Savage Art (A Chilling Suspense Novel)

by Danielle Girard

  Casey watched his expression as he spoke. He didn't seem to know about Billy's condition. Billy focused on Kevin, clearly smitten. The two of them appeared to be in their own world. She wondered why they were sharing their morning with her.

  Billy ran his fingers across Kevin's cheek playfully and then Kevin blushed and continued. "The destiny line is usually less clear than the main lines. Most often, it runs vertically through the middle of the hand. If it starts under the thumb, it means you're firstborn."

  Casey glanced at her own hand, trying to make sense of the grid-like lines in between all the scars. As far as she could see, all they told anyone was that she was old and getting older.

  Looking over, Kevin pointed to the center of her palm without touching it. "You're a firstborn." She felt a ripple run up her shoulders, and she pulled away. Her stomach tightened, and she rubbed her hands together to stop the tingly sensation.

  "That's right, isn't it?" Billy said.

  She nodded, unmoved by the coincidence as she closed her hands. Oftentimes she had strange reactions in her hands when there was really nothing there. That was how she felt now—like a thousand tiny spiders were crawling over her skin.

  Kevin returned his attention to Billy's palm. "Billy's destiny line starts under his life line and stretches up toward his middle finger. Means he's reliable and works to improve his life through effort and will." Kevin opened his own palm and pointed. "Mine has branches from the destiny line toward the ring finger, which implies good luck in life." He smiled.

  "You believe that?" Casey asked.

  Kevin nodded. "So far. And hopefully more luck is coming."

  Billy laughed. "Try that other line—the sun one."

  "The sun line is a smaller line. I don't have one."

  Billy took Casey's hand and laid her hand in Kevin's. The touch gave her a strange shock, and she found herself wanting to close her fist. But Billy held it open, seeming oblivious to her discomfort. "You do, though," Kevin said, running his finger across her palm.

  The sensation made Casey shiver. What was wrong with her? Was she so far gone that she couldn't even stand another human's touch? How was she ever going to have a life again?

  "See how it begins in the center of the palm and then veers toward the middle finger?" Kevin ran his finger over her skin again, and the sensation was too much, too eerie. No one had touched her hands this way since the accident except doctors and physical therapists.

  She pulled her hands away. "I really don't want—"

  "It's good for you, Casey," Billy argued.

  She shot him a look. "I really don't like to have my hands touched."

  Kevin glanced over at Billy and then looked at the floor, shaking his head. "It's really no big deal. I understand."

  Shaking his head, Billy stood up and knelt in front of Casey. "If you don't work with your hands, Casey, they'll never get better. You need this. I know it's uncomfortable, but it'll get better." Billy pulled her hands out in front of her and turned them upright. "It's therapy, Casey."

  Casey fought with the cold nausea that swept over her. Her hands were her biggest weakness. She wanted to hide them, not put them on display. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath and nodded. "Okay, show me one line."

  Billy smiled and turned to Kevin. "Pick up where you left off."

  Kevin hesitated, and Casey put her palms out, anxious to get this over with.

  After getting a nod from Billy, Kevin pointed to a small crease in her palm without touching her hand. "As I explained, the sun line begins in the middle of the palm and then angles toward the middle finger."

  She nodded, commanding her hands not to shake. She swallowed and ignored the tightness in her belly. To please Billy she didn't move. She was hardly even listening to what Kevin was saying. She was bathed in hot and cold rushes and she could feel herself sweating beneath her shirt.

  "That's usually indicative of someone who will overcome misfortune." Kevin pointed to another line. "You also have a long marriage line. That means long-lasting love."

  Casey thought of Michael and Amy and fought the desire to pull her hand from Kevin's grasp. Everlasting love was hardly what she and Michael had. She needed to lie down or throw up. She forced the sensations away with slow, deep breaths, the way she used to fight the adrenaline in high-pressure situations. Now palm reading was a high-pressure situation.

  "I also noticed some loops on your head line."

  Billy hunched over her palm. "Where?"

