Savage Art (A Chilling Suspense Novel)

by Danielle Girard

  Casey got out of the car and walked to the front door, pausing to feel the hood of the car. It was still warm. Her shoulders back, she kept her chin high, her gaze hovering over the perimeter. The muscles in her arms and back tightened, preparing for a fight. On the front porch, she stopped and looked around. There was no one.

  As she leaned down to put the key in the lock, she felt a light tap on her shoulder. Arms to her face, she whipped around and jabbed twice—hard. Though she couldn't hold her fists correctly, her arm strength was enough to provide some punch.

  She heard a male moan before a girl's scream.

  Casey blinked hard and looked at the man lying on the ground. Michael!

  He moaned again, and Casey couldn't move. What was he doing here?

  "Mom!" someone yelled. "You punched out Dad." Casey heard the sound of a young girl laughing, and everything was dreamlike. Prying her gaze off Michael, Casey looked up. Amy stood before her, tall and thin. She seemed nothing like the little girl Casey remembered, and everything about her face made Casey ache from the inside out.

  "Mom!" Amy leapt at Casey, throwing herself into her mother's arms and knocking Casey back up against the house.

  Casey wrapped her arms around the girl and then closed her eyes, feeling the softness of her daughter's hair, recalling the way Amy had smelled when she was little, remembering what she and Michael had been and how much she had let them down. She thought she might never let her go. After seeing the little boy on the hill, she was so relieved to see Amy in one piece where she could personally watch over her.

  "Mom, are you crying?"

  Casey shook her head and wiped her sleeves across her eyes. "No. I'm just so surprised." She looked down at her husband, who was now sitting up, a white handkerchief pressed to his bleeding lip. He wore shorts and a polo shirt, his favorite outfit for twenty years. Everything about him was familiar. Keeping hold of Amy's hand, Casey knelt beside him. "Michael, I'm so sorry. You startled me."

  Michael smiled softly and shook his head. "She's got her hook back, that's for sure."

  "That she does," Billy agreed, standing on the sidelines, smiling.

  Michael reached to Amy. "Help your old man up, would you?"

  Amy took her father's hand and pulled him up while Casey watched. She would have pinched herself to make sure they were really there, but she still couldn't get her fingers to do it.

  "Maybe you should invite them in," Billy whispered as he came up beside Casey.

  Casey nodded. "Of course. Come on in." Taking Amy's hand again, she led them inside. Looking back at Michael, Casey pushed her hair off her face and remembered the mustard stain on her jeans. It was the first time in months she'd even thought about what she looked like. "We'll, uh, get some ice for your lip."

  Amy laughed. "Wait till I tell the kids at school." She turned back to Michael. "Sorry, Dad, but it's too cool not to tell."

  Michael rolled his eyes and smiled at Casey. "No problem. Maybe I can come in for show-and-tell."

  Amy laughed. "That would be awesome." She turned to Casey. "Mom, could you come in and give Justin Blake a black eye?"

  Casey shook her head. "Who's Justin Blake?"

  "He's this total dork in my class."

  Nodding, Casey stared back and forth between the two of them. Amy was hardly recognizable, and Michael looked exactly like he had the day they met.

  "We had one of those in my school, too," Billy said. "Joey Mazrotti—big guy, used to beat everybody up."

  "Bullies don't bother me," Amy said as though not a day had passed since Amy and Michael were living here. "I'm bigger than most of the guys in my class."

  "Anyone want lemonade?" Billy asked.

  "I do," Amy said.

  "That would be great, Billy," Casey agreed. "Thank you."

  He headed into the kitchen. "Amy, come help me. I want to hear more about Justin Blake."

  Amy followed. "Well, his big problem is that he thinks he's totally cool," she explained, her voice fading as she disappeared into the kitchen.

  Casey watched her until the door swung shut, fighting the urge to follow.

  "I'm sorry to just drop in like this," Michael said, standing right behind her.

  Savoring the sound of his voice, Casey turned slowly. Suddenly she felt like a self-conscious sixteen-year-old. "Really, it's no problem."

