by Debra Webb
Kale didn’t want to hear this. He’d seen it in his dreams every night for almost a week.
“But that wasn’t the worst of it,” Newton continued as she moved around the place where Valerie Gerard had gasped for her final agonizing breath. “She lived through more than a hundred lacerations and gouges. Some seemingly pinpointed to nerve centers to optimize pain.”
“That’s right.” His heart pumped harder with each passing second. He wanted to puke each time the images from that morning floated before his eyes.
“And yet, no real evidence was left behind. Just a few footprints. Too indistinct or contaminated to make a decent impression.”
That was partly his fault. He’d been so shocked, he’d rushed to help. The chief had tried to hold him back. The next thing Kale remembered there were people everywhere and things got out of control. He’d never seen grown men cry like that, then he’d realized he was crying, too.
He felt sick.
Enough. “We done here?” She obviously knew the facts the same as he did.
Newton crossed to where he stood, lifted the tape and slipped beneath it.
He hoped that was a yes.
“That’s the thing that bothers me, Conner.” She folded her arms over her chest and stared directly at him. “How is it that some twisted piece of shit brought that girl up here, sewed her lips shut, then played psycho surgeon without leaving a single piece of evidence.”
Anger ignited amid all those other emotions churning in his gut. What the hell was she saying? “That’s what we’re trying to figure out.” He reached deep for calm, couldn’t find it. “That’s the thing that has folks believing this somehow relates to a curse.” Or the devil himself. He hated to bring that up, but, after all, that was the reason Sarah Newton had come. The rag she worked for, Truth Magazine, had made its place in the print and digital world by allegedly exposing the truth wherever the unexplained was sold.
This sure as hell was unexplained so far.
Newton stared at him without saying a word for about ten more trauma-filled seconds, amping his tension to an explosive level. “This was no paranormal event, Conner. This was plain old carefully planned and painstakingly executed murder. By someone who knew the victim well enough to hate her enough to do all that you saw that morning.”
She made it sound so neat and easy when no less than twelve cops, local and state, had been working this case and not one had reached such a concise deduction. “That’s just another theory, Ms. Newton. What makes yours so special?”
She laughed softly but there was no amusement in the sound. “There’s nothing special about it. But I will do one thing as damned fast as I can.”
He shouldn’t have let her bait him. “And just what is that?”
“While everyone else is still running around in circles trying to do the PC thing”—she inclined her head and stared at him another long moment—“I’ll prove my theory.”
He shook his head, couldn’t help himself. “I sure as hell hope you can. But I have to tell you, that’s a pretty damned ballsy statement.”
She wasn’t put off in the least. “It’s actually quite simple. You see, I don’t have any friends or family here. I don’t even know anyone except you. I’m not ethically bound by the same rules and restrictions as your fourth-generation chief of police. So I’ll step on toes, I’ll piss people off, I’ll do whatever it takes to find one thing.”
She held his gaze a second, then another. “The truth.”
Chapter 6
2312 Beauchamp Road
She was here.
Jerald Pope adjusted his telescope lens to narrow in on the faces. Kale Conner looked a little green around the gills. The woman, on the other hand, looked focused and determined. She was here and she’d dug in her heels. If her skill could be accurately measured by her media reputation, she would find what others had missed.
Many of the villagers were upset by the idea that her magazine had chosen to get involved, but Jerald didn’t have a problem with this turn of events. Her tactics were a bit unorthodox and her empathy somewhat lacking, according to the articles and blogs he’d read, but neither had affected her success rate.
Only her popularity...or lack thereof.
Sensing that he was no longer alone, Jerald straightened and stepped away from the telescope.
“What has you so captivated, darling?”
He turned to acknowledge his wife Lynda’s presence. “Come see. Our young Mr. Conner has been saddled with the duty of escorting the controversial Ms. Newton about town.”
Lynda crossed the expansive great room and took a look for herself. “She only arrived this afternoon.” Lynda adjusted the setting of the far-reaching zoom lens. “It certainly didn’t take her long to plunge right into the investigation.” She peered through the delicate but powerful instrument. “What do you suppose they’re doing up there?”
Jerald gazed beyond the floor-to-ceiling window to the chapel perched high on a hilltop in the distance overlooking his home. “She’s getting a feel for the scene.”
His wife moved away from the telescope and allowed her interest to follow his. “Do you think she’s really as good as they say?”
A local woman was dead. Another was missing. If the police couldn’t find the murderer, then more power to anyone who thought he or she could. “Time will tell.”
Lynda turned to him, her respect and admiration for him still as strong as it had been in the beginning. “It always does.”
His wife was still as beautiful as she had been when they’d married twenty-eight years ago. Coal-black hair and eyes the color of rich jade. Her skin remained flawless even as she neared her mid-fifties. Her figure...well, he was a very lucky man indeed. She worked hard to stay in shape. The finest nutrition experts would envy her eating habits. Her willpower was nothing short of militant.
And yet they had drifted further and further apart.
“Is this why you haven’t been sleeping well?”