  Kevin ran his finger over the line just below her knuckles, and Casey thought she might be sick. She needed to go. Two more minutes. She would endure it two more minutes, and then she would leave.

  "See how that line is connected by interlinking loops?" Kevin said. "The loops indicate an overwhelming level of stress."

  "She's had that," Billy nodded.

  "The loops seem to stop, though. There's only a short period of them. So, whatever the stress is, it's somehow resolved."

  "Soon?" Billy asked.

  Casey felt her head bob, her stomach tight. Her throat felt closed, and saliva collected in the back of her mouth. She felt fingers across her hand again, and her stomach cramped in a tight knot. She never realized how bad the reaction was. She couldn't handle it. She pressed her hands to her gut. "I think that's enough," she said. "Thank you."

  Billy started to speak, but she stood and went to her room before he could finish.

  Lying back on her bed, Casey held her hands to her stomach, fighting the knot in her gut. She took deep breaths until the nausea subsided. Then, slowly, she worked through the exercises. Open. Closed. Open. Closed.

  Holding her hand open, she stared at the small loops on her left palm. Kevin was right. The loops did seem to stop. She thought about the vigil the following night and wondered if that would be the end of her stress.

  The very thought that it might ever end, that they might catch their killer seemed impossible to imagine. She shivered at the thought of Leonardo, at maybe seeing him again in less than twenty-four hours.

  Chapter 18

  Jordan pulled up to the curb at the Oakland airport and got out of the car to open the back of the Explorer. Under different circumstances, he would have been crushed to send Angie and the boys back to her parents' house in L.A.

  But after the incident at the Warriors game, he had been terrified to let them go anywhere. Even the one time he'd left them to go see Casey, he had been soothed only by the fact that they were going to visit Angie's aunt in El Cerrito.

  Negotiations with Angie had gone downhill over the weekend, too. How could he argue that she should move back up north when there was a killer on the loose who knew his children? He couldn't.

  Right now, he wanted nothing more than to kiss his children and send them as far from him as possible.

  Jordan pulled the two suitcases out of the back of the car and carried them to the curbside check-in.

  Will carried a smaller bag and set it beside the others. "I wish you were coming with us, Dad."

  Jordan ruffled his son's hair. "I wish I was, too."

  "When are you coming?" Ry asked.

  Jordan met Angie's gaze. "How about next weekend?"

  "Yeah!" the boys said.

  "Don't make promises unless you plan—"

  Jordan put a finger over his wife's mouth. "I promise. I'll call you tonight to make plans."

  He gave Angie a deep kiss and felt himself stir as he pulled away from her and reached down to adjust his pants in the front. "You'd better go."

  Angie grinned.

  Will tugged on his father's arm. "I swear I'm going to ignore those kids at school, Dad."

  Wrapping his arms around his son, he said, "You watch over your brother, too."

  "I will."

  "I'm proud of you."

  Ryan wrestled between them, and Will and Jordan extended the circle to include him. Jordan thought he could have stood there all day.

  "Going to have to move this vehicle," som
eone yelled from behind.

  Kissing Angie again on the cheek, Jordan waved his family into the airport. They waved for a moment, and then the boys started tugging at each other and their mother. "Cut it out," Angie scolded playfully.

  The dark sliding doors closed, and Jordan turned back to his car, rubbing the heel of his hand over the lump in his chest.

  "Sir, this your car?"

  Jordan frowned at the skinny cop who pointed to his Explorer. "Yep."

  "Nearly wrote you a ticket," he said as though Jordan had nearly gotten himself killed. "Best move it."

  Mumbling, Jordan got in and revved the engine. When he found a break in traffic, he pulled out of his spot and headed back toward the freeway. He'd better swing a trip to L.A. next weekend, or Angie would have his butt.

  Jordan would have liked to get a run in—sweat out his excess energy and the nervous feeling that crawled over his skin like an army of red ants. But there wasn't time. It was already past two o'clock, and he had to go pick up Casey. At the back of his mind, too, Jordan knew that even a long, fast run wasn't going to shake the anxiety he felt tonight.

