The Seventh Victim

by Mary Burton

  She raised her hand to silence him. “I don’t want to hear your excuses. Do your work or fail.”

  “The coach says art is just fluff.”

  “It’s fluff that’ll get you kicked off the team.”

  “You’ll lose your job,” he countered.

  She grinned at his attempt to threaten. “Mr. Gregory, I was nearly strangled to death seven years ago. Do you think losing a job scares me?”

  He frowned but didn’t speak. Several of the kids sniggered nervously.

  “I can promise that you won’t pass if you don’t do the work. And whether I’m gone or not you’ll still have an F, and you won’t be playing ball in the fall.”

  She hoped her big speech would prompt everyone to sit up a little straighter and pay closer attention, but, other than the random rustling of pages, there was little change from last week.

  She dismissed the group into the darkroom, where they worked for the next couple of hours. When lab ended, the students shuffled past her, some glancing at her as if they’d wanted to say more. But under Lincoln’s watchful eyes, none voiced their thoughts and each left.

  Danni stopped at her desk. “Hey, if you want to shoot more pictures, I’m in.”

  Lara smiled. “Thanks, but it might be wiser if you stayed clear of me for the time being.”

  “Because of the other dead women?”

  “I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

  Danni straightened to her full five foot one inch. “I’ve seen my share of shit.”

  A half smile tugged at the edge of Lara’s lips as she stared into the girl’s world-weary eyes. “No need to see any more. Thanks, Danni, and as soon as I get the all-clear I’ll give you a call.”

  “You better.”

  When the last student left, she packed up her bag and breathed a sigh of relief. “Okay, Lincoln, let’s take a walk.”

  His ears perked up and tail wagged, he followed her down the staircase and out the back door. The air was hot and the sky clear. This would be a good day to shoot pictures and she mentally inventoried her developing supplies.

  When she reached her truck a white paper flapped under her windshield wiper on the driver’s side. A glance around confirmed that the same flyer was stuck under all the wipers. An ad. She got into the car, started the A/C and waited until it had cooled a little before she let Lincoln hop up into the passenger seat. She tossed her backpack on the seat between them.

  She grabbed the flyer and as she balled it up she caught sight of words scrawled in red magic marker over the advertisement. Carefully, she unfurled the paper to read: The killer is close.

  Lara snorted her disgust as she stared at the childish handwriting, reminiscent of Tim Gregory’s. She’d nearly been strangled to death. Been on the run for seven years. And now this little creep thought he’d scare her with words.

  She’d have gone to the dean, but knew she’d need more than an anonymous note before sanctions would ever be levied on a star football player. “Nice try, Mr. Gregory.” Resisting the urge to toss the note, she shoved it in her backpack as she slid behind the wheel and slammed the door behind her.

  If the damn note had done anything it had solidified her decision to stand her ground. She wasn’t running this time. She wasn’t.

  The locals kept talking about the day’s milder temperatures, but Raines believed Texas was hotter than hell. He longed to return to Seattle with its cool misty days, great coffee, and familiar streets.

  Staring down at his plate of fried eggs, toast, and grits he fished his cell phone out of his breast pocket and dialed his home number. He waited through the rings until he heard the answering machine featuring his wife’s voice: “You’ve reached the Raines residence, leave a message at the beep, and we’ll get back to you.”

  Raines checked his watch and realized he hadn’t allowed for the time difference. It was four in Seattle and Susan had left work and was hustling over to Tara’s school. He dialed Susan’s number hoping to catch her before she reached the chaos of the carpool line.

  After several rings, her voice mail kicked in, and he waited until he heard the beep before lowering his voice a notch. “Susan and Tara, it’s me, Mike, a.k.a. Dad. I’m still in Austin and still chasing a bad guy, but I hope to be home real soon. Call me if you get the chance.”

  Loneliness knotted in his chest as he thought about his two girls. God, but he missed them.

