Savage Sourdough

by Mildred Abbott

  That last was quickly brought back to reality when a nurse came in to check on Katie. She was quick and efficient, and though her judgment was wordless, it was clear she felt there were too many visitors for so late in the evening.

  “I’m going to stay here with Katie tonight.” Leo made the announcement the second the nurse shut the door. And he held up his hand to Katie. “No arguments. The decision is made.”

  “I was going to stay here.”

  He looked at me. “No arguments from you either. I’ll take you to pick up Watson. I’m certain he needs you tonight. Then I’ll take you to your house and come back here.”

  At the thought of Watson, I couldn’t argue. The poor little guy was shaken, and if he was choosing me over Barry, his need was real and intense.

  “Fred….” Fear laced Katie’s voice. “You shouldn’t be alone tonight.”

  The thought did give me pause, but I pushed it away. “They’re not after me. Besides, Susan assured me they’re keeping watch over my house. I’ll sleep just fine knowing that you have Leo here and a guard at your door.” I started to say that I could do better research at home on my computer than I could on my phone but decided to not bring the mood down. “Thanks, Leo. I appreciate it.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Anything for my girls.” And though he grinned at both of us, I could’ve sworn there was a little more meaning in his eyes when he looked at me. Or maybe I just wanted there to be.

  Or maybe I simply wanted to focus on something else and was merely landing on Leo. I leaned in and gave Katie a kiss on the top of her forehead next to her bandage. “Dream of bread and tarts and flaky croissants. All the delicious fatty goodness that your brain needs to heal.”

  Katie smiled up at me. “I think that’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

  I hesitated for a second, long enough to ask myself if I truly felt like she was safe where she was. I did. Especially with Leo by her side. “See you in the morning. Call me if you need anything. I love you.”

  She gripped my hand. “I love you, too.”

  With the fire roaring and a steaming cup of decaffeinated chai by my side, I felt surprisingly safe and cozy. Although not safe enough that I hadn’t closed the curtains to the living room window, even with the sound of a police cruiser checking in every so often. I was home, warm, and in my happy place.

  Well, I was almost in my happy place. Instead of being snuggled on the cozy armchair I normally read in every evening, I sat cross-legged on a pillow on the floor, with my back against the armchair. Watson slept pressed against my leg, his snores frequently tickling me through my socked feet. If I thought this would last, I’d plan on never sitting in a chair again. But my little man wasn’t a cuddler most days. And though I hated how distraught he had to be to bring on such behavior, part of me reveled in it.

  The only thing that would’ve made it more perfect would be if I could’ve had a Sherlock Holmes novel in my lap instead of my computer. Instead of drifting off to sleep as I read about an intriguing murder, I was wide-awake, researching real-life serial killers, and trying to find someone connected who was attempting to kill my best friend. And me along with her, if I managed to get in the way, it seemed.

  Being a detective’s daughter and talking over cases with my dad while growing up proved helpful once again. Without that background, there was no way I could read about the horrific things Katie’s parents had done and not be utterly depressed. Both for the acts themselves and imagining what Katie had gone through. But the emotion of it all slipped away as I focused on the facts and possibilities.

  I brought a small pad of paper with me and made a list of possible suspects, careful not to disturb Watson as I scribbled name after name.

  The list was long. Horrifyingly long. And not at all helpful. With eleven victims, twelve if I counted Amy Stone, the number of secondary victims was staggering. Every person killed had parents, nearly every one of them had siblings. And many had children. There seemed no end to the possible people who might want retribution. And rightly so, if it was aimed at Katie’s parents. I believed in the letter of the law, just like my father. But at the same time, if I could get my hands on the person who murdered my dad, I wasn’t so certain the law would mean anything.

  When I started the third page of the list, I had to admit the effort was futile. The only thing I was accomplishing was the illusion of being productive. And even if I kept going, it didn’t guarantee that I would find the magic answer. Most of the children’s names weren’t listed since they were minors. Although, I found some articles that hadn’t bothered with that expectation, so I had a few.

