by Sharon Sala
The night wore on. Around midnight, D.J. called it quits and crawled into bed. No need to rush all over the state like a bat out of hell. Patience was a virtue. From all the info in Gray Wolf’s file, Bourdain had been after him for years. Another day or so couldn’t matter.
Eleven
J onah walked back into the diner as if nothing had happened, smiled at Harold, then put his arm around Luce, who had been nervously nursing her cup of hot chocolate.
“That looks good,” he said.
She pushed it aside. “Is everything okay?”
He set the cup back in front of her, then brushed a curl from the corner of her eye.
“Everything is fine, honey. Finish your hot chocolate and then we’ll head home, okay?”
Harold liked seeing someone be kind to Luce. She was such a solitary person, he’d thought she would never get herself a man friend. He did think they might have rushed things a bit, but Harold wasn’t one to judge, and they both seemed happy. He hoped it lasted, for both their sakes.
“How’s Miz Bridie doing?” Harold asked.
Jonah smiled. “She’s fine. If she keeps cooking for me like she has been, I’m going to get too big for my clothes.”
Harold grinned. “She’s a corker, that’s for sure. Don’t see much of her since her Franklin passed. She comes into town now and then, but nothing like she used to.”
Jonah frowned. “Really?”
“Yeah, she’s become a real stranger.”
“Where did she like to go when she came into town?”
“Oh, she and Ida Mae Coley used to buddy up and eat lunch together, and if I’m remembering right, Bridie is…was quite a reader. She had herself a library card and everything. Course, she might not see so good to read anymore. That might be one of the reasons why she quit coming down to the library and all. That and the fact that she doesn’t drive anymore.”
“How does she get her groceries?” Jonah asked, suddenly aware that he’d been oblivious to a lot of things concerning Bridie.
“I think she calls down to the supermarket with her list, and one of the boys who sacks up groceries usually drives her order up to her.”
“She has no other family in the area…no children?” Jonah asked.
Harold shook his head. “Nope. Her and Franklin never had any kids, and Bridie’s people were from Charleston. To my knowledge, they don’t visit.”
Jonah listened intently, absorbing Harold’s comments, and decided that he might need to have a little conversation with his boss lady, but not this evening, when he went back to do evening chores. He would wait until tomorrow when she was rested and he’d had time to think things through. Still, it saddened him to think that she’d become stranded in her house because of her age and having no one to help make things easier.
Luce was listening to the conversation without taking part, but she already knew Jonah well enough to know that he was thinking of a way to make life better for Bridie. He was such a good man—and such a beautiful one. She smiled to herself. After that, she had to quit thinking about what that healing touch of his did to her, or she was likely to make herself blush.
Luce finished her hot chocolate; then, while Jonah and Harold were still talking about Bridie, she went to the back room to get her coat. She put it on as she was walking back, then slung her purse over her shoulder. Without thinking, she stuffed her hands in her pockets. As she did, she felt paper beneath her fingers. She hadn’t noticed it earlier when she’d gone to the sheriff’s office, then remembered that she’d been carrying that manila envelope and hadn’t checked her pockets for anything.
Thinking it was probably an old grocery list, she pulled it out and started to throw it away, then recognized the blue paper and froze. Her hands were shaking, and her heart was pounding so hard she felt sick. She stood for a moment, staring down at the paper before she got the guts to unfolded it.
My hands are on your breasts and my dick is down your throat. How do you like it, bitch?
“Oh, Jesus…oh, Jonah…”
Luce went to her knees.
Harold jumped toward her, but Jonah was faster. He had her up and in his arms as she started to shake.
“He was here. In the diner. Sometime today, he was here. I fed the bastard. I poured his coffee. I cleaned up after his mess while he laughed in my face, and I didn’t know it. I didn’t know it!”
Harold was puzzled. His expression clearly said he had no idea what she meant, but Jonah did.
“Where was it?” he asked.
