Stain of Guilt

by Brandilyn Collins

  “Downstairs.” He pushed me toward the basement door, made me open it. Leaning around me, he flicked on the stairway light. “Go. No, wait.” He moved backward, pulling me away from the steps. “You have a cell phone?”

  His words hardly registered. “Yes.”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know. In my purse.”

  “Where is it?”

  “I don’t . . . I can’t . . .”

  His hand flashed out, sinking fingers into my shoulder. “Answer me!”

  Please don’t wake Kelly!

  “In the office.”

  “Get it. Hurry.”

  We scurried across the hardwood floor and into my office. With shaking fingers I withdrew the phone from my purse. Bland snatched it and dropped it into his pocket. He didn’t even glance toward my work area, where the drawing of his own face lay.

  “Now downstairs.”

  I barely felt my legs as we descended. Someone else moved my feet, someone else filled my lungs with air. We hit the carpet, and he pushed me harder. “Go.”

  My hands fumbled with the lock on the sliding glass door. He thrust me aside and unlocked it himself, watching me all the while, then tried to draw back the door. It moved only a few inches. He pulled harder.

  “What’s wrong with it?” His voice rose, rage twisting his features. “What have you done to the door?”

  “It’s—it’s the broom handle behind it.” I pointed a quivering finger.

  With a curse, he threw it aside, then yanked open the door. “Out!”

  I tottered over the threshold onto our deck. Bland pulled the door shut. “Wait.” He flipped the goggles over his eyes. “Out there.” He pointed with his chin.

  Our feet clattered over wood, then onto the lawn. Straight on through the backyard, the lights of my house fading as we reached the trees at the edge of my property. There I hesitated, ransacking my brain for a last-minute, luminous idea that would save me.

  “Move!” His hand thrust against my spine.

  We lurched into the forest, its darkness swallowing me like the cavernous maw of a monster.

  Chapter 30

  She stumbled over a root and nearly fell. He pulled her up. With the goggles, he could see. She couldn’t.

  “Stop.”

  She halted, muscles tense under his fingers. Served her right. Her loyalties hadn’t been adequately swayed. She deserved the fear.

  “Don’t move.” He slipped off his backpack and set it on the ground. Reached inside and pulled out the plastic bag containing his second piece of evidence. Put his gun in the backpack. He didn’t need it now. She wouldn’t run in this blackness.

  He straightened, checked the sky. A bare hint of a moon. Cloudy. But rain wasn’t likely this time of year.

  The faces of his family flashed in his head. Beth. Nine-year-old Scott. Twelve-year-old Eddie.

  All this for you.

  Carefully, he placed the plastic bag on top of the box.

  “What is that?” The woman’s nervous whisper grated on his nerves.

  “My evidence. Edwin’s gun is in the box.”

  “What’s in the bag?”

  Anger zinged up his spine. “Stop the questions!”

  She pulled in a hitching breath.

  “They’ll find it when they search for you.” Bland watched her green-tinted face as she absorbed his strategy. He could see she longed to ask another question but wouldn’t. Good. She was learning.

  He’d reward her with the genius of his plan.

  “To get you back, they must test my evidence. Now.”

  Chapter 31

  The minutes blurred into eternity. Chaotic thoughts ran through my head, and tears trickled from my eyes. The darkness blanketed me, the scent of rich earth mixed with my own sweat. Even as my eyes adjusted, I couldn’t see very far ahead in the cloudy night. Bland served as both my captor and guide, pushing me faster than I could safely move. Again and again I tripped or ran into scratchy bark. I could feel his anger building, as though it was my fault that his first plan hadn’t worked.

  Had Jenna returned home yet? Surely she had. My mind shoved in film of her frantically searching the house, calling Chetterling. Kelly would wake up. Even Stephen would be scared.

  How long before they discovered the unlocked sliding glass door?

  Oh, God, comfort my family.

  “This way.” Bland jerked me left. My right elbow grazed a tree trunk.

  Trudge and breathe, trudge and breathe. With every step, sounds intensified—my heartbeat, the whoosh of blood in my ears, Bland’s voice, night rustles of the forest—as if a giant hand turned up the volume.

