He opened up the file. After all this time, he was going to get an inside look at the case. He read the first report. The victim had been a thirty-four-year-old male. He’d had a criminal record, several arrests for armed robbery and auto theft. Died of a gunshot wound to the chest fired from a .30-06 rifle. The body had been stripped, gutted with a five-and-a-half-inch large-blade knife, then dumped in the Delaware River. He’d been discovered on the riverbank on the Pennsylvania side by a couple of kids who had been out fishing. Neither the gun nor the knife had been found. The victim’s clothes had never been recovered. No witnesses had come forward. No arrest had been made.
Primary suspect: Russell Jackson, deceased.
Parker searched the box, found the photos of the victim’s body. “Jesus,” he said, flipping through them. They looked an awful lot like the body they’d pulled from the river today. He set the images aside, checked his phone for the time, then grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair.
“Where are you off to?” Sarge asked.
“Autopsy.”
“You’re late,” Sandra said. She was standing at the autopsy table in her lab coat and gloves, her curly hair tucked under a cap, the victim’s body laid out in front of her. She wore a mask. She could’ve been a surgeon, she’d told Parker once, but she’d preferred patients who couldn’t complain.
“Sorry, lost track of time,” he said, smearing peppermint oil on a mask, covering his nose and mouth. After a minute, the oil did nothing to block the smell.
“What’s this, our second date?” Sandra asked. “And I’m already hearing excuses.”
He smiled behind the mask. She was teasing him, of course. This was his second autopsy; he’d preferred to skip them on the other cases he’d worked, relying on her detailed reports. But this was his first case as lead, and he felt he should be here. “What did I miss?” he asked.
“Single gunshot wound to the chest. I found the bullet. It’s in the evidence bag over there.” She motioned to the tray behind her. “Is he still a John Doe?”
“Yes.” Parker picked up the bag with the bullet. He’d have it sent to ballistics. “Any identifying features?”
“Barbed wire tattoo around his right bicep. Piercing above his left eyebrow. A small birthmark on his lower back.”
Parker took notes. “What about the gutting?” he asked.
“Yes, that’s interesting,” she said. “The blade entered here.” She pointed to the lower abdomen just above the genitals. “Worked its way upward.” She gave a detailed analysis of how the killer had carved his victim, the organs he’d removed—heart, lungs, liver, stomach, intestines. Parker listened, his own stomach queasy.
She continued. “I’m not a hunter, but it appears to be the same technique as a field dressing.”
“Any idea about what type of knife was used?” He was thinking about the original river body case.
“Well, I can tell you that it had a gut hook.”
“Like a hunting knife.”
“Yes. If you give me more time, I can get you the length of the blade.”
The knife in the first case was a large blade but had no gut hook. So different knives then. “Okay,” he said, having gotten what he needed at this point. He’d get the rest from her report. “I’ll let you finish up.” He couldn’t get out of the room fast enough. Sandra had said he’d get used to the smell, wouldn’t even notice it after he’d been on the job a few years. Parker wasn’t so sure about that.
He tossed the mask into the trash on his way out the door, headed to the crime lab with the bullet, thought about the knife again. He wondered if he was looking at a copycat killer.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
John walked out of Sweeney’s feeling worse than when he’d walked in. His head pounded from the beer Chitter had given him in addition to all the alcohol he’d drunk the night before. His arms hung at his sides, and sweat leaked from his pores. He could smell himself, a mixture of alcohol, body odor, and adrenaline. After Candy had showed up at the club meeting screaming accusations, all he’d wanted to do was get on his bike, ride home, collapse in bed.
But he’d stayed seated out of respect for Hap and church. He’d waited until club business had ended. All the while his insides had churned, a swirl of stomach acid and dread.
Hap came up behind him. “I’ll have one of the guys keep an eye on Candy,” he said and stuck a toothpick between his teeth.
John appreciated the support even though he didn’t believe Candy was a threat, not really. “She’s young, but she’s not stupid,” he said. “She knows not to go to the police.” He glanced at Hap. “Lonnie will make sure she keeps her mouth shut.” Candy’s mother and Beth’s sister, Lonnie, was the old lady of one of the members in the Jersey chapter. She understood this was business.
Hap nodded.
John stepped off Sweeney’s porch and strode to his bike, brushing his graying hair from his eyes. If he didn’t get a haircut soon, he was going to have to tie it back in a ponytail. Maybe he could get one of the old ladies to cut it. He wasn’t ready to see himself as a gray, long-haired biker. He was still a few years away from fifty, but damn if it didn’t feel like it was closing in fast.
He slipped on the half helmet he wore. Some of the younger members preferred the full-face helmets, but John liked the feel of the wind in his face. He didn’t even mind the occasional smattering of bugs in his mouth and eyes.
He started his motorcycle and headed for home. What he needed was a little time away to be alone and sort things through, to go over one more time the steps he’d taken, the precautions, making sure he hadn’t left any evidence behind. But what he really needed was to come to terms with what he’d done. And sleep. If he had more sleep, he could think more clearly. He wondered if he’d ever have a restful night again.
