Fixed in Blood

by T. E. Woods

  Lydia drove back the way she came. Up through Portland, past Olympia and Tacoma. She sailed through Seattle so early in the morning she didn’t catch a hint of its legendary traffic and got to Mukilteo in time for the first ferry to Whidbey. She boarded as a long-haired blonde but disembarked as a middle-aged weary traveler. She picked up her bike at the ferry landing and pedaled back to the clearing down the lane from her cabin. She hiked to her back door, entered through the kitchen, and fell asleep the moment her head hit the pillow.

  It had been so easy.

  —

  She stretched long and slow, letting her leg run the length of Paul Bauer’s.

  “Are you planning on making me some coffee or should we simply die of thirst?”

  He chuckled. “I wouldn’t mind staying here all day.”

  “With no coffee?” she asked in mock dismay. “They’re gonna drum you right out of the Pacific Northwest with that kind of subversive talk.”

  He threw off the covers and grumbled playful protests as he headed across the bedroom. Lydia let her eyes linger on his broad shoulders and narrow waist until he turned the corner and disappeared into the kitchen. She closed her eyes, burrowed down into the sheets, and wondered if this was what normal felt like.

  Paul’s face lacked any trace of his earlier humor when he came back with two mugs. He handed her the one holding coffee laced with milk and honey. He held on to his mug of black and reached for the television remote.

  “I had it on in the kitchen.” He clicked on the morning news. A grim-faced anchor was speaking in front of a graphic of Vincent Feldoni smiling from the red carpet.

  “Give me more volume,” Lydia asked.

  “…disguised by a beard and long hair.” The graphic behind the anchor switched to an older shot of Feldoni and his father, laughing at some shared joke. “Details as to why Vincent Feldoni was in the tiny hamlet of Garibaldi are unclear at this time, but spokesmen for both local and Oregon State Police say they are certain the body found floating in Tillamook Bay is indeed that of Vincent Feldoni. Seattle detectives are on their way south to write the finishing chapter in the murders Feldoni’s alleged to have committed. We here at KING 5 news will keep you posted on developments as they occur.”

  The news shifted to sports and Paul clicked off the television. He sat on the bed beside Lydia.

  “You okay? This has got to bring up stuff about your patient.” Paul’s voice was filled with concern. “Delbe, right?”

  Lydia nodded. “Delbe. We’ll never know who was Feldoni’s last victim, her or Eddie Yaz.”

  Paul laid a reassuring hand on her shoulder. He shook his head in quiet appreciation. “Justice has a habit of finding its way.”

  She took a sip of coffee. “Yes, it does.”

  “I imagine you’ll be hearing from Mort.”

  Lydia inhaled the earthy aroma of her coffee and honey. She held her mug in both hands, letting the warmth soothe her. She looked around Paul’s bedroom. So clearly masculine, yet still comfortable and inviting. I could stay here forever. She shoved the dream aside and took another sip.

  “Yes. I imagine I will.”

  This, like everything fun in my life, is for Lance.

  Acknowledgments

  So many thank-you’s needed…so little space. Thank you, Random House team, for all you do. Thanks to my Supers. Super Agent Victoria Skurnick and Super Editor Kate Miciak. This entire series would be nothing without your guidance, encouragement, and support. To all my friends who suffer through plot points and help me name characters, I owe you big. Tugger and Gitch…don’t think Mom doesn’t appreciate your patience as she writes, because I do. And above all, I owe a tremendous thank-you to all the readers who have embraced this series. It touches my heart when you take the time to write me with your thoughts about the books. It connects us in a way that fills me like nothing else can. Keep reading. Keep writing. I love it.

  BY T. E. WOODS

  The Fixer

  The Red Hot Fix

  The Unforgivable Fix

  Fixed in Blood

  About the Author

  T. E. WOODS is a clinical psychologist and author living in Madison, Wisconsin. For random insight into how her strange mind works, follow her:

  tewoodswrites.com

  Facebook.com/​tewoodswrites

  @tewoodswrites

  Read on for a sneak peek of

  Fixed in Fear

  by T. E. Woods

  Available from Alibi

  Chapter 1

  Carlton Smydon followed the others across a thick carpet of fallen needles beneath the high pine canopy. Some whispered, one hummed. Carlton prayed.