  Keep calm, Annie. Stay alive. And keep praying.

  Was that a break in the thick canopy of trees ahead? A ribbon of road?

  Bland began to curse, pulling me back and forth along the edge of the trees. We veered left, then right, then left again. The more we stumbled around, the tighter he clutched my arm.

  My foot hit a rock, and I went down hard on one knee. Bland yanked me up. My throat felt coated with dust. I dared not ask what he was looking for.

  Then I knew. His car.

  Deep within me, something rolled onto its side, curled into a fetal position. Bland was going to kill me, right here. He couldn’t find his getaway vehicle, and I was only slowing him down.

  Where are you, Jenna? Where are you, Chetterling?

  “There.” Bland pushed me out of the trees, onto the dark road. “Go.”

  There sat his car. In a burst of clarity I sought data about it. White. What kind? I peered at the back of it as we scuttled to the passenger side. A sticker for Enterprise rental. Ford logo. License plate . . .

  We were moving too fast. I feigned a trip and went down on my knees. “Ungh.” Breath whooshed from my mouth. I pressed my hands against the asphalt, steadying myself, eyes cutting left.

  4ASG592

  “Get up.” Bland shoved his hands under both my arms and lifted.

  “I’m trying.”

  4ASG592

  I repeated the digits and letters, searing them into my mind as Bland pressed me inside the car. He slung his pack and night goggles into the back and slid into the driver’s seat. Soon we were barreling down the road—away from Redding.

  4ASG592. 4-Annie-silly-girl-592.

  “Put your seat belt on.”

  I threw him a nonplussed look.

  “Put it on!”

  I fastened myself in.

  God, please get me out of this alive, and I’ll let You run my life. I promise.

  “We will drive for a while. Then we will call the Sheriff’s Department.”

  4-Annie-silly-girl-592. “But . . . I don’t know if I can get cell phone service out here.”

  Headlights crested a hill in the distance. Bland waited until the car passed.

  “We’ll drive till you do.”

  I pressed a hand against my forehead. Surely I was dreaming this bizarre night. I’d fallen asleep at my drawing table, cheek pressed against Bland’s face, his criminal stream of consciousness flowing into mine . . .

  New tears burned my eyes, tiredness and anger leaching strength from my limbs. How had Bland staged this so-called evidence that proved his innocence? What if his scheme actually worked?

  “I’m going to tell you the rest of the evidence.” Bland clipped his words. “Then you’ll see that you’ve judged too quickly. The plastic bag. It contains the shirt Edwin wore the night of the murders.”

  Edwin’s shirt?

  “It will have blowback. Small particles discharged when a gun is fired. They kick back and get lodged in your hands and sleeves.”

  He claimed to have Edwin’s shirt? But how could he have known Edwin threw it out?

  More headlights. Bland watched them approach and pass, then checked the car’s taillights in the rearview mirror.

  “As I sat in my car that night, planning, I realized I needed the shirt. I considered turning myself in, handing over the gun. T
elling the sheriff’s detectives to check Edwin’s shirt. But I couldn’t be sure, after our fight, if Edwin’s prints could still be lifted from the gun. I knew the police wouldn’t listen about his sleeves. They’d arrest me. He’d go home.

  “I drove to Edwin’s neighborhood, cruised by his town house. No lights. He was still at his mother’s. Spouting his lies. But I noticed something on the street. Garbage cans, ready for pickup the next morning. That was the break I needed. I called Edwin’s home number from a pay phone. Left a message. Told him I had the gun—with his prints. Told him about his shirt. Said they’d no doubt be asking for it in a day or two, just to cover all their bases. Did he know they’d find discharge on its sleeve? That he couldn’t wash all of it out?

  “Back to Edwin’s neighborhood. I parked in a little alley and stole to his street. Finally, he came home. Within fifteen minutes, he was dragging out his garbage can.”

  I pressed back in my seat, thoughts reeling. Clearly, Bland had been at Edwin’s town house that night. Because Edwin had thrown that shirt away in the garbage can. Could Bland’s story possibly be true? Could Edwin, full of his own guilt, have felt compelled to tell a detective later why the shirt was missing—when he hadn’t even been asked about it?

