“Jesus, kid, stop. Let him go. You’re killing him. Adrian, you little shit, stop it!”
He heard the words in a fog, like the buzzing, annoying whine of a mosquito. He realized he was breathing hard, had actually climaxed in his jeans. Frank was pulling on his arm now, trying to release the man from Adrian’s death grip.
Adrian finally released his arms and stepped back, and the man dropped to the ground with a thud, gasping and wheezing for breath.
“What the fuck was that? Are you insane? I said hold him, not kill him. Idiot.”
Frank took one look at Adrian’s face and reared back. He fell on his ass, eyes wild, grabbed a piece of rebar and held it out in front of him. Adrian took a step toward his boss and laughed, a sound he’d never heard out of his mouth, high-pitched and crazy. He had no idea where it came from; he found nothing funny about the situation.
Frank shouted, “Get the fuck outta here. Don’t come back. You hear me?”
Adrian stopped. Frank was scared of him. Of him!
“Frank, it’s fine. I’m sorry.”
Frank waved the rebar. “No, it’s not fine. You’re gone. You get me? You’re fucking nuts. I shoulda known it. Too quiet, watching everyone, doing everything you’re told. Fucking freak.”
Time stopped. Adrian didn’t know what happened, what came over him, just that it was blackness and rage. He snatched the piece of rebar from Frank’s hand and brought it down on his head once, twice, three times. The wet splats told him to stop, but he couldn’t. He was riding high again, the pure energy of fury driving his arms up and down.
When he came back to himself, neither of the men were moving anymore, and Adrian was panting, covered in blood and sweat and tears.
His first and only thought was for himself. He’d just killed two men. He was going to go to jail. Forever. No one would let him see the light of day again. His breath hitched and he started to cry. What had he done? What had come over him? What had just happened? He began turning in circles, frantic, trying to decide what to do, when a voice spoke to him, quiet, calm, gentle.
That won’t happen. Look where you are. You know they’re pouring the foundation for Lot 8 tomorrow. You’re okay. You can cover this up.
Without hesitating, he dragged the two bodies forty feet to the edge of the foundation on Lot 8. He rolled them over the edge, then grabbed a shovel, jumped down and dug as if his life depended on it.
It took him an hour to get them in place, dirt two feet deep over them, leaves and branches laid down around the site just as they’d been before. He shoveled off the blood-soaked dirt into the bushes, scattering it around, found a half-empty bottle of Gatorade and washed his hands, then, realizing it wasn’t going to be enough, stripped off his shirt and pants and buried them, too.
All the while, the voice spoke, telling him what to do next.
There was nothing he could do about the man’s car, but where it was parked was safe enough, off the beaten path behind the 7-Eleven. By the time anyone connected it with the build site, the cement would be dry. Frank’s behemoth truck was nowhere to be seen, so he didn’t worry about it.
He snuck back to his own piece-of-crap truck and drove home, showered then went out to the truck and wiped it down. Bleach. Scrub. He made sure there was nothing, nothing, that could tie him to the two men. Showered again, thankful as hell his dad was out.
There. He was safe.
Surprising himself, he slept soundly. He woke the next morning, certain the police would be standing in his bedroom, but his room was empty. He went into the kitchen, and there was just his dad, home early, looking vacantly at The Washington Post, a half-eaten apple cruller and a cold cup of coffee at his elbow.
Adrian choked down some eggs, went to the site, stood around with the rest of the crew waiting for Frank to show, then getting to work when he didn’t. He stayed on the roof while the cement was poured at Lot 8, keeping a hawk’s eye on the proceedings.
It went off without a hitch.
When the police finally came around asking about Frank, he shrugged along with the rest of the men. And then there was nothing. He was off the hook.
Adrian thought back to that night all the time, analyzing, wondering, trying to figure it all out.
It took a few weeks before it hit him, an insight so frightening it took his breath away, a terrible, awful, wonderful truth. The universe opened, a giant black maw, and the blackness of the sky suddenly had texture, depth, feeling. It caressed his skin and licked softly at his neck.