  "I must've called a dozen times. There's no machine."

  Casey looked around. "I haven't gotten around to getting one."

  "You look great."

  Casey nodded, smoothing her stained jeans. "Thanks."

  He motioned to her clothes. "No more sweatpants?"

  She shook her head.

  There was a brief silence.

  "I wouldn't have brought Amy unless it was an emergency," Michael explained.

  "I'm glad you brought her. I've been meaning to call," she said, knowing how stupid and worthless it sounded now. "It's been a long time."

  Michael nodded. "Since her birthday."

  Casey remembered the phone call. It had been almost two months ago.

  "We missed yours. I'm sorry."

  Casey shook her head. She'd missed her own birthday. Who wanted to count at her age? Gathering her thoughts, Casey motioned to the couch. "What are you out for? Business, I assume."

  "A tech firm out here hired me to prosecute an intellectual property case."

  Casey was impressed. "Your reputation followed you all the way out here?"

  Michael smiled. "I think it was a referral. I guess passing the California bar all those years ago had paid off."

  "Yeah. It's not like there aren't plenty of great intellectual property attorneys out here." She paused. "That's great."

  "Thanks. I have to go down to the valley for a couple of days. I was hoping Amy could stay here."

  Casey started to nod.

  "Mary had to go to North Carolina because her mother's sick and I couldn't find a replacement in time. I'm sorry to—"

  "Michael—" she interrupted. "I'm glad she's here—I'm glad both of you are here. Amy's welcome to stay." With Amy there, though, Casey didn't want to wait another minute without having someone watch the house. The mothers who looked like Casey, their children—the alarm system no longer seemed like nearly enough. "I need to make a call," she said, wanting to do it before she had to explain it to Michael.

  "Go ahead. I'll wait here."

  From her bedroom, Casey called Jordan's line and spoke with Renee, explaining what had happened and what she needed. Quick to respond, Renee made arrangements to call the Oakland Police Department and have someone there within five minutes. "Hold on, and I'll get a car number so you know if the right person has arrived."

  When Renee returned, she gave Casey a patrol car number and the name of the officer. "He's black," Renee added. "I figured it would be easier to be sure he's not our nutcase."

  "Thanks, Renee."

  "No problem. Give me your phone number, and I'll have his unit call you and confirm when he's in place. Jordan's out this afternoon, but I'll have him call you as soon as he's back."

  When Casey hung up, she felt a hundred times better.

  "Everything okay?" Michael asked when she returned to the living room.

  "It will be in about four minutes."

  Michael frowned. "What do you mean?"

  Trying to be as casual as possible, Casey explained about the killer they'd been tracking and about the similarities between this case and Cincinnati.

  "Maybe we shouldn't be here," Michael said, looking toward the kitchen door.

  "The call I just made was to the police. There will be an officer out here any minute. This is the safest place she could be."

  The phone rang, and Casey answered.

  "This is the Oakland dispatcher to confirm that the squad is at your residence."

  Casey moved to the window and looked outside, noting the numbers on the side of the car—#1742. "He's here."

  She waved to the officer, and he waved ba
ck.

  Michael watched over her shoulder. "How long has it been like this?"

  "Just a couple of weeks."

  "It's terrible, Casey. I hate it. It's like you're in the Bureau all over again."

  Casey could feel the tingle in her belly as Michael looked at her. She wanted to touch him, to kiss him, but it all felt so foreign and strange.

  Michael took a step forward and leaned to kiss her. "I worry about you," he whispered as his lips met hers.

  Just then, the kitchen door burst open. "Lemonade all around," Amy declared.

  Casey straightened and felt herself blush as she looked away from Michael.

  "She's never had good timing," he whispered in her ear. "That's from your side."

  Casey laughed and felt a giddy excitement that she hadn't remembered feeling in years.

  "Amy, do you promise to behave for your mother?"

  Her eyes lit up, and Casey saw shades of Michael clearly in their bright gaze. "I get to stay?"

