by J. S. Bailey
Wayne shrugged. “That’s what it looks like.”
“Why would he have done that?”
“I’m not sure.” That was a lie—God knew he’d spent the last half hour mulling over all the different reasons why a man would suddenly blow away four innocent kids playing outside, and he could only come up with one that made any sense. “It seems like he just snapped.” Wayne could understand that, because he had been down that road, seventeen years before.
He remembered that moment well. He, Robert Wayne Thompson, had been sitting in the filthy home of his childhood, trying to do his homework on a section of the sofa that wasn’t buried under unwashed laundry and empty liquor bottles. His legs and feet were killing him as the too-small ankle-foot orthotics constricted his movements. He’d have taken them off and risked immobility to end the pain, but his mother would have flown into one of her typical rages and started hurting him again. Better to endure the pain of the leg braces than the pain of her whip.
“Robert,” she called from the bedroom. He stiffened. He had thought she was asleep. She called again. “Robert?”
He tried to calm his frantic heart with deep breaths. “What?” he asked in a cracking voice that had only begun its adolescent deepening the week before.
“Bring me my bottle.”
He didn’t need to ask what bottle she was talking about.
She always kept a pint of vodka on the counter beside the coffee maker.
“Kay.” He went to the kitchen and picked up the hateful drink. He started toward her room but halted. The stuff was killing her, and while he cared little whether she lived or died, he knew that if she drank more, she would only grow more volatile.
The woman rarely beat him while sober. Sometimes she actually seemed friendly and begged for forgiveness for hurting him. But after four or five glasses of the stuff…
He unscrewed the cap and poured the contents of the bottle down the drain.
He heard movement at the other end of the house. “What’s taking so long?”
She appeared in the archway connecting the kitchen and living room. Her bloodshot eyes widened as she looked from the empty bottle in his hand to the sink, and then to his face. Her mouth opened in a wordless snarl of rage. She dashed into the living room, and before he could lock himself in his bedroom to hide from her, she returned with a sooty fireplace poker and swung it at him.
He ducked. The poker clipped him on the shoulder. Pain blossomed from the point of impact like shock waves, and he staggered. She struck him again. And again. He could hardly breathe. He had to get the poker away from her before she killed him.
He caught her off guard by lunging toward her instead of running away, and the moment of surprise allowed him to jerk the poker out of her hands before she could do any serious damage. The altercation should have ended there, but something broke loose inside of him, and the next thing he knew, he was beating her. The poker smashed into the side of her head, and she crumpled to the floor, screaming. But he couldn’t stop. All the years of abuse seemed to concentrate into a physical energy that he channeled into the weapon. He pounded her face until the screams stopped and her visage was unrecognizable, but even then he was unable to regain control of his senses.
He didn’t know how long he beat her. He felt something wet on his face and noticed that his hands and much of his front were coated in red. He blinked a few times, dropped the poker to the floor, and gaped at what he had done.
All because he had finally snapped.
In the present, Wayne took a deep breath. He couldn’t keep everything from them. “Okay,” he said. “Let me tell you my theory. According to Jerry, his wife had an abortion against his will. Let’s say he developed a complex about children since his own kid was dead. Maybe he couldn’t stand the fact that other people’s children were still alive, and he flipped out when he saw those four girls playing in the yard. Bang bang, no more girls, no more worries.” Until the next batch of kids came along, he thought. If Jerry’s life had not ended, there was no telling how many other children would have died at his hands.
Rachel frowned. “That’s the most ridiculous excuse for murder I’ve ever heard.”
He shrugged. “Most excuses for murder are, which brings me to the next point: Jerry’s own disappearance and murder. Only I don’t think his murderers’ excuse was ridiculous.”
“Whoa. Wait just one minute.” Rachel glared at him. One of her eyes was twitching. “You think his murder was in retaliation for the other murders?”
“Yes, otherwise the timing of his disappearance would be too big of a coincidence. He specifically told Jessica he’d committed some terrible deed. This has to be it. The parents or somebody found him out and killed him.”
“My mother and father are not murderers,” Rachel said in a cold tone.
He had to make her believe him, or she would never fully grasp the danger that her sister and parents were in. “What does a killer look like to you?”
“Not like them.”
“What about me?”
“Wayne…” Sidney warned.
“What about you?” Rachel asked.
He sighed. Now wasn’t the time. “Nothing.”
Rachel was quiet for several moments while her mind processed everything he’d told her. “Okay. Let’s set all that aside for one minute. Why has Jessica flipped her lid?”
“I don’t think she’s just Jessica right now.”
Rachel blinked. “What?”
He rose. “Call your parents. Tell them that if Jessica shows up wherever they are, to stay away from her because they might end up hurt. Or worse.”
Maria Roman-Dell was helping her sister-in-law clean up the Kemper House banquet room after most of the other Reyes descendants had gone home. Thank goodness the day was drawing to a close—as much as she had enjoyed seeing her brother again, all the socializing had worn her out. Returning to the silence of her office on Monday couldn’t come soon enough.
“Hey, congrats on the grandbaby,” Sharon said as she wadded up one of the disposable tablecloths and tossed it into a giant garbage can they had been lugging around the room. “I meant to tell you earlier.”