  Wait. Maybe Bland was telling the truth about this, but he still committed the murders. Or maybe there was a third explanation I couldn’t imagine right now.

  My head spun, fear and lack of sleep shunting my brain. I knew Bland had killed those two men. He’d certainly shown his lack of conscience to me. He threatened me. Stalked my daughter. Broke into my house.

  4-Annie-silly-girl-592

  “You listening?” Bland hit my arm.

  Pain pounded my muscle. “Yes.” But not with my heart. “Could I ask a question? If you want me to understand . . .”

  His lip curled. “Go ahead.”

  “Does Edwin know you have the shirt?”

  “No.”

  “Why didn’t you go to the Sheriff’s Department when you got it?”

  “That’s two questions!”

  I shrank in my seat, heart pounding. Was he going to hit me again?

  Bland threw me a disgusted look. “I planned to turn myself in that night with the gun and shirt, but then I turned on the radio. News. About me. My abandoned car had been found. They didn’t know what I was driving. They said I was armed and dangerous. Armed and dangerous.”Venom coated his voice. “I pictured trigger-happy cops and deputies. I would be surrounded. Probably shot. I couldn’t take the chance. The situation couldn’t be controlled. I chose to run.”

  Bland suddenly slowed the car. Why? Terror sliced through me. Did I now know too much? Stopping could be fatal. As long as he was driving he couldn’t kill me.

  “We need to stop and make the phone call. It’s dangerous to talk while driving.”

  He was worried about dangerous?

  The car slowed further, until the speedometer read thirty-five. “There.” Bland pointed with his chin to a sign for a turnabout. He pulled into it and shut off the engine and lights. Darkness poured over us like tar, smothering and sticky. My heart caught in my throat.

  I could make out Bland’s black form as he dug in his large camouflage coat pocket for my cell phone. “We’ll ask to talk to the man parked out front of your house.”

  My jaw loosened. How did he know about Chetterling? “He won’t be there anymore. He’ll be looking for me.”

  “Good, then that’s who we want. What’s his name?”

  I told him and gave him the number to the Sheriff’s Department. Then watched, helpless, my eyes slowly adjusting to the darkness, while he dialed. “Here.” He thrust the phone at me. “You ask for him.”

  My fingers quivered as I held the cell to my ear.

  “Shasta County Sheriff’s Department.”

  “H–hello. I need to talk to Ralph Chetterling. Right now. Tell him it’s Annie Kingston.”

  “Ms. Kingston.” The woman’s voice repeated my name with thinly veiled excitement.“We’ve been looking for you.”

  But will you find me in time?

  Chapter 32

  “Where are you?” the woman asked.

  “Enough!” Bland snatched the cell from my fingers. “This is Bill Bland.” He paused. “Don’t worry about her; she’s fine. You hear who I am? Bill Bland. Tell that to your detective. And have him call me back right away on this number.” He looked to me. “What is it?”

  I whispered the digits. He repeated them. “I’m hanging up now. I expect his call immediately.”

  He frowned at the phone, seeking the disconnect button, then pushed it.

  “Five minutes. After that, we leave. Cell phone calls can be tracked.”

  Bland’s icy determination settled over me like a winter fog. The air in my lungs thickened. I lay my head against the seat and forced myself to stay calm.

  “You know this man? Chetterling?”

  “Yes. I’ve worked with him a few times.”

  “Good.”

  I knew what he was thinking. Chetterling would want to protect me—

  The phone rang.

  He punched the talk button. “Bland.”

  I heard Chetterling respond. His voice, distant but distinct, rolled out in the calmest tone I’d ever hear him use. Even separated by miles, darkness, and deceit, I felt comfort in listening to it. “I hear you’re with Annie Kingston, Mr. Bland. Is she all right?”

  “She’s fine.”

  “I’d like to talk—”

  “Quiet! You need to do what I say. You need paper and pen. I have information for you.”

  “All right. Wait just a minute.”

