by Julia Shupe
“What I’ve got is a hunch.”
But it was more than just a hunch. Even Gil thought so; I could see it in his eyes. Bending closer, he peered at the monitor then eyed the tattered flower in my hand. Grabbing his coat from the hook, he said, “It’s the nursery, Jacob. We have to go back.
Chapter 40
The Shadow Man
He was driving erratically. He had to slow down. His actions were mirroring the confusion in his head. He was about to go crazy—or already had. He didn’t know the difference anymore. He couldn’t trust his mind, or his body, and he certainly couldn’t trust time. His eyes kept flicking to the dashboard clock. How many minutes had passed since last he looked? Did he remember each moment, or had any slipped away? And when, for that matter, did the blackouts occur? When he was sober? Stressed? Or only when he was drunk?
Panic began to tighten his gut. How could he know what was real, and what wasn’t? Who were his victims? How many had there been? Who was Carlton Tubbs? Who was the imposter? Most of the time, when he wasn’t at work, he was drunk, on his way to being wasted, and because of that, his retention was foggy. His evenings were hazy, his actions unclear, but there were still certain things he remembered. He recalled being outside, beneath a bright crescent moon, digging in dirt on his hands and knees, shovel in hand, cock stiff in his jeans. He remembered the feel of soft skin beneath his hands, the slickness of blood, and its coppery smell.
He gripped the steering wheel tighter. Sweat bloomed across the back of his neck and under his arms. He remembered being outside, digging the holes, but he couldn’t remember doing it at Cowpen Slough. And there’d been mornings when he’d awakened, covered in dirt and mud, but he couldn’t recall the reasons why. Over the past twenty-odd years, he’d succumbed to the urges, but only a few times—three, to be exact: three victims. But he’d certainly blacked out more than three times, so what did that mean? What was the total body count?
A shiver worked its way down his lower back. It wasn’t just the urges and blackouts that frightened him. It was the whispering voices, the shadows on the walls, the feelings of being watched while at work, and at home. How stupid he had been, how terribly naïve. He wanted to punch himself for his arrogance. His compulsions had been controlling his actions the entire time, despite his belief that he controlled them. They were leading him around like a piece of meat on a length of rope, pulling his strings like a dancing marionette. His compulsive side was the dominant one. It had probably compelled him to rent the dump he called a home, with its a large back yard and thicket of trees. It had led him to the hardware store, for shovels, saws, and large bags of lime, for a sharp filleting knife with a curved bone handle. He’d convinced himself that he’d take up a project, and cackled in the stuffy hot car. What project? What had he ever shown interest in? What hobby had ever intrigued him, besides killing? When, pray tell, was the last time he’d fixed anything?
His evil twin was alive and kicking, spitting fire, and raking black claws across his back, demanding his obedience and allegiance without mercy.
He raised a fist and pounded his head, slammed his fists against the wheel, and slapped himself. She was the one who had started all of this. She had created the monster he became. Carlton hadn’t attended a fancy high school, but neither had he ever been stupid. The psychology of it was simple, and he cursed himself for not seeing it before.
His mother had ruined him, and he’d never recovered, and because of her, his demon side had finally won.
There must be a decent man, somewhere deep inside him, a man who showed mercy and kindness to others, a man who craved nothing but a quiet, simple life. That man existed because Carlton felt him there. He was the man Carlton wanted to be. He was the man Carlton should have been, and probably would have been, if it weren’t for her.
He ground his teeth so hard his jaw ached. The angry boy had been stronger than the man. The abandoned child who’d been beaten and scorned, who’d known endless disappointments and physical abuse, had always been stronger than his elder counterpart.
Carlton wiped the sweat on his brow with an elbow. He wanted to know what had happened at Cowpen Slough. He wanted to know his connection to that awful place. No, he cursed. I need to know. I need to know what I’m capable of, and where the dirt on my hands came from.
His heart was racing. He needed to know, and there was only one way to find it out.