“Oh!” Maria hadn’t been aware that anyone outside of her immediate family had heard the news. Rachel or somebody must have let it slip. She forced a smile. “Thank you.”
Sharon laughed. “Don’t sound so grim about it.” She dragged the garbage can to the next table and set to work clearing that one as well. Maria’s job was to salvage as much plastic silverware as possible for Sharon to reuse at the next family gathering. She paused to gather up a gummy fork and knife off of the table and stuffed them both into a used Kroger bag. “I’m just worried. I mean, they’re so young. Maybe too young.” She moved to another table and gathered up more utensils. Sharon likely thought she was a hypocrite. After all, Maria had gotten pregnant for the first time when she was twenty-two, and Rachel and Eric were already older than that, though not by much.
“I’m sure everything will be fine,” Sharon said.
Maria doubted it. Nothing was ever fine. “They told me they’re thinking about moving back here early next year.”
“You should follow their example. Some of us have missed you.”
“We would, if we could. Stephen’s been complaining about Indianapolis practically since we closed on the house there. Says he’d like it better if they had Skyline Chili and the Reds, and he can’t stand the Colts. I told him to get over it, but you know men and their sports.”
Sharon rolled the trashcan to the next table. “What’s stopping you from coming back?”
“We each make seventy grand a year and get two weeks’ vacation on top of that.” Maria smiled. She and Stephen had spent half of July at a lake house in the Catskills. The scenery and weather had been so perfect that for perhaps the first time in her adult life she had dreaded returning to work.
“I guess that would be a good reason to stay put.”
In Maria’s op
inion, it was an excellent reason. “There’s not much left for us in Cincinnati, anyway. Not really.”
Sharon paused in what she was doing and planted her hands on her hips, scowling. “And just what are we?”
“It’s not you who’s the problem.” Maria hurried to the next table before Sharon could see her face. “You’ve seen how some of them look at me and start whispering when my back is turned. Not to mention Rachel and Jess not wanting to have anything to do with us!”
Her sister-in-law frowned. “You can’t just run away from what you created. You say the girls don’t want anything to do with you, but did you ever act like you wanted anything to do with them?”
Maria felt blood rise into her face. “Don’t you start on that, too.”
“I’m only stating the truth. If you can’t handle that, then maybe you deserve all the flak you’re getting.”
Maria was about to come up with a defensive retort when Esteban walked into the room reeking of cigarette smoke. “Maria, can I talk to you alone for a minute?” The typical cheery gleam had gone out of his eyes. A sense of foreboding knotted up Maria’s stomach. Esteban had only looked this dour on a few other occasions, and none of them had been pleasant.
“What can she hear that I can’t?” Sharon asked.
His jaw was firm. “Fine, you can hear, too. Jessica’s boyfriend called me a while ago trying to track Jessica down. Apparently her phone is turned off.”
Maria couldn’t see what was so secretive about this statement, yet the feeling of unease did not lessen. “He doesn’t have Rachel’s cell number?”
“I guess not. But anyway, someone told me that she and Rachel went to Kenwood, so I called him back to let him know, and all the sudden he asked me if the name Sarah Roman-Dell meant anything to me.”
Wayne had…what? She stood in stunned silence for what seemed like an eternity but was probably only a second or two. She forced herself to speak. “What did you say?”
“Nothing. I hung up.”
“You didn’t.”
He turned his palms upward in an exasperated shrug. “What was I supposed to say?”
“You could have told him that the name meant nothing to you at all! Now he’ll think you’re hiding something!”
“I could blame the dropped call on poor reception if anyone asks.”
“Yes, because calls drop all the time in the middle of Suburban America.”
As if in response to their argument, a cell phone began playing a high-pitched version of Rondo Alla Turca, the ring tone Maria had assigned to Rachel’s incoming calls.
Praying for the first time in years that her carefully crafted illusion of reality wouldn’t come crashing down like a flimsy house of cards, she made her way toward the purse and accepted the call. “Rachel, what is it?” she asked, trying her best to sound as though nothing were amiss.
Her daughter’s words came out in a rush. “Mom! Wayne says you’ve got to stay away from Jessica, she’s not right in the head, and she might hurt you and Dad, and she just drove off, and we don’t know where she is. Wayne thinks she’s looking for you, and we know about Sarah being killed so don’t try to deny it—”
The house of cards had been reduced to rubble. It was all Maria could do not to drop the phone from her shaking hands. “Honey, slow down. What is all this?”
She could hear her daughter take a deep breath. “Sidney Miller found an old article about a quadruple homicide that took place in eighty-six. One of the victims was Sarah Roman-Dell, daughter of Stephen and Maria. Care to explain?”
Maria squeezed her eyes shut. She had to come up with a reply but was at a complete loss for words.
“Mom?”
There was no use for continued denial. “Yes,” she said quietly. “That happened.”
“No crap, Mom! Would the gunman possibly have been named Jerry Madison? A neighbor, perhaps?”
A mixture of anger and disbelief flared inside her. “How would you possibly know about him? He went missing before you were even born!”
