The Seventh Victim

by Mary Burton

  She glanced up at the large clock positioned above the stainless steel sinks. Five forty-five. Class started in fifteen minutes. “I’ve still got the glasses to run through. And we’re shorthanded since Gretchen . . . left.”

  He wiped his hand on his white apron. “I’ll do the glasses. Don’t be late for class.”

  “You sure? I can be a little late.” She didn’t want to lose this job. She’d be eighteen soon. Her father would stop paying child support and there’d be no reason for her mother and stepfather to keep her around.

  He nudged her away from the dishwasher. “Go or you are fired.”

  She grinned as she untied her apron and hung it up. “You’re the best.”

  Chuckling, he loaded glasses into the next tray to go into the dishwasher. “That’s what I keep telling everyone.”

  “I’ll be back tomorrow right after school.”

  “Can’t wait.”

  Danni grabbed her backpack from Mack’s office, hoisted it on her shoulder, and hurried across campus toward the brick building that housed the art department. She’d not stopped to analyze why she liked the class. Likely it had more to do with its unstructured nature. Adjunct Professor Lara Church expected her students to work hard, but she had no desire to babysit. Art was subjective, she’d say, but it was also time-consuming and hard. If you put the work into her class, you’d do well. If not, your grade would suffer.

  Lara’s speech had hardly put the fear of God in Danni. She’d seen enough shit in her life not to be intimidated by Lara Church. But in Lara she’d seen another wounded soul whom she happened to like.

  The photography classroom was large with long, wide windows that allowed lots of sunlight. It was furnished with ten big wooden worktables that each could seat four students. There were twenty-five students in the class, which often meant she could claim an entire table for herself. She liked working alone. Other than a couple of other kids, most were jerk-offs. Jocks, cheerleaders, deadheads looking for that easy A from the school’s greenest professor.

  So far, most of the kids were just getting by and would be hard-pressed to finish their portfolios in the next week and a half. Danni had had to pawn several bracelets to get the money for her digital camera, but she’d more than gotten her money’s worth. She’d snapped thousands of pictures over the semester and was kinda pleased at the way her own portfolio was coming along. Who’d have thought Danni Smith, the kid who hated high school, would ever be thriving in college?

  The kids ambled into the classroom and took their seats. The jocks tended to stick together, and they always sat close to the cheerleaders’ table. Everybody was always looking to score.

  At exactly seven o’clock Lara Church breezed into the classroom, a coffee in one hand, backpack on her shoulder, and her dog, Lincoln, in tow. Danni was pretty sure that dogs weren’t allowed in the classroom, but Lara had not cared about rules. Lincoln stayed with her.

  “Today in the darkroom I’ll be looking at edging and burning techniques.” She set her coffee on her lectern and her backpack on the floor beside her. Lincoln stretched out and went to sleep. “But before we head into the darkroom I wanted to toss out a word of caution. I was having a look at the photos some of you downloaded to the class site, and I see you’re having a little trouble with mood. Too much light. Flat photos. Washed-out images. Many of the photos will need to be redone, but I’m on hand as always to answer questions.”

  A bit of sniggering from the cheerleaders had Lara tensing. “You all are adults and can use your time this evening as you wish, but I’ll expect you to upload your pictures to me by eight tomorrow night. No photos means an F. And, please, no photos taken earlier in the semester. This last portfolio is about applying what you’ve learned.”

  A tall jock named Tim yawned and checked his watch.

  “If you need to leave, Mr. Gregory, go right ahead. But I should remind you that you’ve got a lot of work to do.”

  Tim winked at a cheerleader. “Whatever.”

  “Your failing grade. Not mine.”

  The football jock leaned back in his chair, narrowed eyes glaring at Lara, who appeared unconcerned by his angry stare. Instead of backing down, she tossed out one or two more instructions and dismissed the group to the photo lab.

  Danni grinned, not sure if Lara’s dismissal of Tim was super brave or just crazy.

  Beck arrived down in San Antonio just after seven, parked at the Ranger offices, and climbed the steps to Santos’s office. He found Santos at his desk, leaning forward and frowning over paperwork.

  “That bad?” Beck said.

  Santos glanced up and shrugged. “I hate paperwork. Hate. It.”

  Beck laughed. “What cop doesn’t?”

  “You’d think it would get easier with time.”

  He eased into the chair in front of Santos’s desk.

  “I had an interesting visitor,” Beck said. He updated Santos on Raines’s arrival and his own visit to Lara Church.

  Santos leaned back in his chair. “What’s Lara Church like?”

  “She’s wound a little tight when she’s approached by a stranger. She held a shotgun on me.”

  Santos raised a brow. “And?”

  “I convinced her to put it down.”

  “And you didn’t arrest her?”

  “Having read her file I’m not surprised by her reaction. The Strangler left her in bad shape.” He listed key details related to the seven-year-old attack. “The Texas victims fit a profile that is more like Lara than the Seattle victims. Students. Ready to move out of state.”

  Santos nodded. “The killer’s tastes changed.”

  “Seems so.” He flexed his fingers. “Did you go back to the first victim’s site and look for the penny?”