  He needed to catch this son of a bitch and fast so that he could get home to them. He’d given Beck his files and six days’ time. His patience had worn thin. And his promise to stay away from Lara had officially expired.

  Flipping open a weathered notebook, he checked the notes he’d scribbled on Lara. Included was a detailed sketch of her schedule. Monday. Her lab would be finished. He glanced out the café window and stared at the bright sky. He was no artist by any stretch, but if he were a photographer, he’d haul out his camera on a day like today and shoot pictures.

  He dug ten bucks out of his pocket, dropped it on the table, and glanced toward the diner’s manager. “Got to go, Mack. Money’s on the table.” In just six days he had an established routine with the owner. Susan and Tara would have had great fun with that tidbit.

  “Glad having you, Mr. Raines. See you for dinner?” Mack said.

  “Wouldn’t miss it.”

  He grabbed a handful of mints as he walked past the cashier and headed out toward his rental car. When he traveled he always rented the same kind of car, Toyota Camry. For the most part the models didn’t change too much from year to year, which meant he didn’t have to spend needless time fumbling with buttons and knobs.

  Soon he was headed south out of town on I-35. When he rolled down the interstate he spotted the black truck parked on the side of the road. Lara’s truck. He almost laughed. Folks said he was rote, but it was his experience that most people were just as predictable. Artists shot their pictures on somewhat of a schedule, cops stuck to old habits that had seen them through too many crime scenes, and killers stuck to patterns.

  As he drove past the truck and headed for the exit and off-ramp to the access road, he knew it would be this killer’s habits that tripped him up. He liked blondes. He liked dressing them in white. He liked his pennies. He had violent sexual urges. So far he’d killed three women and Raines knew in his gut that there were going to be more. He had no reason to stop until someone made him stop.

  And Raines intended to be that someone.

  He pulled up behind her truck and parked. He could see in the distance that she had her big tripod bellows camera out and was preparing to shoot.

  Getting out of his car he could see that she had that damn dog with her. Lincoln. The thing looked more like a wolf than dog, and Raines wouldn’t have been surprised if the dog was a wolf. He knew a lot about her, but he wasn’t sure if she’d picked the dog up in Virginia or on her way to Maine last summer.

  Careful to stay upwind of the dog, he watched Lara as she stared at her antique lens. No detail or imperfection was too small. Finally satisfied, she replaced the cap on the lens, put the negative holder in the camera, and removed the lens cap. By his count, she waited a full minute before she replaced the lens cover.

  She removed the glass negative, still encased in its wooden holder and turned. When she glimpsed him for the first time, she dropped her negative and it hit the rock-hard ground. Despite the casing, glass shattered.

  Her expression hardened.

  She took several steps toward him. “Detective Mike Raines.”

  “Ms. Lara Church. It’s been a long time.” The years had been good to her, leaning out her features and adding maturity he preferred.

  “Not long enough.”

  “I was at your opening.”

  The dog picked up on her edgy tone, and his ears slid back on his head as he stared at Raines. “I didn’t see you.”

  He certainly didn’t expect a grand welcome, but he also wasn’t up for a fight either. “Might want to keep a hold
on that dog.”

  “Why? I think I would enjoy watching him eat you up.”

  “I’d hate to shoot him.”

  Her gaze turned murderous. “You’d shoot my dog?”

  “If he came after me, yes.” He shoved out his frustration in a breath as he slid his hands into his pockets. “Look, I didn’t come here to stir up trouble.”

  Easterly winds blew the wisps of hair in her eyes. She swatted them away like buzzing flies. “Of course you came here to stir up trouble. That is what you do best, Detective.”

  “No need to call me detective anymore. I retired six years ago. I’m a private detective now.”

  “What’s that mean? You’re going to stir up my life on your own dime instead of Seattle’s?”

  “I’m still after the Strangler.” He rattled the change in his pocket. “I knew you were in Austin within weeks of your moving here. When the cop called and said the murders were near you, I knew the Seattle Strangler was active again.”

