Exhume (Dr. Schwartzman Series Book 1)

by Danielle Girard

  Still in her pajama bottoms and a tank top, she had come out to the garden to cut flowers for a vase in the living room. She had left the door open. Not all the way open but enough to let out some of Spencer’s precious cold air. When she returned to the house with her flowers, the door was locked. Spencer stood behind the glass, smiling. She waved at him to let her in, but he ignored her.

  They stood like that for a few minutes before he walked away. She made her way around the back of the house, tried those doors, then the maid’s entrance, and finally the front door. All locked. She rang the bell, but Spencer didn’t answer.

  She had no phone, no car keys, no proper clothes. Determined not to give him the satisfaction of begging, she returned to the garden and settled into the dirt, using her bare fingers to weed around her flowers. But soon she had to use the bathroom. Again she tried the doors, rang the front bell, even checked a couple of the windows along the back of the house. Without success.

  In the end, she urinated in the small back patch of their yard and spent the day outside, waiting for Spencer to unlock the door. It was some time after three when he finally did, calling out to her that he had invited her mother to an early dinner. She would be arriving at five thirty, he told Schwartzman, and she should make salmon.

  Schwartzman returned to the house, filthy, sunburned, without the flowers she had picked, which had wilted and browned. She showered, went to the store, and fixed salmon for dinner, nodding politely while her mother told her how she ought to be careful about getting so much sun. “It will make you look old before your time.”

  “That’s exactly what I told her,” Spencer added, still wearing the morning’s smirk. “She just insisted on spending the day outside. I don’t even think she wore sunscreen.”

  And the two of them shook their heads at her, the little one unable to care for herself. Her mother reached across and patted her son-in-law’s hand. “Well, thank goodness she has you, Spencer.”

  Sunburned and exhausted, Schwartzman felt overwhelming shame. Shame for leaving the door open, for getting herself locked out, for believing that his cruelty was her own fault.

  That evening, after her mother was gone and Spencer had left the table and the dishes for her to clean up and settled into the den for his news program, she’d taken a spare house key outside and found a narrow slot between the cement foundation and the door frame at the maid’s entrance.

  Now, her pulse speeding, she crouched down in that same spot. She walked her gloved fingers along the base of the door’s threshold, ignoring the bits of leaves and debris. She imagined spiders—brown recluses and black widows. She continued along the trim until she touched the hard edge of something metal. The key. She used the rental car key to pry it free and stood, cupping it in her hand.

  She wiggled the key into the lock on the garage door and tested it. It caught. Nothing happened. It was rusted. Too old. He’d changed the locks. She tried again. And again. Bit her lip hard. Squeezed her eyes closed. “Come on.” Used two hands to force it.

  At last the key turned, and she pushed the door open a couple of inches. Froze. Waited. For alarms, noises. Nothing. Fear mixed with anticipation. She removed the key and returned it to its hiding spot, stepped inside, and closed the garage door behind her. She was in.

  The motion sensor light on the garage door opener was still on, the space lit by the single bulb. She crossed to the large trash can and, with her hand tucked into her jacket, opened the lid. It was nearly full. The police would have to come tonight. She lay the top open against the garage door and pulled out two large kitchen-size trash bags. Beneath them were a handful of flattened cardboard boxes. She pushed the boxes aside and set the Home Depot sack on top of another white trash bag below. A length of rope on Spencer’s workbench caught her eye. She added the rope to the sack and set the boxes flat again on top, then returned the last two trash bags to the can. She closed the top, looked around that she hadn’t missed anything. It was done, the trap set.

  Should she wait for him to return? She would have to. She needed to confront him, to convince him to tell her. She had to hear the truth from him.

  The police would find the evidence. He was guilty. She wanted to hear it from him.

  For Ava. For Frances Pinckney and Sarah Feld.

  For herself.

  The cold metal taste of fear filled her mouth. Ran down her throat.

  What if the evidence wasn’t enough? She didn’t have anything from Frances Pinckney other than a little dog hair. What if the police didn’t believe her?

