She'll Never Know

by Hunter Morgan

  "If Ruth's the younger sister, how old do you think Elsie must be?" Ty asked. "A hundred. Hundred and ten? She's out parking that boat of a Buick they drive."

  Jillian snatched Ty's beer from his hand and took a sip to keep from laughing out loud.

  "Looks delicious!" Alice said as she accepted the casserole dish.

  The old woman brushed her hands together as if they were dirty, or maybe still had flour on them from making the homemade sugar crust. "I wouldn't put it out if I were you. Save it for yourself and your family. Go to waste on most of that bunch out there!" She turned suddenly to stare at Jillian. "I know you?" she asked.

  Jillian was surprised by the woman's unexpected question. She'd never seen Ruth Williams in her life, as far as she knew. "I... I've been staying in Albany Beach for a few weeks. I live in the Williams' cottage." It wasn't until she said it aloud that she realized the last name was the same. She glanced at Ty, who nodded.

  "Ruth and Elsie's family built the place over a hundred years ago," Alice explained.

  Ruth took a wobbly step closer to Jillian, her purse swinging on her elbow. "But do I know you?" she demanded, shaking a wrinkled, skinny finger.

  "I... I don't think so."Jillian had to fight the urge to take a step back. "But maybe we've run into each other at the diner or the grocery store."

  "I don't eat in the diner; knew Loretta Jean's mother, and she was nothing but trash. And Elsie does the shopping." She scrutinized Jillian from behind wire-frame glasses. "You're Lori, right?"

  "Jillian, Jillian Deere." She offered her hand, unsure what else to do.

  The old lady's touch was cool, her grasp surprisingly firm. "Jillian!" she shouted. "That doesn't sound right. It's Lori or something like that. Don't tell me it isn't because I'm good with names and faces. Ask Elsie."

  Jillian blanched. Laura was the name of the physician missing in Atlanta. She knew it wasn't her. Ruth was old. Obviously a little confused.

  "Came here as a girl, didn't you?" Ruth demanded loudly. She snapped her finger. "Used to take the whole month of August every summer. From Jersey, right?"

  Ty looked at Jillian, his eyes wide with excitement. He turned to Ruth. "You know her, Miss Ruth? You recognize her?"

  "I said I never forget a face. You hard of hearing, boy?" She waggled her finger, still studying Jillian as she spoke. "She was shorter then, of course. Just a kid. Hair all wild like her sister's."

  Ty darted forward, grabbing Ruth's hand and talking loudly. "You said her name was Lori or Laurie. Do you remember her last name?"

  Ruth stared at Ty. "Well, doesn't she know her name?"

  "Miss Ruth, it's a long story. Just tell me, are you sure this is who you think it is? Do you possibly remember her name?"

  "Long time ago," Ruth mused aloud. She scrutinized Jillian again. "Seventies, I think. Don't remember the family's name. Just the blond hair." She touched her shoulder. "They always paid in advance. Good renters. People today, they want to back out of obligations. They think they can—"

  "You said her family rented your cottage every August," Ty interrupted. "Would you have kept any records?"

  Ruth tilted her chin upward, thinking. "Can't say I did. That was before Waterfront started taking care of the rental. They're not as good as everyone says they are, you know."

  Ty squeezed the old woman's hand. "Isn't there anything else you can remember about Lori, Miss Ruth?"

  She thought again for a minute, then shook her head.

  Ty let go of her hand, obviously disappointed.

  "It's all right, "Jillian told him softly. She reached out to rub his shoulder. He was going through enough today; he didn't need to be worrying about her.

  "Where do you think Elsie got to?" Ruth demanded, shuffling toward the kitchen door. "She hits another parked car this week, I'm taking her license. Swear on Papa's grave, I am!"

  Ty, Alice, and Jillian watched the woman push through the swinging doors and disappear into the hall.

  "This might be something," Ty told Jillian.

  She nodded. "Maybe." Then she looked to Alice. "Is there anything else we can do, Mrs. Addison? I can wash dishes for you if you like." She pointed to the couple of dirty bowls in the sink.