He’d liked the feeling of the man struggling, because he’d liked the power he felt, being bigger and stronger and holding a stranger’s life in his hands. As for what happened after, when he lost control, well, that was simply the situation. Frank had pushed him over the edge. Right?
Maybe. Maybe not. Adrian wasn’t going to lie to himself. The more he thought about the power he’d felt in those brief moments, the more excited he got. He’d liked it, more than a lot. He’d liked it so much that for the rest of the summer, all he could think of was trying it again.
Chapter
20
Lynchburg, Virginia
SAM WAS FACEDOWN on the cabin floor with all of Xander’s weight on her. The sound of gunshots grew intermittent and farther away until the shooting stopped completely.
“Let me up, Xander. We’re safe.”
With a sigh, he finally relented. She brushed herself off. She’d skinned a knee when he’d dived on top of her and forced her to the floor. At first she’d thought Davidson was shooting at Fletcher, but the shouting told her the two were united, running off after a suspect. She was very relieved and dabbed the blood off her knee with a tissue.
“Do you know who they were shooting at?” she asked.
“All I saw was a flash of red—I think it was the same person we were talking about earlier. Someone else wants info on Timothy Savage.” He touched the abraded skin gently. “Did I do that? I’m sorry.”
She kissed him quickly. “It’s okay. You’re allowed to go all caveman on me when guns are going off. It’s in the job description.”
He smiled, then cocked his head and turned toward the front door. “They’re coming back.”
Fletcher and Davidson appeared on the tiny front porch of the cabin, both sweating and out of breath.
Fletcher’s face was thunderous. “We missed him. And I’m getting damn sick of this ghost following us around.”
Davidson nodded. “It’s the same guy who was lurking around the funeral home. I’m going to bring in some officers and a couple of dogs, go after him before it gets dark. That’s twice today he’s run from me. There won’t be a third.”
“Well, don’t kill him,” Sam said. “He may be the elusive son and heir to Savage’s estate. I doubt us murdering his kid was part of Savage’s game plan. Maybe the boy knows his dad was murdered and he’s being extra careful, sneaking around in case we’re the killers.”
“Or he’s our suspect.” Davidson wiped his broad forehead with the tail of his white shirt. “Our dogs will tree him, not bite him. We’ll have a nice talk and get to the bottom of this. I don’t know why he’s hanging around, but he’s going to get himself killed if he doesn’t stop bumbling around our crime scenes. Speaking of which—”
He looked at Sam, distrust written all over his face. “I went to the lab and you never showed. Why not, who’s this and why don’t you just tell me what y’all are doing out here and quit playing games with me?”
Fletcher said, “Whoa, man. One at a time. You show me yours and I’ll show you mine, get it?”
Davidson crossed his arms and didn’t say a word.
“Okay. We’re here because Sam wanted to see what Savage’s ‘estate’ looked like. Now you share. What happened with Mac Picker?”
“All right. Mac let me look at the file
s. He’s not lying. There’s no reference to Timothy Savage in their system. Why didn’t you go to the lab like you were supposed to?”
“We got lost. Why did you assume we’d be out here at the crime scene?”
“One of my officers saw you driving out of town. You took the exit for Savage’s place, so I used my noggin and extrapolated that maybe you’d come on out here. What aren’t you telling me?”
Fletcher shrugged. “Nothing. You’ve got it all.”
Davidson stretched his arms up over his head, cracked his neck and sighed. “This is my town, my jurisdiction. Without my help, you aren’t going to get anywhere.” The two men glared at each other. Without moving, Davidson gestured to Sam and Xander. “And you’ve brought two civilians along on a murder case. I’m out of patience, Detective. Who the hell is this?”
Xander squared his shoulders. “Sergeant Alexander Whitfield, U.S. Army, retired. Let’s just say I’m here in a consultative position.”