Are you fucking crazy, a voice whispered from behind. Do you want to get caught? Are you daft? You can’t dig up dead bodies in broad daylight. What about the smell? The blowflies? The maggots? If you dig them up, you’ll have to add more lime, and you hate that stuff. It burns your eyes. This, my brother, is the dumbest thing you’ve ever done.
“But I need to know,” Carlton screamed at his reflection. “Did I bury those women in my own backyard, or was I bringing them to Cowpen Slough the entire time?” He slammed the wheel with his fist. “Is my whole fucking life a fake memory?”
Calm down, the voice whispered. You’ll get us both killed.
Carlton swerved into oncoming traffic. That voice. Those words. That smooth, dry sarcasm. The driver of a tan Toyota leaned on his horn. Jerking the wheel to course-correct, Carlton glanced over his right shoulder. As always, there was nothing behind him, no one there. Of course, he thought angrily. It’s always been nothing. His fucking head was swimming with ghosts. It had been decades since he’d last seen or heard from Smith. And since his private sessions with Dr. Waite, he hadn’t dared utter his name. But as he peered at the empty backseat in the rear-view mirror, the truth came rushing in, crushing him like tidal wave. He instinctively put on a burst of speed. Dr. Waite had been right all along. He’d known the truth but refused to see it.
The angry little boy in his head was Smith, and the proof was buried at Cowpen Slough.
Smith wasn’t real, and never had been. He hadn’t killed Tiffany Kaplan, all those years ago. He hadn’t beaten or shot her, or been covered with her blood. It had always been Carlton from the very beginning. He’d done those terrible things with his own two hands. Smith had been an illusion and a mask, a figment of a child’s overactive imagination. He was a friend that was created by a child who couldn’t make real ones. Carlton had forged him from anger and pain, from a rage much stronger than he’d ever thought possible.
Over thirty years ago, Carlton, the boy, had left Smith alone in those woods, and it was Carlton, the man, who had brought him back to life. Carlton Tubbs, for as long as he was able, had tried not to kill, but had failed. Though he suffered a guilty conscience and knew the difference between right and wrong, he walked the broken path between both, while Smith killed with wild abandon. He relished the acts. He savored the execution.
It was time to see the full extent of what Smith had done.
Chapter 41
On the way to The Secret Garden, I decided to multi-task. I grabbed Gil’s phone and called his wife. It was time to face what was happening to me. Seeing Tubbs on the video feed was a professional win. I only hoped the good fortune would continue. When she answered, I put her on speakerphone.
“Abbie, it’s Vanessa. I can’t thank you enough for—”
“Abbs,” Gil cut in, “I’m counting on you. I’m putting my work-wife’s life into your capable hands.”
“I’ve got this,” she said, laughing. “I won’t let you down.”
Abbie Knowlton put me instantly at ease. She was a family attorney, and even on her worst day, good at what she did. I often wondered how she did it; how she was able to stay positive despite the terrible things she witnessed. Abbie was faced with the spoils of broken love. She was presented with the ways people damaged other people, and expected to decide what was fair and what wasn’t. In a way, her occupation was somewhat like mine, but unlike me, she wasn’t jaded. She was giving and loving. She listened, gave advice. She was such a great wife I always assumed she’d make a wonderful mother, too. But I think that ship had sailed several years before. Not that G
il seemed to mind, of course. A life with Abbie was enough for him. He’d never felt cheated or empty without children. He’d told me as much—several times.
I remember the story of how they first met. He’d seen her at his neighborhood grocery store, browsing the refrigerators in milk and dairy. Abbie, he’d said, a wistful look on his face, had been a vision in sweatpants and tennies. She’d always worn her hair short, and naturally curly, and she never needed makeup to glow. Abbie Knowlton was as sharp as they came— sharp and beautiful, a disarming combination. Gil had definitely married up.
