Dead Before Dark

by Wendy Corsi Staub

  The sound chills her blood.

  “Oh, wait, first…”

  He grabs her face, cupping her chin in his gloved left hand, squeezing painfully hard.

  “Stay still.”

  He brandishes something toward her.

  For a terrible instant, she thinks it’s the knife, that he’s going to slash her face.

  But she’s wrong.

  It’s a tube of bright red lipstick, uncapped and jabbing at her quivering lips.

  “Another round?” the bartender asks.

  “No, thanks,” Lambert tells him. “Randy?”

  Rolling his half-full bottle of Bud back and forth between his palms, Randy shakes his head at the bartender, who goes back to watching “Wheel of Fortune” at the other end of the bar.

  Slow night at the Sandbucket Grill. They all are, at this time of year.

  After Memorial Day, you can’t get close to a bar stool for happy hour.

  But from now until then, it will be a smattering of locals, most of them around the pool table. Beyond it, the outdoor tables are stacked in the corridor near the restrooms, and the big glass doors that lead to the outdoor stage are winterized with thick sheets of transparent plastic to shut out the draft.

  “Maybe if you can just talk to Frank again,” Randy tells Lambert, going back to the conversation they’ve been having all evening.

  All month, really.

  “I’ve talked to him. He won’t budge, and Randy, I wouldn’t expect him to. You know you can’t get involved in the case.”

  “I’m not even talking about me. I’m talking about Lucinda. If she could just see that watch, or take a look at the ring again, Dan, she might pick up on something. It’s what she does.”

  Dan sips his beer, looking intently at “Wheel of Fortune.”

  “Dan.”

  “I heard you, Randy. Frank’s not going to let her do that.”

  “How about you, then? You have access. You can let her see it. I don’t even have to be there. Frank doesn’t have to know.”

  “I want to be there for you, man, really I do. But you’ve got to stop asking me to break the rules. We’re doing our best to solve this thing.”

  “And coming up cold.”

  Dan levels a look at him. “How do you know that?”

  “Because you’d tell me if you had something.”

  “I can’t tell you anything and you know it.”

  “So you have something.”

  “I didn’t say that.” Dan plunks down his bottle, raises his arm to flag the bartender. “I’ll have another one after all, Jerry. Give him one, too. Maybe that’ll make him shut up and stop bugging me.”

  “It won’t,” Randy tells him when the bartender walks away. “For God’s sake, Dan, her life is at stake here.”

  Dan shakes his head and touches Randy’s arm. “Finding out who killed her won’t bring her back, Randy.”

  “You’re talking about Carla. Do you think I don’t know nothing’s going to bring her back?”

  “You’re not talking about Carla?”

  “No.”

  “Lucinda.”

  “Yes. Whoever killed Carla might come after her next, Dan.”

  Lambert looks at him for a long time. “That’s not going to happen, okay?”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I just know.”

  “What are you saying, Dan? Or what aren’t you saying?”

  For a moment, his friend looks as though he wants to tell him something.

  But then the bartender returns with their beers, and Dan breaks eye contact, pulling out his wallet.

  When the beers are paid for and they’re alone again at their end of the bar, Randy says, “Something’s going on, Dan.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Something’s going on with the investigation. Do you have a suspect under surveillance or something? Is that what it is?”

  “We’re working on it.”

  “On a suspect?”

  He shrugs. “Just be careful, Randy. I’m worried about you.”

  “I’m not worried about me. I’m worried about Lucinda.”

  “Don’t. Just move on, okay? Move on, and forget about her. There’s a reason you married Carla instead of her.”

  Yeah, there is, Randy thinks.

  It’s because he was a fool.

  Agony explodes through Jaime Dobiak’s body the first time he stabs her, in the stomach.

  Agony that turns everything a blinding white; her eyes are closed but then they’re wide open, and she still sees the white, white spattered with red paint….