  She had to try.

  Schwartzman put her hand on the door between the house and the garage and twisted the knob slowly. The alarm system made a double beeping sound and went quiet. He hadn’t set it, which meant he wasn’t going to be out long.

  Or he knew you were coming.

  It doesn’t matter, she told herself.

  Stepping slowly into the darkened hallway, she shivered in the cool air. Smelled lemon and lavender. She had forgotten how much Spencer loved lemon. How refreshing to think that some memories did fade.

  As always, the house smelled clean. Beneath the clean smell, she detected the scent of moisture. Mold. Rooms closed up too much for too long. The stale mustiness she associated with air-conditioning after so many years of living without it.

  In the darkness, she studied the sounds of the house. The air conditioner whirred noisily, and something else, water and glass maybe. The dishwasher? Nothing human. Spencer was gone, but for how long? She moved quickly through the hallway and paused at his office. The door was cracked open, and the memory of Ava’s garage came back. She pressed her hand against the outside of her jacket, feeling the texture of the necklaces through the wool. His study. That was where he would keep souvenirs; she was certain.

  She stopped, listened again. Not another sound. She nudged the study door open with her foot, kept her back to the wall as she rounded the doorjamb and entered the room. Silent. Empty. Spencer isn’t here. You watched him leave.

  But she knew better than to trust the obvious.

  She crossed the room to the glass cabinet where Spencer kept his prized collections. A couple dozen pens—Montblanc, most of them, although there were Montegrappa and Waterman, as well. The collection hadn’t changed much since they were married. With her to hunt, maybe collecting pens had lost its appeal.

  On the shelf below the pens were about six or seven boxes. Wood, hand-carved, and made from exotic species. African teak and Brazilian rosewood. His favorite had always been the one in the back corner. Its surface was beautiful, the way the wood grain rolled across the top surface like rippling water.

  “Please,” a woman cried out.

  Schwartzman froze, her pulse a drumbeat in her ears. Pushed the cabinet door closed. The hinges shrieked. Schwartzman jumped, held her breath, listening.

  “Please!” The voice carried through the hall. The terror resonated like shock waves through Schwartzman’s body.

  It could be a trap. But Spencer was gone. She’d seen him leave.

  “Please don’t hurt me,” the voice cried out, followed by sobs.

  The sobs might have come from her own chest. Schwartzman drew slow, even breaths to calm her racing heart. Fought off the urge to sprint through the house and out the door. She imagined Sarah Feld. Schwartzman wanted to call out to her, held her silence. She cracked the office door, stepped into the hallway. Listened through the thumping of her pulse. Moved cautiously. She kept her back to the wall, listened with every step. Crying.

  It came from the bedroom. Someone was here. She palmed the phone in her pocket and drew it out as she stepped into the hallway. She called 9-1-1. The screen didn’t respond to her gloved finger. She yanked the glove off her right hand, shoved it into her jacket pocket.

  The woman cried out again.

  She could see into the bedroom at the end of the hall. The two doors along the hall were open—the first was the bathroom, the second the master closet. Both rooms were
dark. Even without light, she could see the pillows on the made-up bed, the matching lamps on the bedside tables, a small stack of books on Spencer’s side closest to the door.

  Her back pressed to the hallway wall, she dialed 9-1-1 again. Nothing happened. A green circle appeared on the screen. Call failed.

  “Help me,” the voice cried out. The terror in the plea pulled Schwartzman forward.

  Back against the wall, she crept down the hallway. Her breath felt shallow and painful in her lungs. The wall texture scratched her elbow through the thin jacket as she dug her toes into the carpet to propel herself forward.

  “Please,” the voice whispered again.

  Schwartzman peered into the dark master closet but saw no one.

  The voice was close. It had to be coming from the closet. Schwartzman dialed the emergency number again, gripped the phone, and watched the screen.

  Again the call failed.

  She froze just feet from the entrance to the closet. Be smart. Spencer kept a phone on his bedside table. She passed into the bedroom in the dark, moving heel to toe. Alert, upright, ready.