  She shifted her stance, uncomfortable now. “You kept tabs on me?”

  No hint of apology. “I always said you were the key to this killer. It made sense to keep an eye on you.”

  “Why would you care? You’re retired.”

  “You can take the cop out of the job, but you can’t take the job out of the cop. This was the case I could never let go.”

  She shook her head. “Leave me be, Detective Raines. I don’t want anything to do with you.”

  “Look, I know I was a bit heavy-handed with you back in Seattle.”

  She knelt to pick up the negative case. Shards of glass rattled inside. “A bit heavy-handed? I tried to help you. I tried to remember, but you wouldn’t accept that I couldn’t remember ... didn’t have the memories. You followed me around. You gave me no peace.”

  “I still believe those memories are locked in your brain.”

  “You don’t know anything. And I need for you to leave me now.”

  “I’ve met with Beck. He’s got my old case files, and I studied his crime scenes. He wants you to remember as well.”

  A bitter, sad smile curled her lips. “Why doesn’t it surprise me that you two are working together?”

  “He’s not so different than me. A case gets under his skin, and he can’t let it go.”

  She held up her hands. “I have nothing else to say to you.” Lincoln growled, but she kept her hand on his collar. “Leave.”

  “I’m not leaving Austin until I crack this case, Lara. I’m not. Whoever this son of a bitch is, he is killing women, and you can bet your last dollar that he is coming after you sooner or later.”

  “If I’m such a target why didn’t he just kill me seven years ago? Or when he knew I’d moved to Austin? Why drag it out?” she half shouted.

  “Because he’s like a cat. Cats don’t just kill their prey. They toy with them first. He wants to see you afraid. He wants you to suffer. And when you are completely terrified he’s going to kill you.”

  Color drained from her face.

  “Lara, please,” he said softly. “I don’t want to be an enemy. I want to work with you. I want to catch this guy.”

  Dark circles smudged the skin under his eyes. He looked paler to her, but she wasn’t sure if stress had taken its toll, or she’d just become accustomed to Beck’s deeply tanned skin.

  If he’d bullied or ranted, she’d have dug her heels in deeper. Even his trademark edge, which she remembered from their first meeting, had vanished.

  “Ms. Church, I am Detective Raines with the Seattle Police Department.”

  Eyelids so heavy with sedatives fluttered open. Her neck ached so badly she could barely sit. She’d had no idea how many neck muscles she used just to sit up.

  Raines’s black jacket and turtleneck combined with slicked-back blond hair made the lines of his face all the sharper. Dark eyes void of compassion glared at her as if she’d committed a crime.

  She moistened her lips and stared at him.

  A metal chair scraped across the floor as he pulled it closer to the bed. He sat and leaned close. The scent of his soap mingled with stale cigarettes. “I’ve spoken to the doctors, and they told me you don’t remember. But there has to be some detail about this john you remember?”

  Hazy, bruised senses sharpened. “What?”

  “The john.” A lazy, knowing grin accompanied a lingering look. “How’d you meet him? Did you hook up with him on the Internet like the others?”

  “No!”

  “Then how? Come on, Lara, it’s just the two of us. You can tell me, and I’ll keep it to myself.”

  Confused thoughts rattled in her brain, making it impossible to string the right ones together. “I’m not a prostitute.”

  His grin turned bitter and mocking. “So maybe you like to call it something else. Dating service. Escort. Massage. I really don’t care how you earn your money, honey. I just want the guy that attacked you.”

  The IV in her arm pulled when she tried to sit up straighter. “I’m not a hooker.”

  He tugged her sheet closer to her collarbone. “I got nothing against whores, honey. I don’t. I just want this guy.”

  Tears clogged in an already raw throat and burned. “I’m not a whore.”

  “Look, if you’re worried Mom, Dad, or boyfriend are going to find out about how you make your spending money, I won’t tell. It will be our secret. Just tell me how you met the guy.”