  Still, I could fill up the entire notebook and miss the one who’d come back to take vengeance on Katie.

  Of course, there was also the possibility that this might not be connected to the Mercy Killers at all. I pushed that thought aside. The chances were low, and without the Mercy Killers, we were back to square one.

  More like square zero.

  But how to narrow the search?

  I sipped my tea, enjoying the warmth of Watson’s dreaming weight against my leg, and got lost to the popping yellow and orange of the fire.

  I understood their rage. They had every right to it. But to target Katie…. Leo was correct; she was a victim as well. Surely most people on that list would recognize that. But all it took was one who didn’t.

  I found a photo of Katie from when she’d provided the alibi for her parents. It had been published by one of the publications that didn’t abide by not naming minors. She’d been Michelle Katherine Mercy, age ten. Even with her old name, I would’ve known her. A round child’s face framed by a mass of dark curls. She was adorable and clearly herself.

  This was the why of it all; it had to be. Though Katie and her grandmother had changed her name, she was still herself. Twenty years later, there was no doubt who the child in that picture really was.

  It didn’t matter if Amy Stone was dead—her kidnapping and her husband’s murder were the key. They had to be. That moment of Katie’s statement had sealed some kind of fate. One that ended with her look-alike, Sammy, paying the price.

  I started a new search, looking for all things John and Amy Stone.

  There was a lot. Exposés on their life. Photos of them as children. From when they’d met at college, one from their wedding. A few from their married life. They had two boys.

  I found an article talking about Amy’s suicide from a couple of years later. It showed a picture of the boys. One looked around fifteen, the other probably eight or nine. My attention caught on the fifteen-year-old, and I glanced down at the caption, hoping this publication hadn’t followed protocol about minors’ names either.

  They hadn’t.

  Spencer and Blake Stone.

  I thought Spencer was the one who’d caught my attention. I stared at him. I’d seen him somewhere before. I was certain. A version of the fifteen-year-old. Just as recognizable as the child-aged Katie. But where and when I had no idea.

  Even so, my heart leapt. This was him. It had to be. No chance recognizing him was a coincidence. I had a name. He had a name! Spencer Stone. Or maybe Blake Stone.

  I tried both names in the search engine, and on various social media apps, attempting to find something current. There seemed an overabundance of both names. All over the country.

  Discouragement washed through me again, but only for a moment. I had two names. And a face that I recognized. Or at least a face I was ninety percent sure I recognized. I’d gone from a list nearly three pages long, to two names. It didn’t matter how many Spencer and Blake Stones there were, I’d spend all night until one of them sparked that same sense of recognition. And then I’d have him.

  I texted Leo the names so he could search while Katie was sleeping. Then I called Susan’s cell. I’d saved the number to my contacts when she’d called earlier. She didn’t answer, but I left a voicemail. Even though they wouldn’t recognize the face, maybe they’d catch somethin
g else. With three of us looking, it upped the chances. Especially since one of us had the police database on her side. I nearly texted Branson, but didn’t. He hadn’t yet responded to my last messages.

  Barely fifteen minutes into my renewed search, and I heard the police cruiser swing by again. This time it stopped, the engine went quiet, and a few moments later, there was a knock at the door.

  Jolted from sleep, Watson jumped up, ran to the door, and sounded every inch like a pack of junkyard dogs.

  “It’s okay, buddy. I’m sure it’s just Susan.” Never in a million years would I have believed I’d find relief in that thought. I started to reach for the deadbolt, then reminded myself I wasn’t an idiot and checked the peephole.

  I unlatched the deadbolt and opened the door. “Where have you been?”

  “I got your texts and a voicemail from Susan at the same time. She told me what happened.” Branson stepped inside without waiting for an invitation. “I got into town about five minutes ago and came right here.” He pulled me to him and wrapped his arms around me. “I’m so glad you’re okay.”

  Watson’s barking went wild.