  “Last chance to say ‘no,’ ” their host warned when they reached the clearing. Four of the others hurried to the cheery campfire. The muslin shifts each was directed to wear did little to protect against the night’s chill. Carlton looked up. A crescent moon glowed in the sea of eternity. He knew some found awe in the dazzling display of stars and planets, but Carlton shivered at the revenge the designer of this vast tableau was certain to have waiting for him.

  Four stakes marked the directions on the clearing’s perimeter. Carlton walked to the one denoting west. A clay mask hung from it. Bear. The totem representing unpredictability. He went to the northern stake and examined its totem. The Mouse: navigator between this world and the next. He stepped into the space between the two markers. Northwest, where he committed the sin no god would ever forgive.

  “It is time,” the host announced.

  Carlton joined the others at the fire, well aware they didn’t expect to see someone like him at their lodge. But the days were long past since he’d been bothered by being the lone black guest at the party. He pulled a pinch of tobacco from the pocket of his shift and tossed it into the flames as an offering to Gaia. The host rang a bell to invite the forest sprites to join in their celebration as each participant was asked to give oral blessings to their ancestors.

  Carlton spared his forefathers the hypocrisy.

  He was handed a sprig of smoldering sage and went through the motions of brushing his aura. He stepped aside as their host pulled red-hot river rocks one by one from the fire and carried them on the end of a shovel into the small domed structure ten feet east of where they stood. When he was finished, the host held open the heavy carpet and waved them in.

  Carlton settled himself at the farthest point from the sweat lodge’s door. He sat cross-legged, uncomfortable in the slouch necessary to avoid the low ceiling. He strained to keep his toes away from the radiant rocks in the center. Two women were to his right. He recalled they were school teachers from Tacoma. To their right was the host, who pulled the heavy carpet door closed as he sat. Three men were to Carlton’s left. The one closest to their host had sat next to Carlton in the van that brought them to the trail. He’d introduced himself as Oscar, a former addict “trying to do all I can, man, to stay clean.” Carlton had no idea who the two men sitting to his left were. They hadn’t spoken to anyone.

  The host ladled water onto the hot rocks, bringing steam and more heat into the cramped space. One of the women gasped. Oscar gave a nervous giggle. All but Carlton began to chant as they’d been instructed.

  “Ancient Mother, We hear you calling.

  Ancient Mother, We hear your song.

  Ancient Mother, We hear your laughter.

  Ancient Mother, We taste your tears.”

  The muscles in Carlton’s neck began to throb. He struggled to shift his position but was wedged between the ceiling, the rocks, and the sweating bodies on either side. Thermal air scorched his lungs. My preparation for hell, he thought.

  “Let us seek to pull our anchors free and fill ourselves with our deepest need.” The host poured another ladle of water onto the rocks.

  “I ask my anchor to pull sadness from me and replace it with joy,” said the schoolteacher to the host’s left.

  “So let it be,” intoned the group.

  “I ask my ancho
r to pull impatience from me and replace it with serenity,” her colleague said.

  “So let it be.” The group was firmer this time.

  Carlton took another searing breath. He closed his eyes and prayed someone would listen. “I ask my anchor to pull the breath from my body and replace it with death.”

  “So le…” The group stopped their automatic response. Carlton opened his eyes and saw Oscar and the school marms through the steamy haze, looking to the host for guidance.

  “Try again, please,” was the only direction.

  Carlton pried his dry tongue from the roof of his mouth. “I ask my anchor to pull the breath from my body and replace it with death.”

  The group sat silent for several heartbeats.

  “Moving on,” said the host.

  The man to Carlton’s left said nothing. He jostled Carlton as he squirmed to remove something from his pocket. Through the steam the group watched him hand Carlton a phone.