  “We looked. Took metal detectors. But we didn’t find it.” He tapped his index finger on his desk. “But we got a lot of rain last month. Gulley washers. Could have washed away.”

  “Send more officers out there. Work the area like an archeological dig. I need to know if the first murder is connected to the second.”

  Santos nodded. “I’ll have another team out there tomorrow.”

  “Good.”

  “So what is the deal with Raines?”

  “First stab, I’d say he’s a lot like us. A cop with a case that got under his skin that he can’t forget.”

  “He came a long way to follow up.”

  “How far would you go to track down a killer?”

  “A guy who kills women.” Santos’s expression turned pensive. “Damn far.”

  “He’s not the kind of guy that will sit and wait for my report. He believes this is his case.” Beck flexed his fingers.

  “Escort him to the border.”

  Beck rubbed the back of his neck. “He might be of help.”

  “Odds are he’s going to be more trouble than he’s worth.”

  Lara nodded to the students as they filed out of the classroom and back through the classroom. Danni, the girl who usually sat alone in the back, hefted her backpack on her shoulder, eyes downcast, left the room without a word.

  The kid was a bit of an odd duck, but perhaps that was just being a high school kid in a college setting. She didn’t say much, could get hostile if approached by other students, and had disaster written all over her. Yet, she was brilliant when it came to photography. She had an eye for setting and detail that none of her other students had. Sure, some had the techniques mastered, but they failed to inject emotion into their work like Danni.

  And considering the girl had not even known how to use her camera when she’d arrived ten weeks ago, her progress amazed Lara. Teachers at the university often talked about students. There were always a handful that made the grades without effort, and then there were the kids who didn’t quite care. But the kids who kept the teachers returning to the classroom were the rare ones who worked hard and wanted to learn. Danni was one of those students.

  A knock on her door had her lifting her head to a frien
dly face. “Jonathan.”

  Jonathan Matthews’s family had lived on the land that adjoined her grandmother’s. There was an eight-year age difference between them, but he’d always been kind. The summer before her senior year of high school they’d become friends when he’d hired her to work part-time in his woodworking shop. After her attack, her grandmother, too ill to travel, had sent Jonathan to check on Lara.

  When he’d arrived at the Seattle hospital, she’d been sitting up in her bed, stiff and so afraid. She could still remember him lingering in her doorway as if he just didn’t know what to do, his large hands gripping the umbrella in his hands. She’d held out her arms to him and he’d gone to her immediately, holding her close and enveloping her in his scent, a combination of fresh pine and linseed oil.

  “Lara, I’m so sorry,” he whispered in her ear. “I should have been there for you.”

  Her voice caught in her ragged throat. “Jonathan. How did you know?”

  “Your grandmother called me.”

  She wept, letting loose of the grief and hurt. “Thank you.”

  “Who did this to you?” His breath brushed hot against her cheek.

  She pulled back. “I can’t remember.”

  “You don’t remember?”

  Tears streamed down her face as she shook her head. “Nothing.”

  He’d been patient and loving and attended to her every need, taking leave from work in his woodworking business for weeks. He’d told her over and over again that he’d protect her and care for her, but the specter of not knowing had lingered over her like Damocles’s sword. After eight weeks of police questions, sleepless nights, and jumping at every shadow, she’d left Jonathan and Seattle behind.

  When she’d returned to Austin, he’d been thrilled to see her and had offered to take her to dinner. To her relief he’d not brought up Seattle, and when he’d told her about the teaching job, she’d gladly accepted.

  “So how were the kids today?” he asked. Jonathan had a long, lean body accentuated by loose-fitting jeans and the V-neck sweaters that he favored. He wore his light brown hair long and tied back at the nape of his neck.

  “Just like you warned me. Some love it, most tolerate it, and some hate it. How are your kids?”

  “Mine aren’t kids. It’s a master’s class, but like you I’ve got some that don’t love it. Some even think they know more than me and they can be real ... challenging.”

  She shut off her computer. “Nice to know it’s not just me.”

  “I’ve been at this for ten years. Believe me, most teachers share the same frustrations.” He shifted his stance from side to side. “Any pieces you think will work for the student art show?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes. I’ve got one student who’s doing some amazing work. I’ll be sure to talk to her on Thursday and ask her if I can use one of her pieces. What about you?”

  “A stunning cherry chest and an ornate desk. Both students outdid themselves.”

  “Great.”

  “The president of the university plans to attend the opening reception, and he’s bringing board members. Rumors are again flying about budget cuts, so we’ve got to put on a show to hold on to what we have. You are going to submit a piece, aren’t you?”

  A faint smile tugged at the edge of her lips. “Are you sure you want my work? Kinda dark.”

  He laughed. “Maybe avoid the murder scenes and use the images of the Alamo. The Alamo is always a hit in these parts.”

  In recent months, she hadn’t limited her work to just crime scenes but had also started shooting pictures of battlegrounds where death had also left its mark. Though the Alamo was a scene of great bloodshed, it was also a source of pride for Texans. “I’m not so lost in my art that I don’t understand the practical side of life. I’ll print and mount the Alamo series.”