  "I'm fine. And please, it's Alice." She waved them both away and stepped up to the sink, reaching for the plastic bottle of dish detergent. "Let me do this. I need to keep my hands busy today."

  Ty walked up behind his mother and put his arms around her in a hug. "Love you, Mom," was all he said, but his simple words made Jillian tear up. He was going to make a great husband and partner to some woman some day.

  "I love you, too, Ty," Alice answered, patting his arm. "Now why don't you two get out of here. I would think you've had enough of this by now."

  "I think I will go home," Jillian said. "Thank you, Alice. This was very nice today."

  She turned and smiled sadly. "Thank you, Jillian. If you decide to leave town, please come by and say good-bye."

  "I will. Thank you."

  Ty took Jillian home on the back of his Chief. It was twilight by the time they reached her cottage. They both sat down on the front steps, and Jillian removed her sandals. Ty kicked off his flip-flops, and they buried their feet in the warm sand.

  "I think you're her," he said quietly, after a while. "I mean what are the chances this could be just a coincidence, Ruth knowing your name."

  "She said Lori. You said the physician in Atlanta was Laura."

  "Close enough and you know it." He turned to look at her, forcing her to meet his gaze. "I'm calling that cop again tomorrow. And I'm going to keep calling until he faxes me that photo."

  Jillian looped her arm through Ty's and leaned her head on his shoulder. "You're a good man, Charlie Brown."

  * * *

  The Bloodsucker stood in the barn motionless, leaning on the shovel. It was growing dark quickly. The shadows were lengthening, and he could feel the darkness closing in on him.

  He had everything cleaned up here. He had burned his plastic clothing and the latex gloves in the pile of bloody sawdust out back. He'd also burned the sheet of plastic he'd used to line the trunk of his car; you could never be too careful with trace evidence. He had just shoveled a couple of wheelbarrows of fresh sawdust on the barn's dirt floor and returned the plastic chair to the workshop. He'd even tipped it upside down and thrown some musty feed sacks on top just for good measure. It had been years since there had been animals in this barn, since before he had come here, but the sacks were still around. He didn't know why.

  The Bloodsucker stared at the place where Kristen Addison had sat with him only four days ago. He had felt so good when she was here, talking to him. She had been just what he had dreamed up. She was good at conversation; she told him about her classes in college and about wanting to be a nurse. She was a good listener, too.

  What a sweet night they had spent together. As the blood had seeped from her body, he had been filled with her life's blood. Embodied by it. But the joy had been too short. It had all happened too quickly.

  That was why he had lost it for a minute, there. That was why he'd been so upset. Kristen didn't hold up her end. She didn't stay with him like she should have. It was her fault.

  He rested his chin on his hand, leaning on the shovel. What he wondered now was why he was not still experiencing that euphoria he had felt when Kristen had been with him. After all, she was what he had imagined she would be. She was all of it and more. So why was the feeling gone... drained from him the same way Kristen's blood was drained from her? Why, in place of the euphoria he had experienced, was there an overwhelming heaviness? A desperate sadness?

  He dropped down onto the bench seat of the old one-piece picnic table where he sat when he talked to the women. Sometimes had a little snack here or even read the paper to them.

  The Bloodsucker felt so bad that he wanted to cry. So lonely. He leaned on the table, resting his forehead on his hands. Why hadn't his joy with Kristen lasted longer? It couldn'
t have been her. She was perfect.

  Was it him?

  Stupid. Lazy. Worthless. Leech.

  Granny's words buzzed around his head like an angry bee, and he tried to swat them away.

  "No, it wasn't me. It was her," he said aloud, pushing Granny out of his head. "It was all her fault!"

  Max, who waited by the barn door, lifted his head at the sound of his master's voice.

  "It wasn't me," he repeated. "It was her. I thought she was right. But maybe she wasn't." He rose, gesturing with both hands. "She just wasn't."

  Then he thought about Jillian and the night he had seen both her and Kristen in the Addisons' yard. He had contemplated moving Jillian ahead in the line and then decided against it because changes in plans were always dangerous.