The way he told the story, he’d been holding the proverbial bachelor man’s shopping basket, replete with bachelor-esque foods and a bottle of scotch, and he’d walked right over and introduced himself. He hadn’t been tacky—or so he had said—but I’d never been convinced of his version of the story. At least he hadn’t held twin melons to his chest and asked her to squeeze them to see which one was ripe. He’d taken a breath and asked for her name, an act so unlike him, but certainly his finest moment. Abbie made life worth living, he always said. She was fun, and light, which for a homicide detective, was worth its weight in gold. And now, as I listened to her talk about Scott, I was reminded of her professionalism as well.
“I’m booking an appointment for you, Vanessa. We’ve got to hit this straight on. We need to talk strategy, decide what approach we’ll be taking. We need to develop our emotional viewpoint.”
Emotionally viewpoint? I didn’t quite get it. We were twenty seconds into the conversation, and already I wanted to crawl beneath the seat.
“Emotional viewpoint,” I said. “What does that mean?”
“I’ll book you an appointment, explain when we meet. But before we do, you have homework to do. And I need you to take this seriously. Pour yourself a glass of wine. Pull out a notepad and pen. Really put some thought into this. I know it sounds strange, but I want you to pretend you’re Scott.”
I nearly gagged.
“No. Hear me out. This’ll all make sense. Like I said, I want you to pretend you’re Scott. Develop a case from his point of view. Sketch it out on paper, like you’re Scott. Think about the things he might use against you, what he’d say if this ever goes to court. Be specific, Vanessa. I want times, places, dates, if you can. I want you to really get into it. List all of your faults and idiosyncrasies; things you wish you were better at doing, things you believe a good mother should do.”
This sounded like the worst idea I’d ever heard in my life. List all of my faults as a mother? Name all of the times I’d disappointed Danny? All of the dinners I’d missed because of work? All of the bedtime stories we’d never gotten around to reading? I wasn’t sure I wanted to do that, to create a tangible record of my shortcomings. I wasn’t even sure I could survive it, mentally.
“Are you trying to make me feel worse?” I asked. “Is this part of some new twelve-step program? It’s an interesting angle, Abbs. I’ll give you that.”
“You know Scott better than anyone, Vanessa. You probably know him better than he knows himself. You know how he thinks, what he’ll say, how he moves, and as your attorney, I need to know the same things. When you’re doing this assignment, I need complete honesty. Be as humble as you’re capable of being. List the good, the bad, the ugly, the embarrassing. Give me a list of the heart-breaking failures. Besides,” she added, “I know you, Vanessa. You’ll tear yourself apart more than anyone else ever could. You’ll show yourself no mercy. You’ll be harder on yourself than Scott could ever be. If I combed the streets of Sarasota for a month, I could never find a critic half as harsh as you will be. That’s just the way you were built.” She paused, as if to let it sink in. “It’s an admirable trait, Vanessa. I mean it. It means you’re human, that you care, and that you hold yourself to a very high standard. There are many people in this world who don’t.”
She was right—about the critical stuff, at least. I had always been brutal with myself. My list of regrets was ten miles long.
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I said. “But how does this relate to an emotional viewpoint? How will this lovely exercise equate to keeping Danny?”
“By thinking like Scott, and building a case against yourself, you and I can construct a better defense. By emotional viewpoint, I mean this: we have to decide who you’ll be in this case. We have to select a mask for you to wear. Will you play the role of the aggressive fighter? The hard-working, single mother? The spurned wife? The fool? By defining your role, we define Scott’s as well. But to do any of that, we need all the nasty details. Hold nothing back, Vanessa, or we run the risk of getting it wrong. We don’t want any surprises in mediation, and certainly not in court.”
“So you think this will actually go to court?”
“Probably not. But we have to proceed as if it will.”
I was starting to understand what she wanted. It was all about painting the right picture.
“Okay,” I allowed. “I’ll bare my ugly side, but only if you promise not to judge.”
“Oh, please, Vanessa. There’s nothing to judge. Not if the things Gil tells me are true. My husband is your number one fan. He adores his work-wife. I should probably be jealous.”
I punched my partner in the shoulder. He smiled.
“I gotta go, you guys,” Abbie said. “I’m meeting a new client today.”