  Still no sign of Spencer.

  She put her cell phone in her pocket, lifted the house phone from its cradle. Held her breath as pushed the “Talk” button. Exhaled at the hum of the dial tone. She dialed 9-1-1. Put it to her ear. The phone went dead.

  Fear gripped her neck and shoulders with cold, crushing fingers.

  “Help me,” the voice said.

  She took two steps forward. Standing outside the closet, she reached in with her left hand, palmed the wall for the light switch, and flipped it on. The room was bathed in bright light. She blinked at the yellow spots in her vision, fought to banish them. Dark clothes lined two sides of the closet. On the third wall, she saw her own clothes. Bright yellows and soft pastels, still hanging where she had left them.

  At the back of the closet was a new opening leading into another room. It hadn’t been here before. A clean doorjamb, a sliding pocket door into the wall. The door height shorter than a normal door. Maybe five feet high.

  She couldn’t see into the darkened room. “Who’s there?”

  The crying started again.

  “Who is in there?” she repeated, louder.

  No answer.

  She was cold to her bones. Get out. She turned to leave. A light cut through the darkness. A lone spotlight shone from high on the opposite wall. Below the spotlight on the blank wall, Schwartzman saw her. A woman was huddled on a dark floor. Dark, wavy hair hung to her shoulders. The narrow hips and back reminded Schwartzman of Sarah Feld. Oh, God. She was right. Another one.

  “Let me help you,” Schwartzman whispered, moving toward her.

  “No,” the woman cried, sobbing.

  “Come on,” Schwartzman said as she reached the opening.

  The woman’s head dropped down. She wore the cheetah hoodie. The one Schwartzman had bought in San Francisco, the one she’d been wearing in the garage.

  He’d taken it—what—to put on his next victim? No. The hoodie had been taken into evidence along with her other clothes. How did Spencer get it?

  She blinked into the darkened room. The floor was covered in a dark tile, the walls almost black, and something about the lighting made the woman appear partially obscured, as if she were separated from Schwartzman by a cloud.

  A mechanical hissing filled the room. Schwartzman reeled backward, the phone trembling in her grip. The room was booby-trapped. The woman turned toward her. Even with her hair obscuring her face, Schwartzman knew her. She let out a cry. Her knees buckled.

  The woman was her.

  43

  Greenville, South Carolina

  It was a projection.

  Images of her lying on the floor of Ava’s garage. Behind her head, she could see the splintered pieces of the porcelain lamp. The video overlaid with her voice.

  He had filmed her in Ava’s garage.

  “Please,” her own voice cried out, the sound echoing in the small room.

  The fear choked her. Unable to breathe, she pedaled away. Her head struck a shelf, and she cried out as she dropped to her knees. She dropped the phone to cup the throbbing in the back of her head. Get up. Get away. The picture changed. A video of their wedding day appeared. Her mother walking her down the aisle. Her mother’s proud smile, her own more tentative, excited and nervous. So naive, so young. So close she could reach out and touch herself.

  She grabbed the phone off the carpet. The image switched to her unborn baby. The ultrasound image of the head and rounded spine, the little fists tight balls. Ready to fight but too young. The sound of the tiny heartbeat thundered against the walls. Schwartzman pressed her hand to her mouth, closed her eyes against the sound, then opened them again, unable to look away from the tiny fluttery heart. Her baby. Her daughter. She reached out to touch the image. It vanished in her hand.

  Just then the dark room lit up. The large wall became a thousand tiny rectangular screens, each the size of a subway tile. Solid light. Blinding. Lines raced across the screens. A series of flashes followed, and the wall became Spencer’s face.

  She gasped. His head was immense. Twenty times its normal size. More. She could see the small mole on his left cheek, the tiny scar above his right eye where he fell off his bike as a child.

  “So lovely to see you, Bella,” Spencer thundered.

  Below him the film of her unborn child played on.