“In my pocket.” Then Luce started to cry. “In my pocket!” she yelled, and slapped the note into Jonah’s hands.
“What’s going on?” Harold asked as Jonah opened the note.
“I’ve been getting threatening notes from some stalker for months. Before, he’d left them at my house while I was here at work.” Then she slapped a table with the flat of her hand, enraged by the continuing threats. “Now he puts this in my coat, knowing I’ll find it, and that I’ll know he’s had his hand in my pocket. He’s laughing at me! The bastard is laughing at me!”
Harold was horrified. “I’ll call the sheriff.”
Jonah’s words were short and clipped. “We’ve already talked to the sheriff. I’ll handle this myself.” He pointed to Harold. “Take care of her until I get back.”
“I live over the diner,” Harold said. “There are outside stairs on the west side of the building. Come for her there.”
“Wait!” Luce cried, as Jonah started out the door with the note in his hand.
Jonah stopped. “Lucia…”
“Please, Jonah, don’t—”
“Trust me,” he said.
Her voice broke as she struggled to speak through her tears. “I’m afraid for you.”
“Be afraid for him,” he said, and walked out the door.
Harold locked the door behind Jonah, then put his arm around Luce’s shoulders as he guided her up the stairs in the back room that led to his apartment above.
“My goodness, girl…I’m so sorry you’ve been going through this on your own. Why didn’t you tell me? Didn’t you know I’d’a done all I could to help you?”
Luce didn’t have a good answer. She’d spent so much of her adult life coping with problems by herself that it had never occurred to her to ask for help.
“I told Sheriff Mize when it started,” she said.
“Well, now,” Harold muttered, as he ushered her into the apartment, helped her off with her coat, then sat her down in an overstuffed chair covered with a patchwork afghan crocheted in colors of blue. The room smelled slightly of cigar smoke and the lemon drops that Harold favored, but it was clean, and she was safe. It was Jonah who had her worried.
“What did Mize say when you talked to him?” Harold asked.
“He called it a note from a secret admirer.”
Harold cursed, then reached for the phone. “I’m calling Mize.”
“I’m not talking to that son of a bitch,” Luce said.
Harold frowned. “Is he the reason you were upset earlier?”
“Yes.”
“Well, now…we’ll just have to see about that,” Harold said. “He got voted into office. If he doesn’t know the meaning of respect, he can find himself voted out the same way.”
He dialed the number to the sheriff’s office, while Luce leaned back and closed her eyes.
“Hello, Earl. It’s Harold Carter. I need to talk to Sheriff Mize.” There was a moment of silence as he listened. “What’s he doing over at Doc Bigelow’s? A stroke? You don’t say? Well, then, since you’re in charge, you need to come on over to the diner. Use the back stairs. Yeah. What? Oh…Luce Andahar just found another note from her stalker. It was in her coat pocket. She was getting ready to go home. I don’t know. That’s why I’m calling you. Come over here and ask her yourself.”
Luce could hear the faint sound of Earl Farley’s voice coming through the receiver, but she couldn’t have cared less. Whatever happened, it
would be Jonah who would make it all right, just like he did everything else. And if he could track a person by scent as well as he healed them, then the sorry bastard who’d been leaving her notes was in trouble.
Jonah clutched the note in his fist as he walked out onto the sidewalk. The stalker’s scent was mingled with Luce’s, which made him even angrier.
Bastard.
Without hesitation, he started down the sidewalk. His nostrils flared as he began to sort through the scents of Little Top. There was a small beauty shop on one corner and a bank on the other. He could smell diesel fuel, gasoline fumes, hair spray and some kind of animal feces. They weren’t pleasant odors, but that was what was there.
He lifted the note to his nose, inhaling slowly to refresh his memory, then put it in his pocket. There would be a thread of this scent somewhere. All he had to do was find it.