  “Give me that,” demanded the host. “You have violated this sacred space.”

  The man touched the screen to light the panel. Carlton looked down to the text.

  “It is over,” it read.

  Carlton looked to the man who’d handed him his answered prayer. “Now?”

  The man didn’t respond.

  Carlton nodded. His eyes struggled through the steam to make contact with each person.

  “I am sorry,” he said. “My sins grow larger today.”

  The two men to Carlton’s left sprang forward in seamless precision. Their knives worked easy havoc on the cramped group. Oscar died first with a clean slice across his throat. The teachers didn’t have time to register what was happening before they met the same fate. The host lunged back against the carpet flap and was stabbed in the thigh by one man. The second man finished him off before he had the chance to scream.

  Carlton stayed cross-legged. A scalding tear burned his cheek.

  “May I know who sent you?” he asked once the others were dead.

  The men crawled toward him in silence. One grabbed his hair, yanked back, and held his head steady while the second stabbed his knife once into each eye.

  “End this,” Carlton gasped through unspeakable pain. “Show me one small mercy.”

  His request was met with a killing slice across his neck. Carlton fell forward onto the rocks now steaming with wet blood.

  The two men waited until Carlton’s death spasms ceased. One crawled over the bodies and threw open the carpet. A whoosh of cool air invaded the space. He grabbed the wooden boards supporting the dome and pulled. The makeshift structure cracked on first try, sending the dry wooden frames and old carpets into the fire. The two killers stood in silence, watching the flames flare as they consumed the new fuel. They were still silent when the fire died, leaving a pile of corpses nestled in white-hot ash. The man who’d earlier handed Carlton his death message reached again for his phone. He stood, pointed it toward Carlton’s charred body, and snapped a photo.

  Chapter 2

  Lydia Corriger sat behind the communication console in the secure room hidden behind the walls of her at-home office. She kept her eyes riveted to the thirty-inch high-definition screen in front of her, breathed deeply, and braced herself for the white-hot surge of strength radiating from her spine out to her limbs.

  There you are.

  She used her finger to trace a circle around the man shown walking across a small-town main street, then tapped the screen to freeze the image. With her thumb and forefinger she enlarged the encircled area. The man’s face filled the screen.

  Eddie Dirkin looked a bit older than his mug shot. But then, it had been seven years. His hair was grayer than it was in the dozens of photographs Lydia studied. Photographs taken from his trial. Photographs from the front page of the newspaper under headlines screaming of his escape. Lydia swept her hand and the Man on Main Street’s image shifted to the left half of the screen. She manipulated her computer mouse and a gallery of other photos filled the right side. She tapped them in succession, and with each tap the selected photo filled the eastern hemisphere of her viewing area, giving her a side-by-side comparison of Eddie Dirkin to the man on the left.

  You’ve put on weight, Eddie. Is that by design? Did you purposefully add pounds to round out the chiseled physique you had when you murdered your friend? That must have been difficult for a vain man like yourself. You always tried to stand out in a crowd. How many cheeseburgers and pizzas did it take for you to morph into a soft-bellied everyman?

  She brought up another old picture of Eddie. In it, he had come out of the courthouse and was looking to his right, just like the Man on Main Street. Lydia’s eyes traced the two profiles from brow to chin. She used her finger to drag the seven-year-old image of Eddie over top of the shot of the Man on Main taken from a live-feed web cam just that morning.

  It was a perfect match.

  I found you, Eddie.

  Lydia leaned back and an image of Ann Louise Chait floated across her consciousness.

  It had been nearly four years ago. Before she met Mort. Before Savannah had walked her troubled soul into Lydia’s office.

  Life was easier then. I had my patients. My home. And I had The Fixer.