  “You’ve come a long way.”

  “Really?”

  “In Seattle, you were all about career and goals and doing only what you thought was best.”

  That was the first time he’d mentioned Seattle since she’d arrived in Austin. “A taste of real life tempered me.”

  He frowned. “Lara, you’ve been back eight months, and we’ve not talked about Seattle.”

  She stiffened. “I appreciate that you’ve not gone there.”

  He dragged long fingers through his hair. “Maybe we should talk about it.”

  She shoved her laptop in her backpack. “You were great to me while we were in Seattle. I wish I could have held my act together, but I don’t want to talk about it.”

  He nodded. “Deal.”

  Relief washed over her.

  He kissed her on the cheek. “Friends?”

  “Yes. And you’ll come to my opening this Friday?”

  He winked. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  It was past ten and his coffee sat cold and virtually untouched as he leafed through the pages of the newspaper one more time. He’d started with the crime section and found a small article.

  Of course he understood why his first victim had gotten so little play. He’d left her too far off the road, so it had been over a month before she was discovered. There’d been little to find, thanks to the elements and animals. It made sense that no one would realize who had arrived in town.

  But the second victim was different. He’d left her close to the road, and she’d been found quickly. He’d seen the cops and the crime scene roped off with yellow tape as he’d driven by on the interstate.

  Didn’t the cops see that this murder was different from most? No crime of passion, it had been a cold, calculated staging to get their attention.

  Frustration gnawed at his gut as he drummed his fingers over the newspaper. Where was the coverage?

  How many bodies would it take for the cops to connect the dots? Two wasn’t enough? He shoved out a sigh and sat back in the chair.

  In the Entertainment section there’d been an ad placed by the gallery featuring Lara’s show. It was a small ad, just two-by-two, but he reread the details a half dozen times. The opening would be a fun affair, and he looked forward to it.

  Anticipation had the tips of his fingers burning as he reached for the red book embossed with the gold letters, The Book of Blair.

  After Lincoln’s late-night walk, Lara locked up the house and moved into the bathroom to brush her teeth. Her limbs ached with fatigue, and she was ready to sleep. After she rinsed her mouth and raised her head, she stared at her face, wondering for the millionth time what he’d seen in her all those years ago that made him want to kill her. She ran long fingers through her light brown hair and drew in a breath.

  “He didn’t see you as a person.” She repeated the words Seattle’s forensic psychologist had told her over and over again. “You were just an object. A means to one of his sick ends. For him, it wasn’t personal.”

  “Well, it felt pretty damn personal.” After brushing her hair she stripped off her clothes, hauled on an oversized T-shirt, and then climbed into bed. Lincoln jumped on the bed and curled up at the edge.

  She shut off the light and closed her eyes, listening for any kind of sound that might make her jump. Outside a breeze blew, and the branches from a tree by the house scraped against the windows. She pulled her blankets up close to her chin.

  She thought about the front door lock and wondered if she should recheck it. Damn. It had been years since she’d been hung up on locks and outdoor sounds. And she knew she worried tonight because of James Beck’s visit.

  He was doing his best to drag her back into that old, dark world of shrinks and crime scene photos that had nearly driven her insane.

  Lara had barely gotten out of that world with her sanity. It had taken nearly seven years in exile, but she was finally healthy and whole again, and she’d be damned if she’d go back. Beck would not take her back to hell.

  Healthy and whole.

  Her laughter echoed in the dark room. Lincoln perked up his ears and grunted in response. “And w
hat are you doing, Ms. Lara Church, at the crack of dawn in the morning?” She hesitated and then answered herself, “You’re taking pictures of a murder scene.”

  She rolled on her side and curled her body around her pillow. “Yeah, that’s healthy.”

  Chapter 8

  Wednesday, May 22, 4:45 AM

  Lincoln glanced up from the passenger seat of the truck, yawned, and laid his head back down as Lara climbed out of the front seat of her truck cab. Eyes heavy with sleep and joints stiff after a restless night’s sleep, she stretched her arms and glanced at the night sky perched on the edge of dawn.

  When her alarm had sounded at three thirty she’d been so tempted to roll back over and go to sleep. She’d tossed and turned too much last night and had not gotten more than a full hour of sleep at any given time.

  But as much as she craved the warmth and security of her bed, she needed to get up and photograph this spot. Her art wasn’t a job. It was a compulsion, a jealous mistress that required her attention and kept her from straying too long.

  She’d exited the interstate onto the access road and then, spotting a flat stretch, drove off the side road onto the dry, cracked land. The truck bumped and rocked as she crossed to the murder scene. She’d parked as close as she could to the site, knowing she’d have to move quickly to prepare her negatives and catch the rising sun.

  “Stay put, boy. See you in a bit.” As the dog relaxed against the seat, she shut the cab door, moved to the back, and opened the lid of the camper top.

  Between the cobbled sections of clouds, stars winked clear and bright. The scent of rain hung in the air.

  Switching on her flashlight she did one last inspection of her equipment and then studied the path ahead.