Nowhere to Hide

by Joan Hall Hovey

  "Surviving," she said off-handedly. The word made her think of Miss Layton, who had called her a survivor. She’d like to believe it was true.

  She looked around at the paneled walls hung with posters of Jimmy and Marilyn and Elvis. A jukebox played in the corner.

  "This is an interesting place," she said absently. "I’ve never been here."

  He smiled at her and she noticed how tired he looked himself. The fine lines at the corners of his eyes seemed deeper than she remembered. He even seemed to have acquired a few more gray hairs. He was probably working around the clock. She also noticed he had a trace of a cleft in his chin. He was really quite nice looking. Not as handsome, perhaps, in the way that Paul was, but something better, deeper, more enduring. She realized she liked being with him. "Are you making any headway in the Miller case?" she asked.

  "That’s-uh, something I wanted to discuss with you."

  "You think he’s the same man who murdered Gail, don’t you?"

  Her perception caught him by surprise. "It looks that way, except—" He stopped himself in time, remembering there was one detail about her sister’s murder she was unaware of.

  "Except what?"

  Her blue gaze seemed to penetrate his deepest thoughts, and he had to look away. He plucked a toothpick from its container and snapped it in two. "Except she was murdered here, in Evansdale," he said, easily, hating himself for his deception. He would have to tell her, and soon. Just not now, not here. There were a few pertinent facts they’d uncovered recently he wouldn’t be able to share with her until she knew. They were in the process of rounding up all known sex offenders in the area. There was a private eye who rented an office in the McLeod building, right next door to Anderson Insurance, who was getting his share of attention, and whining about his civil rights all the way. While it was true the guy had a reputation as a down-in-the-dirt sleaze, somehow Mike didn’t think he was a killer. At least not by his own hand.

  "We think the guy is right here in town, Ellen."

  "So do I." With that, she took the note out of her purse and handed it to him.

  "I found this under my windshield wiper when I came out of the police station last week."

  He read it. His color drained. "My God, Ellen, why didn’t you tell me? I would never have let them pull those guys off surveillance if I’d known."

  "I know. I’m sorry. I guess I should have. It was just that I was afraid you’d scare him off. That’s not all, Mike." She told him about the phone call. "Do You Know Me? is the name of Gail’s new song. Her roommate told me Gail got a similar call a few nights before she was murdered."

  The waitress came with their order. Broiled salmon, buttered carrots and baked potato with sour cream. It looked and smelled delicious. Ellen found she was hungry after all.

  "By the way," Mike said, holding a forkful of salmon halfway to his mouth, "you did a great job on the profile. I was impressed. You’re pretty knowledgeable on the subject."

  "Thanks." Her professional pride made her warm at the compliment. "But will it help you to find him?"

  "Let’s hope so. Ellen, I’m going to request a female officer to come and stay with you for a few days."

  "I’ll be content if you just put the car back on."

  "We’ll do that, of course, but—"

  "No, Mike. I won’t be held prisoner in my own home. I’m sorry, but I just won’t. What’s the good of all your fancy computers?" she snapped suddenly, laying her fork down, attracting the attention of the couple seated across from them. "Why can’t you just hook up with the other police departments, compare notes, use the process of elimination?" She was floundering. Not only was she computer illiterate, she knew nothing about police work. But there was no trace of condescension in Mike’s expression or his reply.

  "We can and we are," he said. "But it’s possible this guy’s never had a conviction or even been brought up on charges. In that case, he wouldn’t be on anyone’s file."

  She said nothing.

  "And, by the way, that gun in your bag won’t do you much good if you’re asleep when he decides to make his move. And you have to sleep sometime. He will come after you, Ellen. Of that much I’m absolutely sure."

  Hearing the conviction in his voice, Ellen shivered inwardly. "It’s what I want," she said quietly. "It’s why I went on television."

  "I understand that. And I think a female officer is the answer. Will you at least think about it?" He’d only guessed about the gun, but he knew he’d guessed right. He wasn’t surprised. She wasn’t about to be anyone’s passive victim.

  "All right," she said after a moment. "I’ll think about it."

  "Good girl." He smiled. "She’ll be the soul of discretion, I promise—there’s no way that he’ll suspect you’re not alone. And we’ll nail the creep."

  "I haven’t agreed, Mike. I said I’d think about it."

  The waitress came with their coffee. When she turned away, Mike said quietly, eyeing her leather bag hanging on her chair. "Can I assume you know how to use what you’ve got in there?"

  She smiled dryly. "Yes, Lieutenant, you can. It’s not that difficult."

  "I suppose not. What did you use for target practice?"

  "Tin cans. My husband taught me. In back of the house."

  Mike sipped his coffee.

  On their way out, they ran into Paul Henderson with a pretty, young redhead hanging on his arm. His eyes flickered briefly over Mike, and she saw his mouth tighten just a fraction before the old charm went into automatic.

  "Ellen, how nice to see you. We miss you at the clinic. Some of your clients have been asking for you. Absolutely won’t see anyone else."

