by Mary Burton
A dull headache throbbed behind her eyes as she eased open the door to her room. The light in the bathroom remained on and cast a soft glow on the twin beds. The clock on her nightstand ticked. It had been a long time since she’d not felt so alone.
Before her mother had died, she and her sister had been close. When Angie could visit they fought over the usual teen stuff: clothes, books, food or boys. But they’d also stayed up late at night whispering to each other in the dark about hopes and dreams. They’d been a team. Together forever. And then Mom had died, Eva had gone to foster care because her biological father had split and Angie’s biological father wanted no part of Eva, the child conceived during the affair that had destroyed his marriage.
In the first days of foster care, Eva had barely been able to function and had thrown herself into her schoolwork. They didn’t see each other for almost two years and that last meeting had been after her arrest.
Without warning, hot tears burned her eyes and spilled down her cheeks. “Grow a backbone, Eva,” she whispered. “Call your sister.”
She closed her eyes and thought back to the last time she’d seen Angie.
“We’ll fight this,” Angie said. Phone to her ear, she sat on one side of the glass and stared directly at Eva. Her straight blond hair fell forward as she spoke, partially cloaking her face. “I should have taken you myself after Mom died.”
“No. Let it go. “Darius had sworn to destroy Eva’s family if she did not atone for his son’s death. It was better to just let Angie go. She could do her time if she knew Angie was happy. “I don’t want to fight this.”
“Why not?”
“Leave it, Angie. Ten years isn’t that long.”
“My God, you’re only seventeen.”
“And I’ll just be twenty-seven when I get out. Plenty of time to live.”
“Don’t give up, Eva. What Josiah did to you was wrong. You should not be punished for defending yourself.”
“Let it go, Angie.”
Eva set down the phone and left the waiting room. She didn’t turn back but could hear Angie pounding on the glass, begging her to look back. Eva didn’t and she’d told the guards she wanted no more visitors.
A week ago, she’d been on the verge of calling Angie. Darius was dead and she’d been on the verge of claiming a new life. But the shelter fire, Lisa’s murder and the article …
Even if she had more to offer than her talent for escorting drunks and collecting strays, she feared the past had risen from the dead to haunt her and endanger Angie.
The scent of cinders and smoke filled the basement room and mingled with the woman’s whining. She’d been crying since she’d awoken, and her weak-willed noises had a way of grating. “Shut up!”
“Please!”
“Please what? ”
“Let me go.”
“Our business won’t take long.” Lou ignored her cries and jabbed the poker into the anemic fire, cursing the fact that the hearth didn’t draw as well at it should. “Damn hearth needs cleaning.”
“Let me go.”
Her voice buzzed around Lou, no more important than a housefly and easy to swat away. “No doubt the flue needs a good cleaning. But a cleaning doesn’t make sense now. I’ll be finished in less than a week.”
“Someone will find me.”
Lou laughed. “That’s what the last one thought. That she’d been saved. Turned out it was a no-account thief that stumbled into my house. He thought he got away from me but finding him, posting bail and tracking him to Leesburg had been child’s play. What thief carries a wallet?”
“Let me go.”
“You sound like a broken record. Playing the same tune over and over again. It’s annoying.”
Lou turned to the woman, looking at her for the first time in hours. She lay on her back, her arms strapped above her head and tied to a support beam that ran floor to ceiling. Her feet were bound and tied to a twin beam.
Lou stoked the flames with the handle of the metal brand created especially for this moment.
“Please. Why are you doing this?”
Sara’s blond hair no longer looked full and lush. Now it lay flat against her head. Her mascara smudged in a dark smear down her cheeks and her red harlot lipstick had faded to a pale, uneven blur. Her white blouse was gone, cut off and discarded, and her lacy white bra cupped full breasts.
“Because you’ve been so bad, Sara. You’ve broken so many rules.”
Sara pulled at her bindings and screamed. “Help! ”
“Scream all you want, sweet Sara. No one can hear.” Extra precautions had been taken this time. Lou had nailed the windows shut, dead-bolted the front door and spread broken glass over the front hallway. “I’ve had my fill of unexpected messes to clean up.”
“Let me go.”
“No. Not just yet.”
Sara dropped her head back against the brick floor, rolling it from side to side. “Why me? What have I done to you?”
Lou glanced into the hearth, letting the erotic dance of the flames draw its spell. “You tore out my heart.”
“I don’t even know you!”
Anger flickered to life and Lou jabbed the brand deeper into the hot coals. “That makes it all the worse. That you could destroy a life and not even be aware.”
Tears filled Sara’s eyes and trickled down her cheeks. “Please. If I hurt you, I am sorry. I’m sorry.”
Lou removed the brand and studied the glowing red tip. A burning red star that was so beautiful. “You are not sorry.”
“I am. I swear that I am.” Desperation made Sara’s voice hoarse.
“You aren’t. But you will be.” Lou turned and moved toward the quivering woman. Nothing had felt more right than this moment. Nothing. This was Lou’s destiny. To rise up out of the ashes and to prevail.
Without guilt or hesitation Lou pressed the tip of the brand against Sara’s belly. She screamed and the sound was filled with desperation and bitter fear.
