The sub shop on the boardwalk. No one has seen her since."
"You son of a bitch," Claire muttered under breath.
"I thought you might want to talk to Mrs. Hopkins." Jewel hung on the door knob, showing a flash of pink bubble gum as she spoke. "She's pretty hysterical. Anne told her mother yesterday morning that she was going out with a girlfriend last night after work and then probably staying with her overnight, so Mrs. Hopkins wasn't expecting her last night. She didn't know Anne was missing until she came home this afternoon to a message on her answering machine from the shop where Anne worked, looking for her. She never showed up at ten this morning to open."
"When was she last seen?"
"Ten o'clock last night. Closed the shop with another employee."
"For not being able to hear any details, you heard a lot of details," Claire said.
Jewel didn't reply. Pop.
Claire closed her eyes for a moment. Eighteen hours. Anne had been missing eighteen hours. Sour bile rose in her throat and she swallowed it, afraid for a moment that she might be sick. She knew Anne was already dead.
If she wasn't at another friend's house, sleeping off a night of partying too late, then he had gotten her. The killer had kidnapped her, and it was likely he had already killed her.
Claire rose from behind her desk, slowly, pressing her fingertips to the smooth surface. A part of her wanted to make a beeline for the door. She wanted to leave her resignation on a pad of paper, pick Ashley up from her parents' house, get in the car, and just start driving. Where didn't matter. Anywhere away from here. Away from this killer.
But running wasn't an option Chief Claire Drummond had. Her lids flickered. "Find McCormick," she ordered.
Jewel popped her gum again, unfazed by Claire's abruptness. It was one of the young woman's best qualities. "He just got off."
"Then call him back in." Claire said it louder than she had intended; she didn't know if it was Jewel's damned gum popping or her fear that the killer had struck again that made her snap. She paused and took a shaky breath. Everyone here relied on her; they followed her lead. This was no time to crack. "Please tell him he needs to clock back in and take my place in the parade. There are boxes of the pencils and sticker giveaways in the storage room."
"I'll take care of it, "Jewel said, but she made no move to go.
Claire looked up.
"You know, I always wanted to be blond." Jewel brushed her fingers through her short, fringed brown hair.
Her gaze met Claire's, and Claire saw fear in the young woman's blue eyes.
"Kind of makes me glad now that I'm not."
* * *
"Come on, it'll be fun." Ty held fast to Jillian's hand, leading her down the sidewalk. There were others on the sidewalk, too. Kids. Old folks, a family on bicycles. They were all headed to the old downtown area for the annual parade.
Jillian gazed up at the red, white, and blue ribbons tied on the lampposts. Somewhere in the distance she could hear a marching band warming up. There was the occasional bad note—the honk of a French horn, the squeak of untuned clarinet. Had to be a school band.
"Do you really think we ought to walk down the street holding hands?" She tried to wiggle free, but he held on to her hand tightly.
"If there's one thing you have to know about me, Jilly, it's that I don't give a crap about what anyone thinks. You don't like me the way I am, that's too bad."
She gazed up him, taking in his handsome schoolboy-crossed-with-beach bum good looks. The sun-bleached blond hair, the slight razor stubble, the clear, confident hazel eyes. She wanted to be more like Ty. More sure of herself. Something told her that in her past, even before the gunshot, she hadn't believed enough in herself. She had relied too much on others to define her self-worth.
Somewhere, illegal firecrackers popped and she flinched. Realizing what they were, she quickly recovered. "But your mom. It's disrespectful to throw it in her face."
He gave a wave. "Mom will get over it. She knows I'm going back to school next month. She knows you're just passing through. It's not like she has to worry that I'm going to move in with you or anything crazy like that. She just likes to worry." He lifted her hand and kissed the back of it. "Besides, it gives her and her friends in the nurses' break room something to gossip about." He tugged on her hand. "Come on; it's already started. Here come the fire trucks. We have to hurry
if we're going to get a good spot."
* * *
Claire parked her police cruiser in the grocery store parking lot and cut through the alley onto Main Street. She had made it in time for the parade, but she had no intention of joining in the festivities. She had come to check out those gathering to watch the Fourth of July parade.
"Evening, Chief Drummond," an elderly woman called from across the street.