  Where are you, Chetterling? In your car? At my house? Does Jenna know I’m okay?”

  4-Annie-silly-girl-592

  “Ready,Mr. Bland.”

  Bland related a truncated story of the shirt and gun, telling the detective where they were now located.“Test them immediately, and Annie Kingston will be returned to you.”

  The way he talked—as if he had the right and power to move the universe. The precariousness of my situation washed over me. What did he expect to do with me while a lab tested his evidence? What if that took days? What if the results weren’t what he wanted to hear?

  “We already have your items,Mr. Bland. They were found by deputies searching the woods for Annie. They have not been compromised. But you have to understand how important it is to us that Annie is safe.”

  “It’s important to me that my evidence is safe.”

  “Understood, Mr. Bland. We’ll take care of it. I do suggest that you and Annie come in now. We’ll want to know she’s safe while we run your tests.”

  Bland scoffed. “I bring her in and you won’t run anything. She stays with me until you’re done.”

  “We’ll do the testing as soon as we can. But right now it’s the middle of the night. We’ll have to wait until tomorrow to get your items to the lab, and then I don’t know how long—”

  “I can tell you how long.” Bland’s voice rose. “You think I didn’t research this ahead of time? Think I’d try to pull this off without planning?”

  “No—”

  “The problem with you detectives is, you don’t know about forensics. You need to spend a little more time with your lab buddies. So here are the facts. Are you listening?”

  “Go ahead.” Chetterling sounded unflappable.

  “One. A twenty-year-old latent can be lifted from that gun. The grip is custom wood, smooth enough to hold a print. Two. The discharge in the shirt fabric will also still be present. Both of these tests are relatively simple—that, even you should know—and can be done in a matter of hours.”

  “I see. No doubt the results will turn out as you said. Now if I could talk to An—”

  “One more thing, Detective. Since I know you’re playing me. You think I staged that shirt. I’ll prove I didn’t.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “On the tag of the shirt the dry cleaners wro
te ‘E, space T A R’ for Edwin Tarell. I tracked down the cleaners. A mom-and-pop shop still in business. Called Scotty’s. They can verify their writing.”

  The back of my neck prickled. I pressed against the car door and watched Bland with wary eyes. His planning was so detailed. He was so sure of himself.

  Maybe his arrogance will prove to be his downfall. Hadn’t Susan said something like that? What had he overlooked?

  “Most important will be the DNA. I waited over ten years for science to catch up with my needs. You’ll find blood on the shirtsleeves. Probably Don Tarell’s. I can imagine Edwin staging his sobs over the body, clinging to the father he so loved.” Bland’s sarcasm could have been cut with a knife. “You might have to exhume the bodies to get their DNA. The tests take a couple weeks. You’ll get a match.”

  Could that be true?

  Even if the DNA did match, did that prove Bland’s innocence? There had to be a hole in his story. My overloaded mind searched in vain for what it might be.

  “All right, Mr. Bland. We’ll check all this out. What you need to do now is bring Annie Kingston back safely.”

  “Are you deaf? I’m not bringing her back until you test the evidence!”

  “You’re going to keep her until DNA testing is done? That’s a long time to deal with a hostage.”

  Bland snorted. “After twenty years? Two weeks is nothing.”

  Two weeks? God help me, I would never make it that long.

  “How can we know she’s safe?”

  “I’ll let you talk to her. Every day.”

  “Mr. Bland. Just bring her back. Stop running. Surely you’re tired of it. A man like you, accused for twenty years of a crime he didn’t commit? If I were you, I’d want it over with.”

  “You’re playing with me again!” Bland’s shout raked through my ears. “I’m not talking to you anymore. Just do what I say!” He punched off the phone and threw it on the floor.

  We sat in silence, my heart thumping. I couldn’t begin to guess what he would do with me now.

  Bland hit the steering wheel hard, then yanked the key out of the ignition and shoved open his door. I cringed in my seat as he paced beside the car, cursing, fighting to control his fury, clearly losing. After a few long moments he flung himself back inside and started the engine. Without a word he flipped the headlights on and scratched out of the turnabout.