Cold wind whipped through his hair, lifting it off his shoulders as he reached the end of the block. After checking for traffic, he crossed the street. His long, jeans-clad legs made short work of the distance as he strode up on the curb, then paused. Something teased at the back of his senses, and he turned slowly until it localized.
It was faint, but it was what he was searching for. The only problem was, this scent could only tell Jonah where the stalker had been, not where he was now. Still, it was a beginning, and he started to follow it step by step, moving with it as if it were a visible path.
Jonah followed it down the entire length of the block, and at each business, the scent was there, but why? What could possibly cause a man to need to visit a bank, a beauty shop, a barber shop, a lawyer’s office and a plumber—and all in one day? When he crossed at another intersection, still moving north, the scent was fainter. He stopped, turned around and faced the way he’d come, trying to make sense of things. It was like the man was playing games, doubling back and forth on himself, trying to throw someone off his trail.
Another cold gust of wind blew down the front of Jonah’s shirt. He buttoned his coat, then crossed the town square, still on track—still confused.
Ignoring the stares of people driving by, as well as the few he passed on foot, he continued to walk from one end of the little town to the other. And nearly everywhere he went, the scent was with him. If he hadn’t known better, he might have thought he was trailing an animal that was meandering through a forest and marking every tree.
It was nearing dusk. He knew Luce was probably worried out of her mind, but he couldn’t help it. This game with the stalker would end now. He’d crossed a line when he’d physically touched her personal belongings, putting his hand in her pocket, knowing that when she found his note, it would almost be like they were holding hands.
A car passed him as he started into the residential part of town. He felt the driver’s gaze centered on his face. While he knew he was a stranger to most of them, he didn’t have time to reassure the residents of Little Top that he meant them no harm.
Lights were coming on in one house after another as he moved from street to street. Twice he lost the scent, and once he actually thought he’d lost it for good, then found it again just as frustration started to kick in.
When he realized how strong it was here, his heart began to race. He was near. He could feel it.
When he turned east into a cul-de-sac, the scent was so strong that he almost gagged. There were only five houses on the cul-de-sac, with lights on in three of them.
A kid on a bike rode past him, while another across the street rode a skateboard up and down his sloped driveway like a pro. Through one window, he could see a woman talking on the phone, and through another, an old man was sitting alone at the kitchen table, eating his supper with a book propped open in front of him.
He started toward the first house, then stopped when he heard the sound of an approaching vehicle. Out of habit, he turned toward the sound. It took him a few moments to recognize the car as the same one the mailman drove, right down to the American flag decal on the windshield. Then he recognized the face of the man he’d seen on the road delivering mail—the same one who’d delivered a package to Bridie. He started to nod a hello when the ground beneath his feet seemed to shift.
The scent was so strong he could taste it.
He stared at the car as it drove past, then all of a sudden, it hit him.
The mailman. It was the mailman.
Son of a bitch.
That was why the scent was everywhere. Who else but a mailman would have reason to visit every place in town?
When he realized that the mailman was turning up the driveway of a dark house in the middle of the cul-de-sac, he started running.
Mark Ahern was more than a little surprised by the sight of the Indian in his neighborhood. He’d seen him at Bridie Tuesday’s house, and now he was here. But why?
He glanced up in the rearview mirror as he passed by, and when he saw the expression on the big man’s face change to one of rage as the man suddenly gave chase, he panicked. He didn’t know how it had happened, but something told him that the man knew.
He stomped the accelerator at the same time as he hit the garage-door opener. The door was barely up when he sailed inside. The brakes squealed as he slid to a stop on the concrete. The front bumper hit the wall with a thud as the garage door began to descend. He was fumbling with the door handle and scrambling to get out, when all of a sudden the man was in the garage.
Jonah grabbed him by the collar and was dragging him out of his car when Mark Ahern began to scream for help.
“Help! Somebody! Anybody! Help me! Help me!”