Claire smiled, but she didn't stop. She wasn't in the mood to chitchat.
Firecrackers popped somewhere behind her. They were illegal in the state, but she didn't even turn around to see what kid was dumb enough to light a string with the chief of police so near.
Claire couldn't get Mrs. Hopkins' face out of her head. The woman had calmed down and repeated the story for Claire of how she hadn't realized Anne, her only child, was missing. But as she related the events of the last day, Claire saw the dread in the woman's dark eyes. There was something about the stricken look on Mrs. Hopkins' face that, as a mother, scared the hell out of Claire. It was a look of grief, as if Anne had already been found dead.
Claire strode down the brick sidewalk, well maintained in the old section of downtown. People nodded to her; some kids waved. Even tourists she didn't know said hello or smiled. She passed the empty lot on the corner of Main and Smith where the old bank used to be, filled with vender booths, decorated in festive red, white, and blue. The air was thick with the scents of fries cooked in peanut oil, fresh funnel cakes, and coconut suntan lotion.
Ahead, an old-fashioned bandstand had been built on another empty lot. The local VFW put it up every year—red, white, and blue banners and festoons and all. There, she knew, the judges and some of the town's officials sat in folding chairs in the setting but still hot sun, sipping Mrs. Lafferty's homemade lemonade, hoping the parade wasn't any longer than the year before. Her father would be there, as the retired chief of police, his oxygen tank tucked beneath his chair. The mayor would be there, too, as well as members of the city council, representatives from the Daughters of the American Revolution, the VFW, and the local army reserves post.
Claire dodged a stroller with twins flailing hands sticky with pink cotton candy. Ashley was here somewhere, no longer eating cotton candy as she once had, but dressed in black, wearing a belt made with chain suitable for securing a gate or a shed. She was off restriction and had begrudgingly been given permission by Claire to attend the parade with boyfriend, so long as she was home half an hour after the parade ended.
Claire thought of Anne Hopkins and searched the sea of faces around her. If she could have found Ashley right now, she probably would have made her join her grandfather on the bandstand, just so Claire would know she was safe. Claire could only begin to imagine how Mrs. Hopkins felt right now. No... no she could barely fathom it because when she tried, she became physically ill.
"There you are, Chief Drummond," a man bellowed.
Claire would know that grating voice anywhere. Mayor Morris Tugman. Morris who hadn't wanted to hire her in the first place because his loser nephew had applied for the police chief job, too. Morris who thought she couldn't handle a homicide investigation... multiple homicides. Morris who had atrocious taste in clothing.
"Claire!" he shouted when she pretended not to hear him. "Claire, it's urgent that I speak with you."
She glanced at him through her dark sunglasses. "Call Monday morning, Mayor. I'm sure Jewel can fit you in before noon." She turned her head, looking forward again as she strode past the bandstand. In the street, a group of senior citizens from the retirement home on the bay glided by on big Harley motorcycles. The men were all white-haired or bald, but every one sported a turquoise bandana tied biker style over their heads.
"Claire, listen to me," Morris shouted.
She continued up the sidewalk, weaving through the throng of sunburned, ice cream cone-licking vacationers. As she walked, she studied the crowd. Familiar faces were scattered everywhere. She saw Billy Trotter sitting on a mailbox, smoking a cigarette. His ex-girlfriend, Patti, had been the first woman to die a month ago. She saw Seth Watkins, a successful real estate salesman in town, sweet-talking a twenty-something chick in a blue crocheted bathing suit. She saw her mother, waving a tiny American flag, and Ralph, the dishwasher from the diner, leaning on a sapling recently planted by the local beautification committee. Beside him was Jose Sanchez, whom Loretta had recently hired to clean the restaurant a couple of nights a week.
A police car siren sounded, and Claire glanced at the street. Jewel had apparently located McCormick. He drove by slowly, unsmiling, arm resting on the open window. Didn't he know it was okay to smile in a parade?
Spotting her, he saluted. She grimaced and walked on.
At the end of the block, where the crowd began to thin, Claire halted and edged out onto the curb. From behind her sunglasses she scanned the crowd again. Protocol for a missing person had already been initiated back at the station house. Ordinarily, a missing twenty-year-old in a beach town in mid-summer wouldn't have gotten more than a heads-up over the radio, but the State Police in Delaware and Maryland had already been notified. Leaflets with Anne's image were being copied by Jewel back at the station house right now.