“Yeah, ’cause he’s dead. Only not really. I mean, he is, but—”
There was a scuffling noise, and Wayne Thompson’s voice came on the line. “Maria?”
“Yes?” Her voice shook as much as her hands.
“If you see Jessica, let us know immediately, and we’ll come get her. But do not let her anywhere near you.”
“I don’t understand. What’s the matter with her?”
“We can talk about that later.” There was an edge to his voice she had never heard him use before, and she had known him since he was a boy of fourteen. “But promise me you’ll call either me or Rachel if she turns up.”
“I don’t know your number.”
He gave it to her. She had nothing to write it on, so she could only hope she would remember it later if needed. “Promise me,” he repeated.
“I—I promise.”
“Good. And please be careful.” The line went dead.
She stared vacantly at the wall for a moment. She started to return the phone to her purse, but put it in her jacket pocket instead.
“What happened?” Sharon asked.
“I don’t know,” Maria said, and burst into tears.
WAYNE HANDED the phone back to Rachel.
“Now what?” asked Sidney. She was wringing her hands together so tightly that her knuckles were turning white.
He had been trying to figure out just that. He was a public accountant, not a detective. “Eric, you take Rachel back to Esteban’s house. She’s had enough stress for one day.”
Eric nodded. “And if Jessica shows up?”
“Tie her up, and don’t let her leave.”
Rachel’s face took on a greenish hue. “Then we should call you?”
“That would be the plan. Actually, let’s all get each other’s numbers, just in case.”
They each took turns reciting their cell phone numbers—and home number, in Wayne’s case—while the others programmed them into their phones. Wayne scribbled down the numbers on a scrap of paper.
“Okay,” Wayne said, regretting his lack of a mobile phone for the first time in his life. “I’m going to head out and start looking for her at her usual haunts. Sidney, you should stay here in case she comes back.”
“I am not staying here!” she retorted, crossing her arms. “You know she’s not coming back until she finishes whatever she’s up to. Besides, you won’t have a phone with you.”
“I can borrow yours.”
“Then I won’t have a phone.”
“You’ll have one if you stay here.”
Sidney swore. “This is stupid.”
“It’s not. If she realizes she’s forgotten something, she might come back to pick it up.”
“Like what? A butcher knife?”
“Eric, let’s go,” Rachel said, moving toward the door in an eager rush to get away from them. Wayne didn’t blame her.
Eric nodded. “Good luck, guys.”
Wayne gave them a solemn wave of farewell. “Same to you.”
They left, and Sidney turned to him. “You seriously want me to sit here on my behind even longer than I already have been?”
“You haven’t been sitting at all. You’ve been pacing around like a nervous wreck.”
“That’s because I am a nervous wreck!” Tears welled in her eyes. “I hate feeling so helpless!”
Wayne put his hands on her shoulders in an attempt to calm her down. “I feel exactly the same as you, and I’m not letting myself get so worked up about it.” Though he was tottering dangerously on the edge of losing self-control. “Now, please. Give me your phone.”
With great reluctance, Sidney retrieved her cell phone and handed it to him. Wayne pocketed it, feeling its weight fall against his leg. “Thank you. And if she shows up, call me.”
“Will do.”
Wayne went outside and got into the truck. He decided that first he should cruise around town to watch for Jessica’s car, and if he didn�
�t see it or its driver anywhere, he would go to Cold Spring for the second time that day. They were the only two logical places to look.
He killed the radio so he would be able to focus better on his surroundings. Many people owned Ford Tauruses, and though Jessica’s was an older model not seen as frequently these days, it still might be hard to spot in a parking lot full of other vehicles.
Keeping his eyes on the vehicles sharing the road with him, Wayne couldn’t help but feel that this situation was a test that God had assigned to him without his consent. Wayne had once killed someone who was supposed to protect him, and now someone he had silently vowed to protect was in great danger of being killed— because, if Jessica’s mind were truly not her own anymore, what damage might that do to her body? To her brain? To her soul?
Saving Jessica might be atonement for what he had done. Failure to save her would prove to God that Wayne was not worthy to even breathe the air that the Lord had provided.
The main street of Eleanor boasted a number of businesses: American Dream Truck Stop, some restaurants, a grocery store and Family Dollar, a hair salon, some banks, and a dying video rental. Jessica’s car was not present in any of their lots. Wayne turned onto Ash Street and slowed down as he passed the library. Only two cars were parked out front. No Jessica.
Not a single car sat in the lot at the abandoned hulk of the bottling plant. There was one Taurus in the parking lot at Smithfield Park, but it was a deep-burgundy color, not dark green like the one he sought.
Wayne drove down Water Street, past his and Jessica’s childhood homes. His cousins Brian and Kyle were busy playing with a Frisbee in the Millers’ front yard. Neither of them saw him pass by.
The parking lot at Holy Trinity was already filling up for the evening Mass. One circuit of the lot was enough to tell him Jessica wasn’t there.
“God, a little help here would be great,” he said. If he were permitted only a single prayer for the rest of his days, he would pray for Jessica and her family to be safe. To heck with Jerry. Yes, it was a pity that the man had lost his child, but that was no excuse for tearing three other families apart.