Davidson took a deep breath and blew it out hard, clearly exasperated. Sam noticed he’d put his fingers on his Glock.
Xander cleared his throat.
Fletcher shot him a look, then put his hands up in the air. “Fine. Fine. Here’s the deal. Something hinky is going on down here. We’re taking the samples back to D.C. to be run in an independent lab. If you’ve got a problem with that, then let me hear it now.”
Davidson scratched his neck. “This is what you’re hiding behind? I’m fine with that. I want to work with you, not against you, and solve this case. If—and the lady says it’s so, so I’ll amend that to since—Savage was murdered, we have an open homicide on a case everyone here thought was cut-and-dried. I agree with you, this whole thing with Picker is not right. So you wanna give me the rest, or do you wanna keep wasting my time?”
The enemy of my enemy is my friend.
They brought him inside and showed him the shrine. He rocked back on his heels “Shit. How’d we miss this?”
“I assume your people were afraid of the gas and didn’t look thoroughly,” Sam said.
Davidson rolled his eyes. “You think? It was a rhetorical question, Doctor.”
To hell with cooperation. “Don’t be snarky, Detective. Your people never even bothered to remove the victim’s sweater—it doesn’t take a pathologist to see the bruises around his neck. You didn’t think it strange he was wearing a turtleneck in August?”
“Don’t get feisty with me. Savage was a strange dude. We couldn’t get within thirty feet of him for the first day. I didn’t make the call not to autopsy the guy—and I admit, in retrospect, that was a big miss for all of us. So thank you for coming down here and showing us country bumpkins what idiots we are.”
Sam was a patient woman. She really was. But she’d about had it with Detective June Davidson.
“Listen, Detective, I’m the one he was obsessed with. Now the man’s dead, murdered, an event he was clearly aware was coming, and prepared for. Which tells me he knew his murderer. And you knew Mr. Savage. As you said, this is your town. Why don’t you tell us what’s happening instead of hiding behind the country bumpkin crap?”
She heard Xander say, “Sam,” but ignored him and pressed on. “I’ve had some seriously bad things happen in my life recently, Detective, and some odd ones, as well. I’ve never seen anything this convoluted. So if you’re through being facetious, why don’t you do your job? Timothy Savage was murdered. Why don’t you find out why?”
She turned on her heel and walked toward the door. “I’m going back to D.C.”
Davidson called out to her, “Wait. Dr. Owens, wait. Please.”
She stopped, turned around and crossed her arms on her chest. She avoided Xander’s and Fletcher’s eyes, knew both of them were fighting to keep a straight face and not pummel Davidson, or her.
He continued. “I’m sorry. You’re right. This is a bizarre circumstance, and you’ve been pulled into this against your will. You did a hell of a job this morning with Savage’s body. I’ll tell you everything I know, everything Picker told me. I can’t guarantee you’ll like it, and it’s thin, but maybe it will help us get to the bottom of this. But we have to work together. I’ve just had a suicide turn into a murder and I don’t know why. Okay?”
“I thought you said Picker didn’t know anything,” Sam said.
“No, I said there was nothing in their system. Picker’s secretary claims a man who fits Savage’s description came in two weeks ago, asking for Benedict. They had a private meeting, lasted about two hours, and then Savage left. The meeting was scrubbed from the system, the log of visitors for the day doesn’t show Savage’s name. They have a camera on the front door, though, and there’s footage of him coming in. He looks calm and sane and certainly not afraid for his life.”
“Where’s Benedict’s secretary?”
“Denver. At a cousin’s wedding.”
“Convenient timing.” Sam was quiet for a moment. “Savage didn’t die from inhaling the hydrogen sulfide. He was strangled, there’s not a doubt in my mind. Do you think it’s possible he arranged for his own murder?”
Davidson said, “Maybe. Hell, anything’s possible, but there’s one problem with that theory. Who killed Rolph Benedict?”