  The hot Texas wind couldn’t erase the chill of the memory. “You’ve changed your tactics, Detective. Do you remember that insulting me didn’t work?”

  He shook his head, his shoulders heavy with regret. The lines around his eyes were deeper and the graying around his temples was thicker. “I was exhausted when I met you initially. I’d been chasing this guy nonstop for months. You were my first break, and I was desperate for anything that would crack the case.” He held out his hands in supplication. “I wasn’t fair to you. I’m sorry.”

  The man she’d known seven years ago would never have apologized. He’d been so hard, unyielding, and driven, she’d often joked that he’d have sold his own mother to solve the case. “This kinder, gentler Detective Raines just doesn’t ring true with me.”

  A frown deepened the lines around his mouth. “I’ve changed a lot in the last seven years.”

  “So have I.”

  His jaw tightened and relaxed. “Why won’t you work with me?”

  “Because,” she said calmly, “you’re an asshole.”

  His eyes widened with surprise, but instead of getting angry, he laughed. “I won’t argue that. In fact, I’ve been called worse.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out a card. “I’m hoping we can put the past behind us and work together to find this guy, Lara.” He held out the card. “This isn’t just about you. Other women have died and more will die if we don’t catch this guy.”

  As tempted as she was to tell him to shove the card, she accepted it. Nervously, she flicked the edge with her thumb. “I don’t remember anything.”

  “I’ve seen your exhibit. Something is locked in your mind, Lara. Something dark and scary, and it is begging to get out, otherwise you’d not be standing here.”

  “I know the attack left a mark on me. I’ve never denied that.”

  He glanced toward her camera and the distant horizon. “It can’t be safe being out here alone.”

  “I’ve never had any trouble.”

  He shook his head. “Killers often return to their crime scenes. Did you know that?”

  “Yes.”

  “So are you trying to run into this guy?”

  “No.” She shook her head. “No.”

  “Come on. It’s the most ugly, hot, piece-of-shit land I’ve seen in years. No artist would give it a second look.”

  She didn’t respond.

  “And what are you going to do if you do run into the Strangler? The dog will help, but if this guy carries a weapon the dog is going to get hurt.”

  She glanced down at Lincoln, k
nowing she now relied on his strength.

  “Do you carry a gun?” he said.

  She studied the open land around him. Her shotgun was in the truck. If he were the killer and standing this close to her, she might not make it to the truck in time.

  “If it’s not in your hand it won’t do you a bit of good out here.”

  He was right. She stood in the middle of nowhere at a murder scene. What was she doing out here?

  He nodded slowly. “Help Beck and me do our jobs. We need to catch this nutcase.”

  “You and Beck. The dynamic duo.”

  “I am not the bad guy, Lara. I’m on your side.”

  She watched him stride back toward his rental car. He moved with the quiet confidence of a man on a mission.

  Lara didn’t believe for one moment that he was on her side.

  Cassidy was pleased with Lara’s exhibit sales. Since the article had appeared, she’d had brisk traffic in the gallery. People were curious about Lara Church and her photography. This morning’s gallery visitors were simply curious. But by this afternoon, there’d been a surprising number of return visitors and real interest in several pieces. By close of business she’d had two significant sales from a couple visiting the area and a local.

  She clicked on the computer and logged into her online store account. She’d been selling her art collections online for a couple of years, recognizing that her market was far larger than Austin. Her market, with the right kind of Internet buzz, was the world.

  She checked her e-mail and discovered that someone had hit the Buy button on an image titled Near Death. She had set the price high on this piece because it was the jewel of the collection. Because it had been taken in Seattle, Cassidy now realized this was the spot where Lara had almost lost her life.

  Cassidy blinked and reread the screen. The image had indeed sold, and the payment had been credited to her account.

  She sat back in her chair and pushed her glasses up on her nose. “Well, hot damn. That’s gonna be a nice paycheck for both of us.” She quickly e-mailed the seller to confirm shipping instructions. The seller immediately responded and confirmed the San Antonio address.