  * * *

  The drive to the city with Casey was quiet, and Jordan sensed she was at least as anxious as he was. Like every weekend, Stanyan Street at the edge of Golden Gate Park was closed off for bikers, hikers, runners, and roller bladers. It made having the vigil easier to control. Only people on foot would have access to the area tonight. Jordan pulled into the DeYoung Museum's parking area and found a spot.

  Casey looked around. "Is this it? I thought it was in the park."

  "The road's closed, and I don't want to have to flash a badge to get past the patrol car. It's not far. Can you walk okay?"

  Casey turned and narrowed her eyes. "I can probably run it faster than you can."

  "Sorry."

  Casey didn't respond, and Jordan cursed himself for opening his mouth. He had seen her in the gym just yesterday, and Frank had told him how hard she was trying. As they walked the three hundred yards to a small courtyard where the vigil would be held, Jordan noticed that Casey no longer limped.

  Her strides were longer and more confident, and he wondered whether someone shouldn't have brought her back to a case months ago. At the risk of offending her, he kept the thought to himself.

  A small courtyard emerged at the end of their path, the DeYoung still in sight behind them. The area around the vigil site was bustling with activity. Four men were building a small stage where the families could sit during the ceremony. A truck was backed up to the area, and from it, people were unloading folding chairs.

  A table on one side seemed to serve as the focal point. Behind it, Monica Pradhan was pointing at things, issuing directives. Dressed in jeans and a large ski jacket, she had the appearance of a bird, with her thin legs emerging from the bulky jacket.

  Large, studio-like film lights had been set up along the perimeter of the area. The bulbs, faced toward the sky, were still off in the darkening day.

  Casey paused to take it all in and then motioned to the lights. "It's a lot of light."

  "It'll be dark before the thing even gets started." He glanced at her. "You think it's too much?"

  She frowned and walked up to one. Shrugging, she tucked her hands under her arms. "Hard to tell now. Where'd the lights come from?"

  "One of the kid's uncles is a photographer at a downtown studio. He brought them out."

  Casey shivered and zipped her jacket up.

  Jordan watched her reaction and wondered whether anyone would show up. "It's going to be cold."

  She nodded. "Most of them will be numb to the cold. We can't do it inside. He won't come." Her eyes narrowed as she watched the commotion.

  "You're doubting he's going to come at all."

  She looked up at him and shrugged. "I guess a little."

  "Let's go take a look at the volunteer list. Monica said she'd bring it with her."

  As they approached, Monica asked a woman to set up a folding card table and put the boxes of candles and holders there.

  Though she appeared busy, Monica looked in her element. "I'm glad you guys are here. Renee's on her way down with the updated list of volunteers. I expect her any minute." She pulled a folded list from the inside pocket of her coat. "Here's the last one. I think Renee has a few additions."

  Jordan took the list out of Monica's hand and opened it. The volunteers, all male, were listed one to twenty-four. Included on the list was name, address, occupation, phone, height, estimated weight, and estimated shoe size. Unfortunately, they hadn't found a company to provide shoes for the uniforms, so the process of searching for a size ten shoe became increasingly difficult.

  Instead of asking, which might arouse suspicion, Jordan had the two women who measured the men work together to sneak in a shoe measurement as well. While one was measuring the man's sleeve length, the other dropped to one knee and measured the length of his shoe.

  The two women, both dispatchers for the county, were chosen because they had looked harmless. "He'll bolt if they seem like cops," Casey had warned. Winnie and Mary seemed like anything but cops. They also tried to estimate the man's weight, but from the list he held, it appeared that their opinions had differed, and the weight ranges were often as much as twenty or thirty pounds.

  Jordan motioned Casey to a small bench outside the vigil area and pulled the list open so they could both look at it. He started to run his finger down the column that listed shoe sizes.

  "Not yet," Casey said, taking the page and folding that portion of it over.