  Some part of her brain not consumed by hysteria registers that she’s staring at the white ceiling or the wall, and it isn’t spattered with red paint, it’s red blood, her blood, Dear God, her blood….

  And then the monster looms with the knife, and feral shrieks fill her head, her own anguished shrieks, and he stabs her again, in the stomach, and she knows that he’s killing her, and this can’t be happening but it is, he’s really killing her, she’s going to die.

  She’s going to die.

  No, please…

  Another savage stab.

  This time she didn’t see it coming, didn’t hear it coming.

  She only feels the detonation of pain as the knife strikes her arm, feels the river of red hot, sticky blood, feels her nerve endings shattering, burning.

  Then the knife thrusts fiercely again, her pelvis, and again, her chest, and there is no pain, only a dull, jarring sensation each time it thuds into her dying flesh.

  She opens her mouth to ask, again, the question he told her he would answer, but didn’t.

  Not in a way that she could understand.

  All he said, when she asked him why, were three cryptic words.

  “Because of Scarlet.”

  And then he laughed.

  Is laughing still as he stabs her, as he kills her, maniacal laughter that is the last sound she hears before silence absorbs her.

  Standing on his back deck, Vic Shattuck gazes at the full moon glittering in the black night sky.

  Somewhere, he’s certain, a cold-blooded killer is aware of it as well.

  Vic has spent weeks trying to find time to write his book in between pinpointing possible Night Watchman murders—from the comfort of his own home, of course, via e-mail and telephone. He can hardly go traipsing around the country looking into every homicide that took place over the last few months on nights when the moon is full.

  On paper, quite a few of them started out as potential leads: women ambushed at night when they were home alone.

  But a closer look at the details—and, in some cases, cursory contact with the local police—ruled out the Night Watchman in all but a few cases.

  Of the ones that seemed to fit, only a couple are still open, but those appear close to being solved, too.

  One, involving a high school girl in St. Louis, now appears gang related.

  Another, the murder of a cop’s estranged wife on the Jersey Shore, appears to be domestic, and they’ve already targeted a suspect, according to the lead investigator.

  When Vic asked the cops in both those cases whether there had been any unusual signatures to the crimes—anything that might, for example, indicate the work of a serial killer—the answer on the St. Louis case was a resounding no.

  The Jersey Shore investigator first asked why he wanted to know, then said he wasn’t at liberty to discuss details of the homicide that hadn’t been released to the public.

  “Why don’t you give me more information?” he invited, “and I’ll let you know if any of it applies.”

  Vic did his best. “The Night Watchman always struck at night, during a full moon.”

  “A lot of killers do.”

  True.

  “And the moon is full once every twenty-eight days, right?” the investigator, Frank Santiago, went on.

  “Twenty-nine.”

  “So any killer has a one in twenty-nine shot of
striking when the moon is full, right?”

  “If you look at it that way but—”

  “I do. And I appreciate the help, but we have forensic evidence we expect to implicate one of our leading suspects.”

  Frustratingly, Vic couldn’t come right out and ask whether the victim had been found wearing red lipstick. He wasn’t at liberty to divulge that evidence, known only to the killer and a handful of witnesses and task force investigators.

  Without it—or Vic’s guidance—it would take an almost impossibly shrewd local investigator to connect a modern victim to the Night Watchman’s victims of almost forty years ago.

  Even if a local force were diligent about entering unsolved crime information into the Bureau’s computerized Violent Criminal Apprehension Profile—most aren’t, and it’s only required in three states, including New Jersey—the data banks only go back a couple of decades. Everything before that is hard evidence, boxed away in case files. It would take a lot of deliberate digging to unearth any of it now.

  Behind Vic, the slider opens. “Ready to eat? I brought home a pizza.”

  He turns to see Kitty there, backlit by the kitchen light. She’s changed from her suit into jeans and a hooded sweatshirt. Her face is scrubbed clean of the makeup she wore to work, her short dark hair is tucked behind her ears, and she’s traded her contacts for glasses.

  To him, she’s the most beautiful woman in the world. He’s a lucky man.