The smell of burning flesh rose up, filling Lou with power. Sara passed out from the pain.
Lou removed the brand and stared at the red angry star that would be forever embossed in this harlot’s white perfect flesh.
Replacing the brand back in the fire, Lou reached for the bucket of cool water. Time to soothe the red angry burn. Time to revive Sara.
And then it would be time to begin again.
Chapter 11
Thursday, April 6, 9:20 A.M.
“Now tell me why we are at the Taylorsville Municipal Building?” Malcolm’s question projected mild annoyance.
Garrison glanced at his partner. “What’s wrong, princess? Didn’t get enough beauty sleep?”
Malcolm rubbed his eyes. “Long night.”
“Another date?”
“Yeah.”
Garrison shook his head. “Damn, boy. You know how to burn the candle at both ends.”
“You only live once.” He stretched a kink from his neck. “So why are we here?”
“There’s a case file I want to read.”
“What does a ten-year-old rape and manslaughter case have to do with our murder investigations?”
“I don’t know, really. Something my dad remembered.”
“Your dad?”
“He was a cop for thirty years. The man has a memory like a steel trap and he remembered that the rapist burned a four-pointed star shape into his victim.”
Malcolm raised a brow, his interest growing. “Really?”
“Might be nothing.”
“The Devil is in the details, man. And four-pointed stars aren’t the kind of details that crop up often.”
They strode through the main glass doors of the municipal building and showed their badges to the guard on duty.
The guard picked up the phone at his desk. “Sheriff Canada is expecting you.”
Five minutes later they sat in the sheriff’s gray plain office waiting for him to find the file he’d had one of his deputies pull that morning.
>
“Sorry, it took me a few minutes,” the sheriff said. A tall man with a rounded belly, the sheriff had shaved his head and sported a thick, dark mustache. “We store our older files in another building. We talk about computerizing but there’s never enough in the budget to cover it.”
Garrison rose and shook his hand. “No problem.”
Malcolm stood and introduced himself.
The sheriff sat behind his desk, pulled out a set of half glasses and opened the file.
Garrison and Malcolm sat down and waited as he read through the file.
Deep lines formed on the sheriff’s face as he read through the files. “Oh, yeah, I remember this one. Nasty case.” He turned the file so Garrison could read.
“Happened at a university sorority house.”
The first image Garrison saw in the file was the charred structure, reduced to rubble and scorched timbers. It was a miracle anyone had survived. “This the sorority house?”
The sheriff leaned over. “It was.”
“My father is retired Alexandria PD. He said the girl killed her rapist.”
The sheriff nodded. “That rape was never proven.”
Garrison turned the picture over and studied another image of the burned-out Victorian house. “What about the killing?”
“From what we could piece together, she hit him with an iron poker by the fireplace. Caved his skull right in and then she passed out from her injuries. Firefighters arrived in time to drag her and the boy out. Of course, the crew quickly figured out the boy was dead.”
Garrison flipped through the fire scene photos. “And he did attack her?”
“That’s what she said.”
“What did the medical examination reveal?”
“That Josiah Cross’s semen was present in her and bruising suggested the sex was rough.”
“Rough and not forced?”
“His family claimed that the two had had a sexual relationship and that she enjoyed vigorous sex.” The sheriff shook his head.
“What was your assessment of the case?”
“I was just a brand-new deputy then. But I can’t imagine any girl wanting what she got. He roughed her up pretty well. She had bruising on her face and arms and, of course, the burn.”
Garrison glanced up. “My father said he branded her. ”
The sheriff leaned forward and flipped through several photos until he arrived at a close-up of the burn on the girl’s shoulder. A red angry star glared back from pale ivory skin.
That was the work of a sick bastard. “Josiah Cross did this?”
“That’s what the girl claimed. Defense said the house fire must have heated up the star and when she fell it burned her skin.”
“This the first trouble you had with Cross?” It had been his experience that warning signs preceded this kind of violence.
“No, this wasn’t the first. Young Mr. Cross had drunk driving charges filed against him and a waitress in the historic district complained he assaulted her.”
“What came of it?”
“His daddy got involved. All charges were dropped.”
“Really?”
“You’d have to have lived under a rock not to know that Darius Cross was rich and always would swoop in with attorneys and clean up the mess, but that didn’t mean any of us forgot the messes that boy created.” The sheriff leaned back in his chair and folded his fingers over his belly. “His daddy had a farm near town. When Cross was twelve, he shot seven head of cattle at point-blank range. Just walked up to them and killed them for no other reason than to kill. The farmer caught the boy and called us. But Josiah’s father ended up paying off the farmer twice what the cattle were worth. ”
“Great kid,” Malcolm said.
“It didn’t end there. As he got older he picked fights with other kids. Cross was a big kid for his age so he overpowered most anyone in his age group. He beat one boy bad enough to land him in the hospital. Again, Daddy paid. Darius Cross paid for that victim’s college education. And then the waitress, like I said. She ended up with a brand-new car and quit her job. Some said she moved to New York. After that, Cross stayed clear of town.”