Claire shifted her gaze slowly from face to face. He was here. She knew the bastard was here. She could feel it the same way she could feel that Anne was already dead.
"Come out here," she whispered beneath her breath. "You want a blond-haired, blue-eyed woman? Why pick on a kid?" Instinctively, her hand went to the sidearm strapped on her hip, a Beretta Cougar given to her by her father when she took the job as police chief. "Why don't you come for me and see how you fare?"
* * *
The Bloodsucker gazed out on the crowd that surrounded him and was buoyed by all the smiles and laughter. He liked parades. He liked the marching band and the girls who spun the banners in the colors of the local high school. He liked the gray-hairs on motorcycles, and the horses pulling the old-fashioned carriages. He liked the freshly spun cotton candy and the fried oyster sandwiches.
The Bloodsucker liked being a part of the celebration of the signing of the Declaration of Independence. He was proud to be an American. Proud to be a registered voter and a citizen of this fine town.
A burst of wind blew a lollypop wrapper past his face and, startled, he swiped at it. As he moved his hand across his face, he caught a scent of blood on his hand.
It was only imagined, of course. He knew that. He had been very careful with Anne. Latex gloves. Disposable suit. Those nice drop cloths from the dollar store. Two hours and he'd have the place clean as a whistle when he went home tonight.
He knew he should have cleaned up before he came. It was chancy leaving the barn the way he had. But he couldn't miss the parade! Besides, he had to come into town tonight, at some point anyway, to take care of the disposal.
He couldn't very well leave Anne's body in the trunk of his car all night....
Chapter 5
"This way, Chief." Marsh, one of her officers, flashed a beam from his Maglight across the pavement. He was a retired marine, still sporting the shorn military-style haircut despite his thinning gray hair. He had worked for her father before her, and she had always felt like he was on her side.
It was almost two-thirty in the morning. After the parade, Claire had met with her officers on duty and a couple who had volunteered to come in and stay off the books to spare the force's budget. It was McCormick who had had the guts to speak up and suggest that as they patrolled in search of the missing college student, they begin searching trash receptacles easily accessible to the public.
The dreaded call that led Claire to the golf course had come in over the radio at two-seventeen. She had been cruising the side streets off the boardwalk near where Anne's car had been found parked. Anne had never reached it. An interview with the girlfriend Anne was supposed to meet revealed she never made it there, either.
The radio call said that a female body had been locate
d by Patrolman Savage; he was a newbie on the force who had been riding with Jacobs, an older, seasonal officer. Claire didn't particularly like Savage, and his job performance was barely acceptable; she wasn't sure if he'd keep his job the whole summer. Savage had given Claire his report just a moment ago from the back seat of his cruiser. From the look on Jeff Savage's ashen face, it was obvious he had never seen a dead body before. Not like this.
"This is how Savage found her?" Claire questioned Marsh. "She hasn't been moved?" She wore her camera bag on her shoulder. Someone from the ME's office might take photos too, but she wanted her own.
"Savage checked for a pulse. Found she was cold and radioed in."
"Where was Jacobs while he was searching the dumpster?"
Marsh averted his gaze, concentrating on the beam of light they were following. "In the patrol car."
"Asleep," Claire muttered. "Perfect." She was firing his ass. Just not tonight. She looked up to see a tan police car parked cattycorner on the grass, its headlights illuminating a Dumpster behind the country club kitchen. Even from this distance, she could see the young woman's body sprawled on the ground. There was a long red and white object lying beside her.
The privately owned golf course and country club had just recently been annexed by the town, after a time-consuming debate in the city council. It had become part of the Albany Beach police's jurisdiction July first, and the killer was rubbing it in her face.
He was clever. He also knew the town well. This was no drifter as others had suggested, Claire thought. This girl's killer was one of Albany Beach's own.
Marsh led Claire down a slight embankment. "Medical examiner's on her way."
"What time did the club dining room close?" As Claire approached, the smell of death filled her nostrils. In weather this hot, people didn't realize how fast a dead body began to decompose.
"They stopped serving at ten; the last person was out of here by eleven-thirty."
"What time—"
She'll Never Know Page 8