He wove his way around the back roads, avoiding Route 611, Delaware Drive, and the cops, taking his time so as not to draw attention to himself. He was almost home when he passed by Clint’s house and spotted a Jeep in the driveway. He slowed, catching sight of a dog lying in the overgrown grass in the front yard.
He continued downhill and made a U-turn in the middle of the street. He hadn’t seen another vehicle parked outside Clint’s house in over a year. He wondered if the cancer had finally taken him. He’d heard the rumors in town about Clint’s illness, the diagnosis made not long after he’d retired as chief of police. The Scions kept tabs on all the cops, and the old chief was no different.
John passed Clint’s house again, and this time he was certain he recognized the German shepherd in the yard. He sped up the hill, made another U-turn for a third pass. Sure enough, outside the garage not far from the dog, he saw Becca. He was so surprised at seeing her that he didn’t realize he’d eased up on the throttle, almost coming to a complete stop.
She’d spotted him, of course, but what had he expected, riding past the house three times on a loud motorcycle?
Her dog lifted its head, tearing itself away from a bone. When Becca stepped toward John, he gave the bike some gas and sped away. An uneasy feeling picked its way up his spine. He didn’t like that she was on this side of the river.
He didn’t like it at all.
He fed the bike more juice until he was going too fast to decelerate in time to stop. He blew by his driveway, easing up on the throttle once again. He turned back around and headed toward home. An old pickup truck was parked alongside his house, the rear fenders rusted and full of holes. He grumbled, cursing under his breath.
He got off his bike and opened the side door to the kitchen. One of the club’s prospects was in his living room cleaning out ashtrays and wiping down the table. John had forgotten his place had been trashed last night, littered with booze and smokes and strippers. He dropped onto the couch, legs splayed in front of him. The place had been straightened up a bit and no longer had the funky party smell. He eyed the prospect. The kid looked to be twenty, maybe younger.
“I’ll get out of your way,”
the kid said, a nervous waver in his voice.
John cocked his head. “Are you afraid of me, Prospect?”
“A little,” the kid said.
John laughed a strange, maniacal laugh and not his usual lighthearted sound. The kid looked down and all around, anything to avoid looking John in the eyes. He didn’t blame the kid. After all, John was the enforcer in the club.
“That’s good,” he said. “A little fear is a sign of respect. It will serve you well around the other members.” He rubbed his chin. “It may even save your life.” He wasn’t sure what he’d meant by the last part. Maybe it was simply that having a little fear about something made a person cautious, made a person think twice before taking action. But the trick, he reminded himself, was listening to that fear, the very thing he’d failed to do and pulled the trigger anyway.
The kid swallowed. “Yes, sir.”
John stood and put his hand on the kid’s shoulder. The boy was sturdy. He had some muscle to him. That was good too. He would need it sooner or later to defend himself or the club.
“Let yourself out when you’re done. I’m going to lie down.” He headed for the stairs, then turned back around. He didn’t mind the kid being frightened of him, but he didn’t want the kid to think he was an asshole. “And thanks for cleaning up. I appreciate you helping me out.” He motioned to the kitchen and the soon-to-be-cleaned living room.
The kid smiled, his one cheek rising higher on the left side. It was the first John had noticed the right side of the kid’s face sagged as though it lacked muscle tone. John shook his head. A bunch of misfits, that was what the club had turned into. Society’s castoffs, juvenile delinquents, guys with strange appearances or personalities or oddities. It was what had attracted his father, a Vietnam vet who no longer fit into mainstream society, to the club. It was only by default that John had been sucked into the life. He’d never felt he’d had a choice.
His legs were heavy as he dragged himself upstairs, collapsed on top of the bed. He thought about Becca. He needed to find out the reason she was back, what she was doing here. He closed his eyes. Maybe her father had died like he’d thought earlier, but the club would’ve heard about it if he had. Her return couldn’t be a good sign. He never should have allowed her to see him by the river. He’d made a mistake, and if there was a loose end, a weak link, she was it. But he couldn’t change the fact that she’d been there. It was far too late for regrets.
The question he needed to answer now was what he was going to do about it.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Becca paused outside the diner and gazed at the stars. How different they looked on this side of the river—clearer, brighter, more brilliant somehow—which wasn’t logical and was borderline ridiculous, but she saw what she saw. As much as she wanted to forget her life here, she couldn’t forget that it had once been home. Even the air was wetter, sweeter, from the breeze coming off the water.
Across the street, she could just make out the yellow tape marking off the area where she’d first spied Parker. For a moment, Becca allowed herself to think about the body in the river. For as long as she could remember, drownings had occurred in the Delaware. There were places in the river that were deep, unpredictable. Rapids rushed and slowed only to rush again, crashing over rocks and debris. There were long stretches of winding white foam where only the highly skilled in white water rafting could manage. And yet, every year, someone less skilled, someone inexperienced in the river’s undercurrents, got sucked under, never to resurface. It only took a second for a tragedy to occur.
She wasn’t being melodramatic about the dangers on the river. She’d seen what it could do, how one second you could be floating in your inner tube, soaking in the warm sun, taking in the green leaves of summer, the perfect blue skies, the rapids pulling you along, and in the next second, the current was dragging you under, plunging you deep into the abyss, the inner tube continuing downriver without you.