He considered his lovely wife at length. Was there a particular reason for her concern? “I sleep as well as any man with a life-changing decision before him.”
That much was certainly true.
Designing and producing elegant schooners and yachts was more than what he did. It was who he was. Few true artisans remained in the business. Painstaking craftsmanship had been replaced by assembly lines and the need to expand. He built each vessel by hand only after weeks, sometimes months, of carefully planning each design detail. That his work was considered the best of the best domestically and internationally had garnered him a fortune many times over. But no amount of money could replace the immense satisfaction he gained through his work. The creation of each design was as intimate to him as the birthing process to any mother. Though he might not know that particular process firsthand, he had shared with his wife every intimate nuance of his daughter’s development during pregnancy and then her birth.
The most integral part of him was being threatened by his own body’s weakness. Recently he had been forced to face a hard fact, he was neither immortal nor immune to infirmity. The numbness in his hands was the first sign of trouble. There were steps he could take but those steps carried significant risk. How could he gamble with even the slightest change in his ability to touch the wood? To judge its potential in raw form and then to slowly coax forth its utter luxury and beauty?
He could not.
The occasional weak tremors and more frequent bouts of numbness were two things he would simply have to live with...until he had no other choice.
“We should do something special tonight,” Lynda suggested as she wrapped her arms around his waist and pressed her firm, high breasts to his chest. She’d always been able to read his moods. “We haven’t gone out in a long time,” she urged. “We could drive over to Camden and have dinner at Sydney’s. You love that quaint little place so much.”
“Sounds pleasant. I’ll text Jerri Lynn and invite her to join us. Perhaps she hasn’
t already made plans.” An evening away from the house would do him good.
His wife tensed. The change, though subtle, was undeniable. “I’m sure she’ll be busy with her friends. It is Friday, after all. We should just hop in the car and drive. Remember? We used to do that all the time. We haven’t done anything impulsive in years.”
“I’ll extend the invitation,” he countered, keeping any hint of impatience from his tone. “If she has plans she can decline.”
Lynda stepped away from him, the distance claimed emotional as well as physical. “You’ll let me know then.” Her disappointment was palpable.
When she would have turned to go he asked, though he knew well the answer, “Why does it annoy you so whenever I insist on including our daughter?”
The incensed expression appeared almost genuine. “Don’t be ridiculous, Jerald.”
She folded her arms over her low-cut silk blouse. The blouse and the slacks fit her toned body as if the designer had fashioned them precisely for her. Jerald wouldn’t even attempt to hazard a guess at the exclusive labels inside that delicate gold fabric. From the shoes to the hairstyle, her entire appearance demonstrated a taste for the extravagant. No one in Youngstown dressed as well as Lynda. Probably no one in New England did. Yet, as self-centered as that one flaw made her seem, she gave of her time and money generously. There wasn’t a high-profile charity organization in the region that she failed to avidly support. When it came to giving, Lynda rivaled, if not surpassed, Stephen King’s generosity.
If only she had once given their daughter that kind of attention.
Lynda sighed in that long-suffering way that warned she was weary of the subject. “There are simply times when I would like an evening alone with my husband. We don’t do that often enough anymore.”
Anymore, meaning since they’d had a child. Almost nineteen years. Lynda had not been satisfied since Jerri Lynn developed her own personality and became more than an extension of her mother.
He should have learned long ago that this was not a battle either of them would or could win. They had gone head-to-head on the subject of their one child far too many times in the past to believe otherwise. He could allow the tension to escalate into a full-fledged battle of wills or he could defuse the tension here and now.
Considering he had more than enough on his mind at the moment, the latter was by far more appealing. “I suppose you’re right.”
She latched on to that small concession with renewed fervor. “I just want things to be more like they used to be. That’s all.” She curled her arms around one of his. “I miss the way we once were, Jerald.”
BC...before child.
Why couldn’t she be like other mothers and put her child above all else? Not that Lynda had been a bad mother...she was just a selfish, at times indifferent, one who refused to share what she felt was rightfully hers.
Perhaps twenty years ago when he had insisted they have a child, he had made a mistake...but he’d had his reasons. He pushed that thought away.
“She won’t be with us much longer,” he placated, knowing exactly what she wanted to hear. “After college, we’ll hardly see her.” His chest ached at the thought. His life would be empty without his little girl around.
Admittedly, he had his flaws but he would do anything to protect his daughter. She was his heart...the heart he had never possessed, hard as he had endeavored, before her birth. The potential, however remote, that she may have inherited a life-altering weakness from him caused a kind of anguish he had not known existed.
Lynda lifted her chin in abject disapproval. “She would be away at school now if you hadn’t insisted she attend a university so close to home. You hold the apron strings far too tightly, Jerald.”
He took his wife’s hand in his and fixed a firm gaze on hers. “My decision was based on what was right for our daughter. She still needs us. She’ll be gone soon enough and you’ll have me all to yourself.” He kissed her hand, then her cheek. The subtle scent of her perfume stirred his loins. He resented her lack of emotional attachment to their daughter but he did love her so very much.