  Ann Louise had contacted her the way every Fix had. Someone who knew someone knew somebody who heard from a guy in a bar who got it from a lawyer buddy of his that there was a person “out there” who took on cases. Cases where the bad guy got away and there was no hope for justice. Ann Louise didn’t put much stock in the legend of The Fixer, but she’d been desperate enough to follow the instructions whispered to her by a friend who swore it was true. Ann Louise placed three identical ads in USA Today, The New York Times, and Rolling Stone on the first Thursday of October four years ago. Following the advice she’d been given, Ann Louise’s ad said she needed help translating an old family cookbook. Lydia called Ann Louise three days later from her secured communications center, her voice digitally disguised and cell signals bounced randomly seven times every minute.

  Ann Louise told Lydia about her husband. She and Dennis Chait had been married six years. They had a son, Billy, who would be three in a few weeks.

  “But he hasn’t seen his father since before his first birthday,” Ann Louise explained. “Edward Dirken murdered him.”

  Ann Louise related the story of Dennis Chait and Edward Dirken. They’d been friends since their freshman year at the University of Minnesota.

  “Everyone always wondered how they got along,” she said. “Dennis was so quiet and studious. Edward was a charmer. Never concerned about his grades. Only interested in getting to the gym and the next party. I met Dennis our senior year. We knew from the start what was happening between us was serious. That didn’t stop Eddie from hitting on me the first time I went to their apartment. I told Dennis about how uncomfortable it made me, but he shrugged it off. Said that’s just the way Eddie was. Still, it was always hard for me to relax around him.”

  Lydia learned Dennis graduated top of his engineering school. Edward Dirken never completed his degree and left the university after Dennis graduated.

  “He was dependent on Dennis,” Ann Louise said. “For all his bravado and carefree ways, Eddie relied on my husband for everything. Dennis thought of him like a goofball brother. When Dennis got his first patent, there were offers from major companies, but Dennis knew what he had. I couldn’t have been more proud when he started his own company. I told him it was a mistake to hire Eddie, but like I said, Dennis loved him like family.”

  Dennis’s murder captured the headlines in Minnesota. Lydia researched newspapers, blogs, and court records for the details of the case. She learned Dennis’s company started small. Dennis designed the products, Ann Louise handled the administrative details, and Edward Dirken was the face to the corporations eager to buy Dennis’s switches, relays, and programming boards. Within three years Dennis held more than twenty patents and his firm was billing nearly fifteen million dollars annually
.

  “Dennis thought it was time for us to get married,” Ann Louise chuckled through her tears. “He wanted to be financially stable before he proposed. Of course, Eddie was his best man. Things were good for a year or so. But when Billy was born, Dennis started to change. Maybe that happens to all parents. The business wasn’t as important to him anymore. He wanted to sell it, move somewhere warmer. Just the three of us. He wanted a simpler life. And to me, the thought of not having Eddie around was a bonus.” Ann Louise’s sobs had made her difficult to understand all those years ago. But Lydia could still remember her pain. “We never got that chance. Eddie killed him.”

  Dennis Chait was shot three times at close range. Twice in the neck, once in the shoulder. He died on a Sunday afternoon in the hallway connecting his office to Edward Dirken’s. Eddie called 911 immediately. The frantic recording was played during his trial. Lydia was able to access it and for the first time heard Eddie’s voice.

  “Oh my God…oh my God…Den, I’m sorry. Oh my god, come quick. My friend’s been shot. I shot him. Oh, god. Den…Den…I’m so sorry. I thought he was a burglar. I’m here by myself. It’s a Sunday. Oh, God, Den. What are you doing here? Come quick. I think it’s bad.”

  The prosecution brought first-degree murder charges against Edward Dirken, citing pending criminal exposure as Eddie’s motive. Ann Louise’s pregnancy had been difficult. She left Dennis’ company when her OB/GYN recommended complete bed rest her last trimester. Eddie agreed to oversee the two women hired to take over her administrative duties. According to Ann Louise, everything seemed fine until a potential buyer’s pre-purchase audit uncovered nearly ten million dollars of cash, equipment, and inventory missing.

  “There was only one person who could have done it,” Ann Louise explained. “Dennis was devastated. The buyers backed out. His dream of leaving the business died. Someone he trusted like a brother had betrayed him. Eddie knew he was coming to confront him that Sunday. He knew and he killed him.”