  And if you never finish the damn book, he reminds himself, and never unmask the Night Watchman, you’ll still be a lucky man.

  He takes one last look at the full moon before heading back inside, locking the door behind him, and pressing the keypad on the brand new alarm system.

  Chapter Twelve

  Sitting in the Bullards’ cozy kitchen, with the radio tuned to Neal’s favorite old show tunes station in the background, Lucinda feels almost content for the first time today.

  Almost.

  “More mashed potatoes?”

  “No, thanks, Erma. I’m stuffed.” She pushes back her plate, where all that remains is a smear of golden gravy, a couple of stray peas, and some chicken bones. “This is the best meal I’ve had in a long time.”

  “You should have been here a few nights ago,” Neal tells her. “No one makes corned beef and cabbage like Erma.”

  Saint Patrick’s Day.

  Lucinda spent it with Randy, drinking too much green beer and trying to pretend—to herself, to him, to the rest of the world—that they’re still just friends.

  “Not everyone likes corned beef and cabbage, Neal.”

  “Lucinda does,” he tells his wife. “Lucinda likes everything.”

  She has to grin both at Neal’s comment, and at the scolding look Erma gives him before carrying the bowl of mashed potatoes back to the stove.

  She’s glad Neal forced her to come, glad she managed to push aside, for at least a little while, the oppressive feeling that dogged her earlier. Maybe she was wrong. Maybe it did have to do with Isaiah Drew.

  “It’s a compliment, right, Cin?”

  “Mr. Bullard, I’m afraid commenting on a lady’s appetite is never appropriate,” Lucinda chides in her best Bitsy Sloan imitation. “And anyway, I don’t like everything.”

  “What don’t you like?”

  “Salad, for one thing.”

  “How can you not like salad? Everyone likes salad.”

  “Not me.”

  Even Erma is shaking her head—and eyeing the untouched bowl of it beside Lucinda’s plate.

  “It’s good for you, honey,” she says. “You should eat it.”

  “No, thanks.”

  “When was the last time you tried it?”

  “Every couple of years, I try it, thinking I might have changed my mind. I never have.”

  “Every couple of years? I’m guessing you’re due. Take a bite,” Neal tells her.

  “Neal—”

  “It won’t hurt you to try it.” That comes from Erma, watching with interest. “Go ahead—I made the dressing and croutons myself.”

  “In that case…” Lucinda takes a bite.

  It isn’t bad.

  In fact…

  “It’s good.”

  “See? What’d I tell you?” Neal shakes his head. “Sometimes you’re too stubborn for your own good.”

  “Look who’s talking.” Laughing, but looking pleased, Erma pours the gravy into a plastic tub.

  “Maybe the reason I’ve never liked salad,” Lucinda tells them, “is that for years, it was all my mother ate. Without croutons and dressing.”

  “Speaking of your mother,” Neal says, “weren’t you supposed to have lunch with her this week?”

  “Tomorrow, and it’s brunch, and don’t remind me. I’d rather talk about salad. Or corned beef and cabbage.”

  “Well, Erma makes the best. You should’ve seen the way Garland Fisher gobbled up three helpings when he was here.”

  “Poor man must not cook for himself.” Erma shakes her head.

  “Does he come over for dinner a lot?” Lucinda asks.

  “He’d come every night if we invited him,” Neal tells her.

  “He’s away right now, visiting his grandkids.” Erma scrapes some scraps from one plate onto another. “I’m picking up his newspapers and mail—and that reminds me, Neal, I have to show you something.”

  She puts the plates in the sink, wipes off her hands, and goes through a plastic supermarket bag hanging from the back of a chair.

  “What is that?” Neal asks.

  “I told you. Garland’s mail and papers. Look what came!” She pulls out what looks like a paper pamphlet. “Isn’t this exciting?”

  “Meanderings 19.03,” he reads on the cover, then shrugs, not looking particularly excited. “What is it?”