  "Absolutely," Casey said.

  Billy gave her a smile of approval.

  "Can we rent Men in Black!" Amy asked.

  "You've already seen it five times," Michael said.

  "Six," she corrected. "But it's so cool," Amy argued, turning to her mom. "Did you see it, Mom?"

  Casey shook her head. She couldn't remember the last time she'd seen a movie.

  "You'll love it. There are these aliens, and Tommy Lee Jones is in it. And Will Smith. He's such a fox. They have this awesome machine that makes people forget. I swear, it's the best! Can we see it? Please!"

  Casey shrugged, amazed at how her daughter had been able to talk for so long without pausing for a breath. "Sure."

  Amy's face lit up. "And can we have microwave popcorn and pizza for dinner?"

  "Amy, enough already," Michael scolded.

  Casey laughed. "I think pizza and microwave popcorn sounds perfect."

  Amy bounded over to Casey and put her arms around her mother. Casey noticed that Amy was only six or seven inches shorter than her now. She was sure Amy had been so much smaller only a few months ago. Her previously long hair was cut in a stylish bob, her clothes showing off her long thin figure. Casey couldn't believe this was her daughter. Looking at Amy, Casey ran her hands over her daughter's head and then pulled her close. Amy didn't seem to hate Casey for being gone, for sending them away. Instead, Amy appeared simply happy to have her mother back. Casey was so thankful that Michael had come.

  And as much as she had wanted to argue, Billy was right. It was time to reassemble the strewn pieces of her life. And her family was the perfect place to start. She had pushed them away once. She wasn't going to do it again.

  Casey focused on Amy's beautiful, young face. When she blinked, she saw a flash of the faces of the children who had been killed.

  The sharp talons of fear clawed at her spine. Amy was too close to the danger. Even with the officer parked out in front, Casey knew she wouldn't stop worrying, no matter what she told Michael.

  But the worrying was okay. It would keep her focused. Casey wasn't going to let Leonardo destroy Amy the way he had tried to destroy her.

  Chapter 31

  Amy was here. He didn't even try to suppress the smile that curled his lips. It had been much too easy to lure Michael out. And he had watched as Casey greeted them. She was happy. He hadn't ever seen her look happy before.

  The very idea that he was at the root of that made him glow from the inside out. And the control he would have over her when he had Amy was almost overwhelming. Her every emotion would be in his power, Casey like a puppet for him to play with. And he couldn't wait to pluck the strings and watch her dance.

  Taking the keys from his pocket, he found the one with the red plastic cover and unlocked the basement door. He entered quickly, and carefully locked the door behind him as he always did, inhaling the smell of metal and the cleanser he had used to scrub every inch of his workspace. The blood was gone, but memory gave him its sweet aroma.

  His tools, the blood, they were the smell of power. It was a smell that intoxicated him. He never allowed himself to drink. It had been his mother's weakness—she had been especially wicked on those nights when the bottles were drained. She'd come at him with a belt that she claimed his father had left her to whip him with. It had a solid brass buckle that weighed easily a pound. He could still feel the weight of it on his arms and back. He rubbed his arm and closed his eyes, pushing the images away.

  He didn't need alcohol. His work provided intoxication enough.

  At the base of the stairs, he stopped and trained his eyes on the dark room, waiting until his pupils dilated to let in sufficient light to supply the images. He loved the colorlessness of a room without light.

  In the darkness, the ones he'd brought there saw shapes and motions that didn't exist in the light. He loved to watch them struggle with their terror. Of course, once he was prepared to operate, the intricacies of his craft demanded light.

  He found the long string in the center of the room and pulled it. A lone bulb popped on, shadowing the room with a yellow glare. The room was almost ready for Amy. He had removed all remnants of the last victim. The boy had been very disappointing.

  He hadn't seen the boy enter the toy store with his father. He had only noticed the mother and the girl. Only afterward did he remember that the father and son had been only a few steps behind. And he had seen the father come out first and sit on the bench. It was so obvious now that the man must have been waiting for the wife. He hadn't wanted the boy. It was the girl he had chosen. He had felt himself reacting to her even in the short time in the store.