“What about the girl that killed him?”
“From a poor family and going to Price University on a full scholarship. Apparently, she was as smart as a whip.”
“What else can you tell me about her?”
The sheriff lifted a brow. “I’ve done a good bit of telling. Now you mind telling me why you are so interested in this old case?”
“I’ve a murder victim. Female. Branded with a four-pointed star.”
The sheriff frowned. “I see.”
“I’d like to talk to this girl. There might be no connection, but the more I stare at this picture of her brand, the more I’m not so sure. They look too much alike.”
“I have no way of knowing what happened to the girl. As your daddy might have told you, she confessed to killing Cross and was sent to jail for ten years. She’s got to be about twenty-seven by now. ”
“Can you tell me her name?”
“Don’t see how this connects.”
“It’s a lead I don’t want to ignore.” He smiled, wanting the sheriff to work with him, not against him. “I’ve got to try.”
The sheriff shrugged and glanced at the file. He dug through the records, selected a photo and then handed it to Garrison. “Here’s her mug shot. Looks like she’s not more than twelve but she was almost eighteen when this happened.”
Garrison took the picture and froze.
There was no mistaking the woman’s identity. The eyes were different, harder, more guarded, but ten years had not changed her that much. “Eva Rayburn.”
Kelly hated her early-morning jog. Yeah, she’d heard all the tripe about it setting the tone for your day and how it revved your metabolism, but that didn’t change the fact that she hated it. Given half a chance, she’d have been at home, sitting in bed, doughnut and coffee in hand and watching the morning news like a civilized person.
But, no, she was out here on the WD&O jogging trail, dragging her fat ass along the river. Why? Because of that guy Leonard in accounting and the little black dress she wanted to wear on their date next week. All she needed to do was shed a couple of pounds and she’d be able to pull up the damn zipper.
Her lungs burned and her knees ached. “Shit.” The word came out in a whoosh as she slowed her pace from a weak jog to a walk. “There has just got to be a better way.”
She rested her hand on her hip, trying to ease the stitch in her side. She glanced ahead to the park bench a quarter of a mile away. “Jog to the bench and you can stop.”
After a couple of false starts she sped from her walk to a jog. Her knees ached and groaned but stopping now only made restarting all the more painful. If she stumbled to the bench alive, she’d swear off the sweets for at least a month. Well, maybe a week.
Dropping her head, she pumped her arms, kept moving and chanted, “Little black dress. Little black dress.”
When she reached the bench, she shoved out a sigh of relief and promptly sat down. She dropped her head between her knees and sucked in a breath.
She regretted the breath instantly. The air she pulled in wasn’t sweet or restorative. It was foul and pungent and reminded her of the time a squirrel had gotten into her home’s air ducts and died. Her whole house had reeked of death.
Death.
Kelly shot to her feet and glanced around her. Something had died around the bench. Damn.
She started to inch away. The last thing she wanted was to find a dead dog or raccoon or worse, a dead skunk. She heard dead skunks could still stink you up. Just her luck that she’d finally fit into that little black dress and smell of dead skunk.
Kelly continued down the path just two steps when she spotted the flicker of pink fabric in the brush by the river. Halting, she took a cautious step toward the fabric. The closer she got, the stronger the smell. She shouldn’t look but curiosity goaded her. Co
vering her mouth, she peered down and nearly wretched.
The river reeds and grass tangled around a woman’s body, which lay curled in a C-shape, face buried in the water.
Kelly backed up, unsure if she should scream or get sick.
She threw up.
Garrison’s mind pondered the puzzle of Eva Rayburn as he and Malcolm drove to the office. He wound down I-495 and took the Telegraph Road exit and headed toward police headquarters on Mill Street. He was anxious to visit King’s.
“It can’t be a coincidence,” Malcolm said. “The star in that old case and then the girl turns up branded at the scene of a fire along with Ms. Rayburn.”
“Yeah, I stopped believing in coincidence a very long time ago.”
“What the hell kind of connection does our victim share with a dead rich-kid-rapist and the girl who killed him?”
“A little digging will turn up something.”
Garrison and Malcolm had been five minutes from their office when they got a call from the medical examiner’s office. Dr. Henson had toxicology results on the first victim.
Garrison detoured to the medical examiner’s office and the detectives found Dr. Henson in her office. She was on the phone but waved them in and pointed to chairs in front of her desk.
“Yes, sir,” Dr. Henson said into the phone. “His death would have been very peaceful.” The softness in her voice conveyed genuine concern.
Garrison presumed she was talking to a family member. Known for taking her time with grieving family members, Dr. Henson patiently answered each question.
Finally, she hung up the phone.
She pulled off her glasses and squeezed the bridge of her nose.
“Bad case?”
She nodded. “Brain aneurysm. The guy just turned thirty-nine. He’d been on a ladder and fell. Family and responding EMTs thought the fall killed him. Autopsy revealed the vessel burst first and then he’d fallen. He was dead before he hit the ground.”
“That’s rough,” Malcolm said.
“Leaves behind a wife and two young kids.” She picked up some papers and tapped them into a neat stack. “Some days I hate this job.”