Then the garage door hit the floor with a soft thump, closing them in together. Mark was swinging at his attacker and kicking with both feet, but had yet to connect with a blow. Then suddenly the man’s breath was hot against the back of Mark’s neck as he found himself slammed facedown on the hood of his own car.
“Let me go,” Mark said. “My neighbors will have heard me. They’re probably calling the sheriff right now.”
“Let’s both call him,” Jonah said, as he yanked the man up, then shoved him back down again, this time faceup against the car. “Let’s tell him all about the nasty little game you’ve been playing with Lucia Andahar.”
Mark groaned inwardly. He’d been right. The man knew! But how?
Jonah saw the shock on the mailman’s face. He knew he had the right man. Now it was time to make him sorry.
He grabbed Ahern and slammed him face-first against the wall of the garage.
Blood splattered as the blow broke Ahern’s nose.
“Oh, God…my nose…my nose,” Ahern moaned.
“Next time it’ll be your neck,” Jonah said.
Ahern began to cry. “You’re crazy! I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, and tried to get away, but something was wrong with his arms. They moved, but not where he wanted them to go. They were flopping at the ends of his shoulders like the arms of a rag doll. Panicked, he tried to scream, but nothing came out of his mouth.
Jonah moved closer until there were only inches separating their faces.
Mark saw his own reflection in those strange, gold-colored eyes and found himself unable to look away. He was totally helpless—at the mercy of a stranger who he was sure was going to kill him. It was ironic that, at that moment, he realized he was in the same position as his other victims had been before he’d finished with them. It was not a comforting thought.
“I said…talk,” Jonah said.
Mark opened his mouth. “I didn’t hurt her.”
Jonah grabbed him by the collar with both hands and flung him across the hood of his car, then circled it and dragged him up to his feet.
“Yes, you did, you son of a bitch, in every way that counts. And you know it. You tortured her with words. What was next? The real thing, or are you the kind of coward who can’t get it up and has to be satisfied with just talking about it?”
Mark didn’t want to tell him, but he couldn’t seem to stop himse
lf. When the words began to spill out of his mouth, he was horrified. All the years he’d gotten away with murder because he wasn’t the kind of man who had to brag, and now he was talking louder and faster than Pastor Wagner on Sunday morning. The only explanation was that he was losing his fucking mind. That was it. He’d gone crazy and just hadn’t known it.
“I picked her because she was alone. Because she didn’t have anyone to protect her. I always pick them like that. Those are the best kind. They scream the loudest and bleed the longest.”
Rage swept through Jonah like wildfire in a drought-stricken land, burning hot, burning wild, burning out of control.
He grabbed Ahern by the arm and dragged him into the house.
“Where is the proof? Show me! The blue paper! The red and black ink pens! Where are your little keepsakes? And don’t tell me you don’t have any, because I can see them in your head.”
Ahern wanted to run, but his legs would function only to follow the Indian as he dragged him from room to room in his house.
Ahern felt his shoulder separate as Jonah yanked him hard. “Tell me now, or I swear to God I’ll kill you where you stand,” Jonah muttered.
Screaming in pain, Ahern could only point to the library. And once Jonah dragged him in there, he found himself digging out the blue pad and his pens from a drawer, and showing them to Jonah. Then he took a key out of his pocket and held it in the air.
“What’s this for?” Jonah asked.
Ahern pointed to a large ornate trunk against the opposite wall.
“Open it,” Jonah ordered.
Ahern staggered to the trunk, dropped to his knees and jammed the key into the lock. It turned with a click. He fell backward as Jonah looked inside.
The scent of death was everywhere, on everything. Jonah didn’t touch anything inside, but he knew within seconds that the trinkets and scarves, the purses and wallets, were all trophies from this man’s other victims. He felt their fear; he knew that they’d died horrible and violent deaths.
Ahern was rolling on the floor, squalling and begging for mercy as Jonah backed away from the trunk, then pointed at him.