  But what choice did he have when the boy insisted on going? And he had known that two children together would be excessive trouble. He still worried what the girl might remember. But worry was a waste of time.

  In each step of the game so far, he'd had a carefully defined strategy for his acquisitions. Each had worked well. But Amy was the final test.

  Before, he had merely cruised the malls, watching the women and their children, waiting for a mother who looked like Casey. So many women in the malls these days, it hadn't taken long—a few days at the most. Then, he would watch mother and child, waiting until he could separate them.

  Sometimes, it was as easy as it had been with the little black girl. The mother left the child to run an errand. More often, though, it had been a matter of following the women until they got sidetracked and then luring the child away. The capture was the most exciting part of the game. Thrilling and terrifying both. One time, he'd even been caught leading a child away.

  But instead of looking suspicious, the mother had actually thanked him for bringing the child back. "My pleasure, ma'am."

  He smiled to himself now. Yes, it would have been if she hadn't interrupted. But nothing came of it, and no one questioned his presence. He changed his appearance and location often enough that everyone assumed he was a mall security guard. And why not? He had learned to disguise his intelligence, and people instantly accepted the appearance of a uniform as authority. It was time to finish up and move on to new challenges.

  Resting in his director's chair, he picked up a scalpel, reflecting the light off the blade as he thought. Tomorrow was Monday. His check to Michael McKinley would surely be at the bank by then, so he only had until Tuesday before it could be cashed. Once the check bounced, his access to Amy would vanish.

  He didn't have as much leeway as he would have liked. He had been surprised to hear Michael had already received the check in the mail when they'd spoken on the phone last week. He should have known the postal system would be efficient the one time he required slow service. It was only a minor issue, and certainly not one he couldn't overcome.

  But it did tighten his time frame. He looked around the room, ticking off everything he would need. He had checked and replenished his supply of rope and duct tape. His tools were clean and sharp. He set the syringe of anesthesia beside the bag he carried with him. He h
ad pilfered a great deal of the drug from Dr. Ballari's office before the fire, and it worked beautifully to subdue his patients in the initial stages of panic.

  He continued his mental checklist. A fresh white sheet lay still wrapped in plastic on the makeshift operating table. One day, someone else would set his tools out for him. He would come and perform his art and let someone else clean up the mess. That was the day he would truly feel his power. Now he was just finishing the last stages of preparation for his official vocation.

  The purple hat sat upright on a small table with his tools, waiting to be fit on Amy's lifeless head. The sight of it reminded him that he had control over how long she lived and when she died. The purple was for the last child in his palette of death.

  Tomorrow, he would begin watching them. He was positive he would be able to catch Amy alone. Even the rent-a-cop was no match for him. He had paid for a room at a cheap hotel near Casey's house several days ago, the kind of place where people didn't ask questions. He hoped he wouldn't need the room, but it would give him a place to subdue Amy if need be. He had taken every precaution.

  He glanced at the floor he had scrubbed and bleached. Everything was ready. He stood and moved to his table, flipping the pages of his uncle's old Gray's Anatomy in search of the perfect sketch to use. For Amy, the eyes—her mother's eyes, his mother's eyes—would be his focus. He found a perfect diagram of the eye and studied the muscles surrounding it. He would detach the rectus lateralis from the bottom of the eye and the rectus medialis from the top. He would have to enter from the eye cavity because of the hard bone that surrounded the eye, but he would be cautious to do so without injuring the cornea. Once he was in, he would sever the optic nerve and remove the eye. What a wonderful final gift from daughter to mother—a masterpiece indeed.

  And she would be his so soon.

  Chapter 32

  "Are you up, Mom?" Amy yelled from the hall.

  Casey rolled over and looked at the clock. It was only eight-thirty. Of course she wasn't up. With Amy in the house, Casey had stirred at the slightest creak all night. She must have checked on the patrol car a dozen times.