  She spun away. Sprinted for the dark hallway, tripped, and caught herself. Her pulse bored through her eardrums. Blinded by the bright images, she palmed the wall, found the edge of the door. Her vision was filled with Spencer’s giant face. The room went dark, the screen black again. She tore out of the closet and into the hall, slamming into Spencer, who stood like a concrete wall. He didn’t even flinch.

  She cried out.

  His expression split into a grimace as he laughed.

  She slammed backward, striking the wall. A picture dropped to the floor. Glass shattered. She swiped at her face with the back of her hand and felt the wetness of her tears. Why hadn’t she kept Ava’s gun? She would pull the trigger. She would.

  “You like my new project?” he said, closing the bedroom door behind him. He crept toward her until his features were visible in the dim light. His eyes were darker and wider than she remembered. Empty and flat. How had she ever imaged they were warm?

  “Stay away from me,” she warned, her hands up as though she could fight him.

  “But surely you’ll tell me what you think? I spent months on that room.”

  Oh, God. He’d planned this for months. The murders, to bring her to this. What was this?

  His teeth flashed in his mouth as he clenched his jaw. “You don’t remember.”

  She froze, said nothing.

  “You have no idea why I made this room,” he said, the words little bullets firing from his lips.

  She sucked in a breath. Was this where it ended? Had she been naive to think he wanted her alive?

  “It’s the old pantry and half bath,” he said, his voice calm again, deliberate though she could tell he was fighting anger.

  She scanned the closet for something she could use as a weapon.

  “Do you remember?” he pressed.

  Shoes, hangers, clothes. His wallet on the bureau. Nothing.

  Spencer’s lips split into a wide, ugly sneer. “Well, you’ll know soon enough. Now that you’re home again, Bella.” He lifted his hand. She saw something small and black. A gun.

  She raised her hands to cover her face, stepped backward as Spencer pointed it to the closet. The room was bathed in light.

  Her heart raced. Hot nausea rose between her lungs, welled in her throat.

  He held a remote control. “Come see.” He moved past her.

  As soon as he was past, she ran. Down the short hallway. Grabbed hold of the doorknob. It wouldn’t turn. She shook it. Pounded on the door. She was trapped.

  “Come now, Bella.” His voice
directly behind her.

  She spun around, pressed herself into the corner between the wall and the door. “Let me out of here.”

  “But you haven’t had the tour,” he said.

  “Stay away from me.”

  He grabbed hold of her arm, spun her to face him. “Do. Not,” he spat, raising his palm to strike her. “Ever. Tell me,” he continued, drawing out each word. “To stay away from my wife.” His palm slowly morphed into a fist as he lowered it again. “You are my wife, Bella,” he said, his voice almost a whisper. “I made you an anniversary present. Our twelfth anniversary . . . you do remember the importance of our twelfth year, don’t you?”

  Pressed to the door, she couldn’t think what he was talking about. She had to get out. Stole a glance over his shoulder. He jabbed his hand out. Like he was thrusting a knife. A rapid clicking sound and the angry buzzing of electricity. Searing heat punctured her middle. She cried out. Fire spread across her limbs. Every muscle contracted. Then it ended, and her legs collapsed. She dropped to the ground. She pushed herself off the floor, arms shaking.

  Spencer stood above her, the stun gun aimed at her. “It does hurt, doesn’t it? I rather like it,” he said. “This, the cell phone jammer, I’m just full of surprises, aren’t I?” Grinning, he pressed the button again. She started at the buzzing sound of the weapon. “You’re full of surprises, too, Bella.” He shook his head and made a tsking sound. “Not good ones, though. You’ve forgotten quite a lot in your time away.”

  There had to be another way out. The sliding glass door in the bedroom. A window.

  “Now, come see the room I made for you,” Spencer said firmly. His jaw tightened, and she saw the shift of the stun gun.

  Get up. Do what he says. Stall. She eased herself onto her knees, tears in her eyes.

  He reached a hand out, but she stood on her own. Took a step. He shoved her hard. She saw the sliding door on the far side of the bedroom. It would take too long to open.