  But maybe he needed to be more flexible.

  The Bloodsucker felt a little flutter of excitement in his chest. Maybe that was what was wrong. It wasn't that Kristen's blood was bad. It was just the wrong blood. That night, it must have been his instinct that told him to take Jillian next. Lovely, distant Jillian, who did not know her real name.

  So maybe that was all he needed to lift his spirits. He needed Jillian.

  But this was too soon. Claire-Bear was about to be usurped by some task force organized by the Attorney General. She was angry, everyone said. Determined now to find the killer. Hunt him down. She'd been interviewing people, sneaky like. People he knew. People she should never have considered suspects, yet obviously did.

  It was only a matter of time before she interviewed him. His heart began to pound in his chest. What would he say?

  The Bloodsucker knew he needed to lay low for a while. A few weeks at least. He lifted his head to stare at the empty place where the chair had been. But he needed Jillian, he thought desperately. He needed her strength.

  So it was decided. He could hold off a few days, but Jillian would be next.

  Chapter 15

  Jillian made herself a grilled cheese sandwich for a late dinner and then went out to sit on the rail of the front porch so she could see the ocean while she dined. The moon was big and full tonight, so close and magical that it seemed as if she could reach out and touch it.

  She was in a quirky mood tonight. Ty had gone out with friends. He had said he might stop by later, might not. They had left it at that, already beginning the process of going their separate ways. She didn't mind being alone, but she found she was restless. She was ready to move on, not sure where to go. Not even sure she should go at all. But Ty was leaving in two days, and her month's rental of the cottage would be up then, too. She needed to make up her mind.

  She had run into sleazy Seth at the mini-mart this morning, and he told her that, so far, no one had rented the cottage for the month of August. It was open, for the same discounted price, if she was interested. He said that not only were tourists not coming to Albany Beach in the numbers they usually did, but that he'd had multiple cancellations this week after news of Kristen's murder was spread in local and national newspapers and on all the news broadcasts.

  The town, dependent upon the tourist trade to survive, was heading for serious financial trouble. A town meeting was being called by the city council next week to discuss their situation. By then, the state's task force would be set up to catch the killer. Seth said everyone was counting on the state police being sent to accomplish what their local police had not—catching the killer.

  Jillian sipped her water bottle thinking about what a raw deal Claire Drummond was getting. She'd run into her several times in the last couple of days, and it was obvious not only that the police chief was working hard to solve the case, but that she was taking these women's death personally. Jillian couldn't help thinking that if this were a male chief of police, the state wouldn't be so quick to jump in and take over. And she didn't care what Seth said about this experienced team of law enforcement officers coming into town to catch the killer; she was laying her bets on Claire.

  Jillian peeled the crust off one half of her sandwich and munched on it, her thoughts straying back to her own woes. Ty had called the Atlanta cop again the day after Kristen's funeral to ask about the photo being faxed again. He had been furious to discover that Detective Whidey was off for the week and wouldn't return until the following Monday. Ty insisted he wasn't going to give up; he was going to have that photo of Dr. Laura Simpson if he had to ride his motorcycle to Atlanta to get it.

  Jillian smiled to herself at the thought of his youthful indignation. She really was going to miss him. She wished he didn't have to go so soon. But he did, and that meant it was time for her to make a decision as to what she was going to do. Where she was going to go.

  One of her options was to stay at the cottage another month and work for Millie through Labor Day, but then what? After the first week of September, the shop would only be open on weekends; her friend wouldn't have the income to continue paying an employee. And was staying another month just delaying having to make a decision as to what would come next?

  She was considering going to New Jersey. A part of her knew that Miss Ruth Williams, who would ninety-seven on her next birthday, couldn't possibly be right about Jillian being this Lori or Laurie from Jersey who had stayed at the cottage as a child. But a tiny part of her wondered if it could possibly be true.