A seductive smile slid across her lips. “I miss that.” She drew away from his touch. “But you can’t distract me from the real problem here.”
“What does that mean, Lynda?” He was no longer able to conceal his own weariness of the subject.
“She’s strange, Jerald. I’m very concerned.” Lynda turned to stare out the window. “She’s not normal. I’ve told you this before but you refuse to listen.”
“We have discussed the issue many times and I am not in agreement with your conclusions,” he offered, drawing on a well of patience that should long ago have ceased to produce.
“She has no friends except that odd Tamara girl. Of course, that’s not so surprising considering where we live.” That was something else Lynda would change if he would only agree. She hated the cold...hated this place. This place was his home...too much of him was here. He could not leave.
He moved up behind her, put his arms around her waist and pulled her against his body. Her well-maintained rear snuggled him. “I’m certain our daughter will grow out of her awkwardness,” he assured before leaving a soft kiss on her shoulder. “After all, she has you for a mother. How could she not blossom into perfection?”
Lynda folded her arms over his. “I hope you’re right. Otherwise...” She sighed. “I don’t know what to expect from her next.”
As if the worries she voiced had drawn him there, he gazed across the snow-laden branches, rested his thoughts on the chapel and the visitor there. Sarah Newton had come to find the truth, but would the truth serve the true purpose?
Every small town had its secrets. Secrets that could destroy carefully constructed lives. Youngstown was no different. But would uncovering those secrets stop the evil that had already chosen two victims in as many weeks?
One could only hope.
Jerald would do whatever necessary to protect the women he loved. He would not allow the evil to take them from him. Ever.
Chapter 7
Youngstown Public Safety Office, 4:20 P.M.
Sarah assessed Youngstown’s law-enforcement setup. A receptionist who apparently served as the chief’s personal assistant manned the lobby. From what Sarah could see down the corridor behind the reception desk there were four or five offices. At the end of the corridor the door was open and the larger room there could be a conference room.
Judging by the telephone on the desk, there were six incoming lines. Sarah had expected a small operation. Any forensic work would be passed on to the state police and the new lab that had garnered much praise for its cutting-edge technology. A county medical examiner handled the routine autopsies.
Utilizing the same parking area as the Public Safety Office was another building that housed the Fire and Rescue Services. Not a bad setup, just not state-of-the-art.
Conner had been chatting with the receptionist a good twenty minutes. The chief was out of the office and the deputy he had assigned to serve as Sarah’s liaison was on her way back to the office. Sarah and Conner’s arrival had caught her on the tail end of a call regarding a possible break-in on West Street. She would be back any minute, according to the receptionist.
While Sarah waited, she watched Conner in action. He was one of those easygoing guys who got along with everyone. Charmed the ladies if the receptionist’s captivated reaction was any indication. Tall, lean build with broad shoulders, longish black hair framing a classic square jaw that, despite a close shave each morning, would likely sport a five-o’clock shadow by noon. He dressed like the typical Down East kind of guy. Rugged jeans, plaid flannel shirt, and Sorel boots. His only concession to popular fashion was the North Face jacket.
A walking, talking Mainer cliché. And yet, there was something about him that made her curious. Maybe it was that whole I’m-just-a-regular-guy facade he wore like a badge of honor. Every second they had spent at that chapel had visibly shredded his emotio
ns. Refreshing, she decided. A good-looking, successful guy who didn’t try to pretend he was immune to emotion. So far he didn’t appear the least bit interested in playing the role of hero. That had to be the draw. He intrigued her because he wasn’t what one expected at first look.
Possibly.
But Sarah knew her weaknesses and she was brutally honest with herself about them. She and good-looking men did not mix. Experience had taught her not to go there. Pick the chubby, unattractive, balding guy every time. Be smart. Don’t go down that other road.
Off-loading Kale Conner as soon as possible would be essential to staying on track with this case.
The bell over the door jingled, drawing Sarah’s attention to the lobby entrance.
“Sorry to keep you folks waiting,” Deputy Karen Brighton announced as she scrubbed her boots on the welcome mat. Nose and cheeks red from the cold, she tugged off her gloves and stuffed them into her coat pockets.
“Hey, Karen.” Conner smiled one of those broad, pearl-white smiles that could have easily been an advertisement for the next season of some popular TV show.
The gleam that instantly brightened the deputy’s eyes told Sarah that he effortlessly elicited interest from the opposite sex. If Sarah had needed any more evidence, there it was.
He had to go.
“Sarah Newton,” Conner said, “this is Deputy Karen Brighton.”
“Good to meet you, Sarah,” Karen enthused as she pumped Sarah’s outstretched hand.
“Same here.” Sarah reminded her lips to tilt into a requisite smile. People were put off when you didn’t smile at the expected times.
“Come on back to my office.” The deputy glanced from Sarah and Conner to the receptionist. “If the chief calls, let him know Ms. Newton is here.”
“Will do.” The telephone buzzed, dragging the curious receptionist who, since Brighton’s arrival had been blatantly sizing up Sarah, back to the business of receiving.