  "Why?"

  "Look at occupations," she said, pointing to the column. "I would expect a police-related occupation."

  "Fireman, plumber, security guard, security personnel, personal trainer, security, security—hell, half of them are police-related."

  She nodded, continuing down the list. "He isn't going to just pop off the page. I want to think it through. If I were him, I wouldn't give my real address or phone. That would be the first place to check."

  Jordan focused on the page.

  "We need to know if these are real addresses and phone numbers. Names, too."

  Jordan spotted Renee and stood up. "I'll be right back." Crossing the grass, he waved at Renee.

  "How was the weekend with the kids?" she asked.

  "Good. Listen, Renee, I need a favor."

  Turning her ear toward him, she said, "Shoot."

  "Call someone at the station and have them tap into the computer. I need you to confirm the names, addresses, and phone numbers on this list. Anything that doesn't match, I want to hear about it."

  Renee handed the list to him and took the one he'd been holding. "Here's an updated list. These guys should be arriving at seven for instructions. That gives me plenty of time to check them out."

  Jordan touched her shoulder. "Thanks."

  "No problem."

  Jordan returned to Casey with the updated list. She glanced at it and handed it back to him. "Next to each name, you should write down which parts look suspect. Then, when we get a chance to see the shoe sizes, maybe something will click. Someone's checking the information?"

  Jordan nodded. "Renee." Then, turning to the list, he made a notation next to each of the security guards.

  "There's one, too." Casey pointed to one he'd missed.

  "It's quite an assortment of people, isn't it?"

  She nodded.

  He watched her in frustration. "Walk me through your thought process. I want to understand it."

  Looking up at him, she nodded. "Besides the obvious security-type position, we have to think that he might choose an occupation for the opposite reason."

  "Something that would seem completely unlike police work?"

  She nodded. "Or he might pretend to be someone else, someone maybe who knew the kids."

  "Like a teacher?"

  Nodding, she pointed to a teacher on the list. "Or maybe an innocent-sounding job."

  "Such as?"
<
br />   "Plumber, gardener..."

  Jordan remembered the gardener he had seen at Casey's house. Ramirez. "Where's the gardener?"

  She pointed to a name on the list. "Carlos Santa Cruz. What made you think of a gardener?"

  Without meeting her gaze, he shrugged. "Nothing."

  Casey touched his arm. "Tell me."

  Jordan felt his shoulders slump. "That first time I came to your house, there was a gardener across the street." He shook his head. "Something about him struck me."

  "And?"

  "And nothing. Renee checked the plates. He checked out—name was something Ramirez."

  "Weird, the same thing occurred to me."

  Jordan paused. "Should I call this guy?"

  She shook her head without commenting. "If it was him, he's dumped that getup by now." Casey turned back to the list, moving her finger to the address section.

  Jordan leaned over the list. "Anyone live near you?"

  "Most of them have San Francisco addresses."

  "There's a Walnut Creek—Ronald Mendelsen."

  Casey made a mark next to the name. "Long way to travel."

  "Jordan!" someone called.

  He looked up and saw Renee hurrying toward them.

  Both he and Casey stood.

  "Five of them aren't real." Renee held out her list. "And you two need to come see something."

  "Let's look at the names first." Jordan took it from her and looked down at the marks. "James Pietrich, Walt Warner, Andy Cole, Kevin Hosilyk, and Tom Henrickson." He looked up at Renee.

  "What's not real, Renee?" Casey asked. "The name or the address?"

  "The a means the address doesn't exist."

  Jordan found the marks. "That's Pietrich, Warner, and Cole. What about the others?"

  "The others are names found in the system, but not at that address."

  Casey frowned. "There could be more than one Tom Henrickson."

  "But what about Kevin Hosilyk?" Jordan asked.

  "Seems less likely."

  Jordan met Casey's gaze. "You thinking of another Kevin we know?"

  "Maybe, but it seems too obvious. If this is our guy, then he knows about Billy's Kevin, and this is his way of telling us he knows."