  I jolted but then almost instantly sank into the embrace, despite the twinge of pain from my ribs. Though we’d been on a couple of dates, things hadn’t even gone that far. How long since I’d been held by a man? One who made me feel protected? I’d been divorced for years, and things hadn’t been good between Garrett and me for a long while before that. I’d quit missing it before our divorce and hadn’t thought about it since.

  Watson’s barking had morphed into a growl and brought me to my senses. I pulled away, which required more effort than I really wanted to admit, and shut the door. “I’m fine. So is Katie, mostly. We’re both a little beat-up, but she got the worst of it.” I couldn’t bring myself to look him in the face, couldn’t acknowledge what I’d felt in his arms.

  “I can’t believe I almost lost you.” He started to reach for me again but hesitated and then dropped his arms. Maybe I’d stiffened; I wasn’t sure. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t here to help.”

  The genuine emotion left no doubt to his sincerity, and I looked at him then. “Where were you?” He didn’t owe me any explanation. I tried to keep from making it an accusation, but I could still hear it in my voice.

  “I…um… had some personal business I had to take care of.”

  Yes, he’d mentioned that before and was equally vague then. I didn’t have it in me to press. Or even care all that much. There were much more important things to worry about. I gestured toward the living room sofa. “Come on, have a seat.” I knelt long enough to soothe Watson before following Branson. “Did Susan talk to you about the voicemail I just left her?” I didn’t want to discuss anything personal. Not about the dates we’d shared, his embrace, or whatever business he kept leaving town for.

  He looked at me, confused. “Recently?”

  I shrugged and started to sit beside him on the couch, then changed my mind and took the armchair. I thought I did so smoothly enough it might not have been noticed, but wasn’t sure. “Probably about fifteen or twenty minutes ago.”

  “No, she didn’t mention that.”

  “I left her a voicemail. Maybe she hasn’t gotten it yet.” I inspected him. “Did you listen to my messages? The ones about Katie’s parents?”

  “Yes. And I’m sure you’re right. This has to be connected. I’ve no doubt.”

  “Me neither.” I was glad he’d listened to the details and I didn’t have to start from the beginning. But I filled him in on what Katie had told Leo and me at the hospital, then handed in my list of names. “These are some of the people who are connected to the victims somehow. Although it’s far from an exhaustive list. But I think I found our guy. Spencer Stone. Or possibly Blake Stone. There’s a picture of him as a teenager in one of these articles.” I retrieved my laptop from the floor and began clicking through the tabs I’d saved to find the correct site. “He looks familiar. I know I’ve seen him before. I just don’t know where or when. I don’t know exactly what he looks like now.”

  I found the article, scrolled to the picture, and spared a glance before turning the computer to face Branson. Then I paused, something catching my attention. Whipping the computer back around, I tilted the screen and lifted it so it was mere inches from my face. I gasped. There it was. Proof that I’d seen him before.

  “What is it?” Branson was up and hurried over to the side of the armchair, eliciting another growl from Watson. Branson didn’t respond to it as he looked at the screen over my shoulder.

  “That.” I tapped the picture—on the back of Spencer, or Blake, Stone’s hand was a heart. The black-and-white image looked even more like a tattoo than it had in person. “He was in the bookshop the other day. I think the day before Sammy was killed, if I’m not mistaken. He bought… a collection of ghost stories.” I waved my hand as if clearing the thought. “No, no. His girlfriend or wife bought the ghost stories. He bought a cookbook.”

  “I doubt that part matters, Fred.” Branson chuckled. “You recognize his face or that tattoo?”

  “Both.” I tapped the heart again. “Only it’s not a tattoo. It’s a birthmark.”

  “That for sure helps narrow things down. Of course, it’s only circumstantial at this point, but no way that’s a coincidence, and I’ve learned to trust your gut.” He straightened. “Hold on. I’ll be right back.” Without any more explanation, Branson hurried across the room and went back outside.