“Man or woman?” asked Gil.
“Man. Oh! Speaking of men, how is that handsome FBI agent, Vanessa?”
I swiveled in my seat. “You told her?”
“So you’re admitting there’s something to tell?”
I snapped my mouth shut.
“Vanessa.” He heaved an exasperated sigh. “You haven’t been with a man in over two years. It’s not healthy, mentally or physically. You’re a good woman, and you deserve to be happy. You put your son above everything else, even above your own needs. I’ve seen it. This lawsuit is nothing but crap. You’re the kind of person who should be having kids, not Scott, and certainly not me. But ever since Scott left you, you’ve been hiding behind an impenetrable wall—and it isn’t like men don’t notice you. They do. They buzz around you like bees around a flower, and they only fly away when you swat them.” He reached out and squeezed my knee. “I just want you to be as happy as Abbie and I are. You deserve it, Ness. I hope Jacob can give you that.”
I placed my palm over his hand. I was speechless. He rarely said things like that. Gil was a friend, a very good friend, but he was a man’s man. He was hardly a sap.
“You’re getting too deep for her, honey. Give her a break. Vanessa, we’ll let you off the hook—this time. But my husband is right. Give this one a chance. Allow yourself to be swept away, because you never know where your feet may land. And maybe,” she added, “we could double date some time, or Gil and I could sit front row at your wedding.”
I laughed despite myself then clamped my mouth shut. I couldn’t think of a single word to say. I was blown away. They were amazing friends. There was no way in hell I deserved them.
“Ok, guys, I’ve really gotta go. Where are you headed, anyway?”
“To catch a killer,” Gil growled.
“To catch an alleged killer,” she corrected him gently.
“Spoken like a true attorney.”
“You think you’ve actually got something this time?”
“I know that we do,” he answered quickly. “This time, we’re on the right track. We found a connection to the latest missing girl.”
“Excellent, honey. Good luck. Stay safe. And Vanessa, I’ll be in touch soon. In the meantime, please do this very important assignment. And remember to take it seriously.”
“Aye, Aye, Captain.” I saluted the phone.
Gil brought the phone to his lips. “Be careful with that new client, beautiful lady of mine. He’s a lonely man who’s getting a divorce, which means he’s an animal on the prowl. Don’t let him take you away from me.”
“Not a chance in hell,” she purred ba
ck. “But I do need to go; he’s paying top dollar.”
“Perfect,” Gil said, “Go knock yourself out. I’ve never been threatened by beautiful strong women.”
She laughed. “I love you, Gil. We’ll talk soon, Vanessa. Think about everything I said.”
Gil disconnected the phone, and I stared at the building in front of me, in silence. We were here. Showtime, time to compartmentalize again.
~ ~ ~
Inside the nursery, my eyes were drawn immediately to the silver African daisies, and I absently fingered the one in my pocket. Jacob had stayed at the station with the captain, and was eagerly awaiting a forensics report. The anthropologist had dated the oldest of the bones, which would hopefully link Carlton Tubbs to some of the older crimes. Harry was researching my landscaping theory, while Gil and I waited for the nursery manager. We’d brought the list of employees we’d already spoken to, and the names of three others who were off that day.
“This is a long shot, Ness,” Gil said, hands on his hips as he stared at hundreds of plants and flowers.
“No,” I objected. “It’s actually not. We’ve been thinking about this all wrong. It’s never been about what links these women to each other. It’s about what links their killer to them.”
“Isn’t that usually the same—”
“Agents?”
We both spun around. “It’s Detectives,” I corrected the manager gently.
“Right.” He sighed, his mouth a grim line. I was sure he was thrilled to see us again, have us poking around his store for the second time this week. He waved an arm to the man standing to his right. “This is Kyle Harris. He’s on your list. He was off the day you were here.”
The man known as Kyle stepped forward. He was of medium height and slightly dumpy, with arms that didn’t touch the sides of his body. He also seemed nervous as hell.
“Detectives,” he croaked. “I’m happy to help.”