“Someone who was trying to stop the will from being executed,” Xander said. “If any trace of Savage has been scrubbed from the law offices, if they have no record of the will being filed, and Benedict, the only lawyer who knew about it, is dead, then it simply doesn’t exist anymore, right?”
Davidson nodded. “If it wasn’t filed with the court, no, it doesn’t. Legally, at least. It was never filed in their automated system, and the notary in their office swears up and down she’s never seen anything with Savage’s name on it. I sure would have liked to see that will.”
Fletcher looked at Sam, who nodded once. He removed the papers from his waistband. “Then it’s a good thing I have a copy here.”
Chapter
21
THEY GATHERED AROUND Timothy Savage’s tiny kitchen table to read his will.
Sam hadn’t seen the details when Benedict showed up on her doorstep, hadn’t paid enough attention. If she’d only listened, maybe Benedict wouldn’t be dead.
Then again, if she had listened, she might have made herself an easy target. Whoever killed Benedict could have lain in wait for him at his hotel, assuming he would go there first since it was so late in the day. Or, worse, tailed him all the way from Lynchburg. Had the killer followed Benedict to Sam’s house and seen him summarily booted out the door? Benedict hadn’t been inside for more than fifteen minutes; time enough to share information, but not enough for too many details. Hopefully the killer didn’t think Sam had anything to do with this intrigue. And if he did...
Best not to go down that road.
Fletcher read through the will’s introductory paragraph and revocation, then started listing the heirs. “Henry Matcliff is the primary heir. He’s been left nearly one hundred thousand dollars, but there are several more names on the list, each due to receive one thousand dollars. June, tell me if any of them sound familiar. Curtis Lott, Arthur Scarron, Rob Thurber, Anne Carter, Frederick McDonald and Adrian Zamyatin.”
Davidson frowned. “Two names are familiar. Arthur Scarron is dead, that much I know. He was an oil guy in Texas, his wife’s from Lynchburg. He was a doctor for a long time, plastic surgery or O.B. or something. From what I remember, he got bored remaking housewives and went to work for his family’s company, Scarron Oil and Gas. Ellie Scarron—that’s his wife—she moved back when he passed last year. He had a heart attack.”
“Why would Timothy Savage leave a dead man, who sounds like he was rather wealthy, a thousand dollars?”
“I don’t know. We can go talk to Ellie, though, see if she knows anything about all this. The other one, Fred McDonald, I’m gonna have
to do some checking, but the name rings a bell.”
Fletcher glanced at his watch and cursed softly. “I have to get back to D.C. We’ll have to do it another time. Maybe I can come back down tomorrow.”
Sam said, “We’ll go with him, Fletch. You go handle the Stevens kidnapping. Amado will be waiting for the samples, anyway.”
“Stevens. Rachel Stevens?” Davidson asked. “I saw the AMBER Alert. She’s a cute little thing. Your case?”
“Apparently it is now,” Fletcher said.
“Good luck with it.”
“Thanks. Excuse us a minute, would you?”
“Sure. I need to get the dogs out here, anyway, start looking for the idiot in the red ball cap who keeps showing up.” Davidson stepped out onto the porch and Fletcher shut the front door behind him.
“Listen to me, both of you. Don’t trust that man with anything you think is vital to this case. He’s not telling us everything he knows.”
Sam nodded. “I agree. We’ll be careful.”
“I’m going to take the will and the letter with me.”
“Can I read it first?”
His lips seamed together. “It’s evidence.”
“It has my name on it.”
He pulled the letter from his jacket pocket. “Here you go.”
She nodded, used a flat pair of scissors from her purse to slit the lip open and extracted a piece of paper carefully. She unfolded it and read quickly, relief quickly flooding through her. “It’s the same as the one he sent to my office. A duplicate. Nothing new. I have to say, this man certainly seemed to think it was important to have backups of his wishes, didn’t he?” She folded the letter and started to put it back in the envelope, then realized there was something written on the back.
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