It had happened when she’d been young, only fourteen years old, tubing with Parker and his parents. They’d been in the water for less than an hour. The river stage had been three feet, which had been considered good conditions for a recreational outing, the stage being the elevation of the water above a fixed point, not to be confused with the depth of the water since the depth varied with drop-offs, holes, shallows, and ledges.
It had been a gradual float downriver, a leisurely trip. They’d been heading around a bend. Parker and Becca had been a few tube lengths behind when his mother’s inner tube had taken an unexpected turn. In a second she’d disappeared, pulled right out of the center, vanishing underwater. Parker’s dad, a big, tall guy like his son, had stretched his long arm into the cycling current, grasping her hair by the fistful. With some effort, he’d yanked Parker’s mom’s head above the water, ripping a clump of hair from her scalp in the process.
They’d made it to the riverbank, where his mom had collapsed in the mud, her scalp bleeding where the hair had been torn out. Parker’s dad had asked her questions, checked her scalp, examined her. When he’d finished, he’d dropped on the ground next to her. It had been several minutes before anyone had spoken.
“Mom,” Parker had said.
“I’m okay.” She had patted his arm.
Parker and Becca had stared at one another, scared and relieved at the same time. As for Parker’s mom, her hair eventually grew back, but the patch where it had been yanked from her scalp was white, wiry, compared to the rest of her soft brown locks.
Tonight, Becca stood outside the diner hoping to see Parker again. A small family approached. Becca stepped to the side to let them pass along the narrow sidewalk. They continued across the street on their way to the pedestrian bridge. Another couple lingered outside the storefront window of Paul’s antique shop. Most people walking the little town at night were tourists who came down off the mountain, leaving the bigger resorts farther north in the Poconos to shop in the smaller gift stores for postcards and trinkets, to buy fresh produce, or to walk the bridge. But the biggest business in town was the rental shop where people came from all over to rent kayaks, canoes, and tubes to risk a day on the river.
An older couple exited the diner. She said hello, letting them pass before entering. The place smelled like she remembered, rich with butter mixed with a sweet, syrupy scent. The floor was the same red-and-white-checkered pattern. The red vinyl seats were faded and cracked from heavy use. She slid onto a stool in front of the counter. A young girl wearing a white apron and collared shirt, her face smattered with pimples, asked Becca if she would like to see a menu.
Becca shook her head, not recognizing the waitress.
“Does Gloria still work here?” she asked.
“Oh, no.” The waitress shook her head. “She died a few years ago.”
Becca looked at her hands in her lap. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Were you a friend of hers?”
“I guess I was. I used to hang out here a lot when I was a kid.”
“You’re from around here?”
“I used to be,” Becca said, leaving out any further details. She was sure the waitress didn’t want to hear how Becca had been sent away against her will, but then later by choice, how she’d fled to college never to return. Until now.
“On second thought,” she said. “I will look at a menu.”
The menu hadn’t changed; even the tasty drinks remained the same. She ordered the vanilla milkshake for old times’ sake and checked her phone. It was closing in on eight thirty. There was another text from Matt asking for her to call him. He said he wanted to talk, but he could wait until she was ready. He only wanted to know that she was okay.
She put the phone down and eyed the door. She continued the pattern for the next hour, checking the time, ignoring Matt’s text, staring at the door. She sipped the milkshake on and off, tapping her foot on the stool.
She’d told Parker she would wait, but after another thirty minutes had passed, she wondered if she’d b
een stood up. It wouldn’t be like Parker to do something like that, not the old Parker anyway. She couldn’t be sure what the new Parker would do, the new Parker she’d seen today dressed in a television-show-detective suit. Everything about him being a cop bothered her suddenly. She couldn’t bear to think he might’ve turned into her father. Maybe she was better off not knowing if he had. Maybe she was being unfair. Maybe she should get up and leave, say she’d waited as long as she could if they ever happened to cross paths again.
She turned to make her exit when the door swung open and Parker stepped inside. He strode to the counter, confident and sure, sliding onto the stool next to her.
“Hey, Pam,” he said to the young waitress. “I’ll have the usual.”
After an awkward moment, he angled his head slightly in Becca’s direction. “So,” he said. “You’re back.”
“I’m back. For now, anyway.” They’d covered this already.
Pam set a root beer float in front of him. She looked back and forth between Becca and Parker before walking away to clear a dirty table.
Becca picked up her milkshake, sipped the vanilla cream from the bottom of the glass. A long silence stretched between them. She hadn’t expected him to throw his arms around her, thrilled to see her again, not after his lukewarm greeting that afternoon, but she hadn’t expected things to be so uncomfortable either.
“You know,” she said, “I tried searching for you online on all the usual sites, Facebook, Instagram, but I couldn’t find you.”
“That’s because I’m not on any of them. I don’t think you’ll find a whole lot of guys in law enforcement on the internet unless it’s job related.” His words were clipped, cool. He sounded like a damn cop.
“Well, I tried to find you anyway.”
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