  Less than a minute later, he’d reclaimed a spot on the sofa and was tapping away at his own laptop. “There are a lot of Spencer and Blake Stones.” He didn’t look up at me, but continued typing, mumbling to himself as he worked. Then he straightened once more. “Here they are, Amy and John Stone.”

  I moved over to sit beside him on the couch to watch him work. I was certain I wasn’t supposed to see the police system he was using, but he didn’t seem to mind. “Yeah. That’s them. Matches all the pictures I’ve seen of them tonight.”

  He leaned a little closer and let out a soft curse, then turned to me with a grin.

  “What is it? What did you find?” I leaned closer to the computer screen, but didn’t see whatever he’d discovered.

  Branson touched a line that listed Amy’s basic information. “Amy’s maiden name was Fisher. Parents were Bob and Sally Fisher.”

  I waited for the punch line, but it didn’t seem to be coming. “Obviously that’s helpful. But I’m not sure how.”

  “Bob and Sally Fisher.” He repeated their names like I’d forgotten who Elvis Presley was and would remember if he just said the name enough.

  “I don’t think I know a Bob and Sally Fisher. Should I? Are they someone famous?”

  He laughed. “And here I thought you’d interrogated everyone in town. But maybe that’s just the people who own shops on Elkhorn Avenue.” His voice grew in excitement. “Bob and Sally moved here after their retirement a few years ago. Quiet. They keep to themselves. The only reason I know them is that they made the paper last season. A cougar got their terrier when they were taking a walk. Sally didn’t have it on a leash.”

  I gaped at him. “So we found them. Maybe they’re involved, maybe they’re not, but if their grandson is the kid with the heart birthmark and he was just in town, then we found them. One way or another.”

  “Yeah. We found them.” He beamed. “Actually, you found them.”

  The police cruiser pulled away and got lost behind the tiny forest of trees that stood between me and the housing developments that led into town. Satisfied, I turned from the kitchen window and leaned against the counter.

  “The doctors would skin me alive if they knew I was letting you do this right now.” I pointed to the large metal bowl in Katie’s lap that she managed to balance despite it being cocked at an angle due to her right foot being elevated on the opposing kitchen chair. “That can’t be a good strain on your leg, or your brain.”

  “My brain?” Katie chuck
led. “Since when is kneading bread dough strenuous on a person’s brain? It actually has quite the opposite effect. It’s very soothing.” She leveled her stare on me, which was intentionally challenging. “And you’re not the only one who doesn’t like to be told what to do, Winifred Page. It’s enough that I agreed to be at your house instead of my own. I love you to death, but I’m ready for some alone time. And if making more bread than I can sell in a week helps me cope, then that’s what I’m going to do. The doctor said not to lift anything more than five pounds. I’m not lifting anything. You even placed the bowl in my lap, which was overkill, if you ask me.”

  “It’s still a strain on your legs.”

  “Well, thank goodness for painkillers.” She tilted her chin. “If you’re so against it, I won’t make you eat any of the resulting fresh-baked goodness. You can just breathe the aroma and feel thwarted.” Katie angled slightly so she could see past the edge of the kitchen table to my feet. “But don’t worry, Watson. I know you’re on my side. You can have as much as you want.”

  “You’re stubborn. I’ll give you that.” I chuckled and rolled my eyes. “No wonder we’re friends.”

  Katie had been released from the hospital around ten that morning. The doctors truly hadn’t seemed concerned at all. They said everything with her concussion looked good and that it was merely a matter of time for her leg to heal.

  Still, after nearly losing her multiple times, I didn’t want to push our luck.

  “Bread baking truly is good for your nerves.” Katie patted the kitchen chair beside her. “I’ve got enough dough, as you can tell. Why don’t you sit and do some kneading yourself? I promise you’ll feel better. It might take away that line you’ve got going on between your brows.”

  “Now you sound like Percival. Am I supposed to be worried about wrinkles at a time like this? Next you’ll be telling me that I’m using the wrong shade of eyeliner.” The only way she’d do that was if the concussion changed her personality.