  In a way, it would make sense. And make her feel a little saner. From the first day, Jillian had had the feeling she had been in this cottage before. Even though the name of the town, the name of the street, didn't jog any memories, it was the little things that made her almost certain she had been here. Things like the pattern on the old china dishes and the layout of the kitchen and dining room that gave her that hair-raising sense of déjà vu.

  As for being from Atlanta, but not actually from there, that made sense, too. Jillian had learned that sweet tea was a favorite drink among Southerners; drinking it was practically a pastime. A transplant from New Jersey who had lived in Atlanta for years would certainly have accepted such a practice, but she would not necessarily have picked up the accent of the region. The idea that she might be a physician still seemed pretty far-fetched, but so was waking up in a hospital having no idea who you were or how you got there. And then how unbelievable was driving into a town where there was a serial killer on the loose, killing blond-haired, blue-eyed women like yourself?

  Talk about fact being stranger than fiction.

  The possibility that Jillian might be this Dr. Laura Simpson forced her to extrapolate even further. If she was Laura, what had she done to cause someone to shoot her? Had she threatened someone? Committed a crime? Was she wanted by police?

  The detective had not said anything to Ty about Dr. Laura Simpson being wanted, so she doubted she was a wanted criminal. But if her recollection was accurate, she was certainly an adulteress. That wasn't the kind of person Jillian would even want to be friends with. How could she accept that she could be that kind of person?

  Jillian heard Ty's Chief rumble up the street and smiled to herself. A minute later, he strolled around the corner of the house, barefoot.

  He climbed up onto the railing beside her. "Hey."

  "Hey, yourself," she said.

  His brow knitted as he stared out over the dunes. "Seen my sunglasses?"

  She grinned. "Yup. On my kitchen table."

  "Cool."

  Then they just sat in comfortable silence, staring out at the ocean bathed in moonlight.

  * * *

  The Bloodsucker walked the beach in his bare feet, enjoying the cool sand between his toes and the rush of water that was pleasantly startling each time it washed ashore. He wondered why he didn't spend more time on the beach than he did. He liked it here. It was peaceful and yet exhilarating at the same time.

  Granny had hated the beach, and even though they had lived so close to it, he only remembered coming a handful of times and that had been on school trips.

  He turned to look up toward the beach. Over the dunes, through the grass, he cou
ld see the tiny white dilapidated cottage and the silhouette of a woman sitting beside a man on the porch rail.

  The moon was big and full tonight. Not a good night to be here. To be watching...

  When the Bloodsucker left his house, he hadn't intended to come to the beach. His intention had been to go for a walk on the boardwalk. In an effort to draw some business from neighboring beach communities, the city council had sponsored a "Battle of the Bands" tonight. In a large, stage-like gazebo, different local bands were playing for the crowd. Blue grass. Country and Western. Some good old-fashioned rock.

  He had thought he would go listen for a while, just to get out, see some familiar faces, maybe have a piece of pizza or an ice cream cone. He thought getting out might break him out of the funk he was experiencing. It wasn't depression; he refused to use that word.

  But before he realized what he was doing, like the night he had gone into the cottage, he found himself, not on the busy boardwalk, but in Jillian's quiet neighborhood. He found himself on the beach, in shorts but long sleeves. Always long sleeves. Watching her.

  He glanced at Jillian and Ty perched on the porch rail and wondered if they would take a walk. He looked up and down the beach, which was fairly empty tonight due to the entertainment on the boardwalk. If they walked out on the beach, he might approach her. Maybe say hello, ask them why they weren't on the boardwalk tonight, listening to the bands. Would Jillian smile shyly, laugh, or would he get that look of disapproval he sometimes saw on her face? Would Ty say something about this being one of his last nights in Albany Beach before returning to Penn State, and wanting to be alone with Jillian?

  How would the Bloodsucker respond? Would he give a casual wave, tell them to have a nice evening, and walk away? Or would he...

  His pulse quickened.

  The Bloodsucker had no real interest in the young man, but he wondered if it might be fun to kill him. Just to see if he could.

  His mind raced forward, trying to catch up to his pulse.

  How on earth would he manage two of them? He would have to be very clever.