  “It’s a literary magazine.”

  “From 1903?”

  “No! That means volume nineteen, issue three. Neal, don’t you listen to anything?” Erma shakes her head. “Honestly.”

  “I’m listening, but I’m not hearing anything that makes sense.”

  “Garland told us he sold his first story to Meanderings magazine, remember?”

  The look on Neal’s face tells Lucinda that he doesn’t, but he wisely gives a nod and murmurs, “Oh, that’s right. Well, good for him.”

  “He’s going to be very happy when he comes home to this.” As Erma replaces the magazine in the shopping bag, then turns back to the sink, Neal winks at Lucinda.

  She can’t help but smile at the way the Bullards always manage to keep their marital peace.

  “All righty.” Erma bustles back over to the table for more dishes. “Who’s ready for dessert?”

  “Oh, Erma, don’t bother with that. It’s getting late.” Lucinda pushes back her chair reluctantly.

  Before she can pick up her plate, Erma whisks it from her grasp. “You can’t leave without dessert. I made Neal’s favorite sour cream coffee cake. You sit and chat with Neal. I’ll clean up.”

  “How about if you sit and chat with Neal and I clean up?” Lucinda returns, taking the plate from Erma and carrying it over to the sink.

  “How about if the two of you—” Neal breaks off as the cell phone in his pocket rings. “Never mind. How about if the two of you clean up while I go take this call?”

  “Opportunist.” Lucinda sticks out her tongue.

  Neal grins before slipping out of the room, pulling the phone from his pocket.

  It’s been hours since he left Jaime Dobiak gurgling in a futile effort to draw air through blood-drowned airways, but the euphoria has yet to wear off.

  Too exhilarated to return to the solitude of his rented room—which isn’t nearly as nice as the Westin where he spent his first night here—he walks the streets of this glorious city aglow with streetlights and headlights, neon signs, a glorious full moon.

  It will be a shame to leave Chicago tomorrow. He’s gotten to like it here.

  But that’s okay. He has some
thing to look forward to: paying a little visit to Lucinda, back in Philadelphia.

  She’s disappointed him.

  When he slipped into Jaime’s apartment tonight using his stolen key, he was half-expecting to find Lucinda waiting for him.

  He’d sent her Jaime’s scarf, certain she would touch it and know where to find him. He would have let her watch what he did to Jaime, and then he would have let her go. It isn’t her turn yet.

  But the scarf didn’t work the way Carla’s ring had. Maybe it was the blood.

  Or maybe the almighty Lucinda isn’t as powerful as she claims to be.

  Whatever.

  In the end, maybe it’s better that she didn’t come.

  She’s smart. Not as smart as he is, of course. But smart. What if she had shown up, and something had gone wrong? What if he’d had to kill her right then and there, along with Jaime? That would have been all wrong.

  That’s not how it’s supposed to happen.

  And so…onward.

  104.5

  39.4

  He always plays fair.

  He left the coordinates at the scene…but will they find them? He made it much more challenging this time. Perhaps too challenging. But if they’re smart, they’ll figure it out.

  If they’re not, they’ll wonder if he’s finished.

  And just when they start to think he might be…

  He laughs out loud.

  “What’s so funny, Sugar?”

  He looks up to see a hooker watching him from a doorway. He stops laughing abruptly. Stops walking.

  Stares at her through narrowed eyes as his forehead breaks out in a sweat and his mouth churns too much saliva.

  “How about a party?”

  She’s Latina, young and tiny, with feminine curves.

  But she’s wearing a muddy shade of brownish lipstick.

  Still…

  Nah. She probably has a watchful pimp lurking nearby.

  Don’t bother. You’ll never get away with it.

  “Party, Sugar?”

  He spits into her face.

  Then he walks away, trembling, as she screams after him in outraged Spanish.

  And just like that, the euphoria is gone.

  Upstairs, phone in hand, Neal closes the bedroom door behind him and sinks onto the double bed he’s shared with Erma for nearly forty years.