  Hearing the underlying note of criticism, she made some vague response and went on, Mike trailing behind.

  Paul knew all the right buttons to push. But along with the feelings of guilt he’d aroused in her, was a sense of relief. At least he wouldn’t be bothering her anymore.

  During the drive home, Mike said unexpectedly, "Tin cans don’t bleed, you know, Ellen."

  She looked at him. "What?"

  Not taking his eyes from the road, he said, "I was just wondering, well, if you could actually shoot a man. You’re a person who analyzes people, who reasons things through. Have you ever seen the damage a bullet can cause? Do you have any idea what a bullet sounds like smashing through flesh and bone?"

  "I know what you’re trying to do, Mike. But you needn’t worry. All I have to remember is what he did to my sister."

  Taking his hand off the wheel, he laid it over hers. The electricity in his touch surprised her, flustered her a little. "This has been hell for you," he said softly. "We’re going to find him. I promise you that."

  At the door, he leaned over and kissed her gently on the mouth. Feelings she’d thought long dead in her flooded throughout her body like a warm wave.

  "I’ve been wanting to do that for a long time," he said. "Make sure your doors are locked, and think over what I said about assigning a police woman to stay with you."

  "I will."

  "I’ll call you tonight."

  Inside, Ellen took off her coat, gathered up the mail from the sideboard and floated out to the kitchen. His kiss was still sweet on her mouth. For once, fear wasn’t the reason for her racing heart.

  Making herself a cup of tea, Ellen sat down at the table. The mail was mostly junk mail, as far as she could see, and a few bills. Noticing in the pile a letter postmarked Atlantic, GA, she opened it eagerly. Inside was a single page scripted in Miss Layton’s beautiful handwriting, the kind of penmanship she didn’t see too often these days. She was settling in nicely, she wrote, and thought she would get on fine in Atlanta, although she did miss the ocean and the few dear friends she’d made over the years.

  "I go to sleep each night with the perfume of the lovely magnolia trees wafting through my window. The good Lord does compensate, Ellen," she wrote, "although sometimes our losses are so difficult to bear, we fail to notice new and special gifts to
us. Please take care of yourself, dear."

  Warmly,

  Margaret Layton

  Smiling fondly to herself, Ellen began to sift through the rest of the mail. An instant later, her smile vanished as she looked down at her name printed in red block letters on the manila envelope.

  There was no postmark. It had been hand-delivered.

  Her moment of pleasure flown, she slowly opened the envelope. She felt inside for a note; there was none. She held the envelope upside down and shook it. A glossy Polaroid snapshot slid out into her hand.

  At first, she wasn’t sure what it was she was seeing. It appeared to be a picture of a nude clown doll, arms out-stretched, legs bent at an odd angle.

  Holding the snapshot closer, a buzzing started up in the air above her head as recognition struck. Beneath the grotesque, painted-on clown’s mouth, she could now make out Gail’s natural lip line, the edge of her small, white teeth between parted lips. Her blue eyes stared blankly up at her out of drawn, black triangles.

  A small cry escaped her. The photograph slid from her hand onto the floor. She stood up, as if to run from the horror of what she’d seen, and had to fight to keep from fainting. She gripped the edge of the table.

  Sagging back down into the chair, harsh sobs took her, sobs that convulsed her body as they tore up from the very depths of her soul. When at last her sobs subsided, all fear of him was gone, replaced by raw fury. It hadn’t been enough to rape and murder Gail. He had to further degrade and humiliate her.

  Dear Jesus, how he must hate women.

  Damn you, Mike! Why didn’t you tell me? How could you have let me find out like this?

  Even when she was in New York, she’d sensed the unspoken words. The secrecy. Sensed something was being deliberately kept from her, and today in the restaurant when Mike was talking about Cindy Miller’s murder, saying it appeared that her and Gail’s killer was one and the same, except that Cindy had been murdered here in Evansdale, he’d been lying to her. True, a lie of omission, but a lie just the same.

  It wasn’t what he’d been about to say. She realized now he’d been about to tell her that Cindy, unlike Gail, hadn’t been used as that sick maniac’s canvas. Mike caught himself before he did.

  She didn’t believe it was simply to spare her feelings.

  Upstairs, she splashed cold water on her face, quickly refreshed her makeup.

  An hour later, she telephoned Mike from town. "You don’t have to bother about a policewoman, after all," she said, barely able to keep herself sounding civil. "I have a very good friend who’s going to stay with me for a few days."

  "Well, that’s great. Is that your friend from down the road? Myra?"

  "No. His name is Sam." Let him think what he would. Ellen cut the conversation short before he could ask any more questions.

  No longer would she be satisfied with merely bringing Gail’s killer to justice. She fully intended to mete it out personally. Mike was wrong about one thing. It wouldn’t bother her even a little bit to shoot him. In fact, hearing a bullet from her gun smash through that bastard’s flesh and bone, would give her the greatest pleasure.

  "Well, fella," Ellen said, turning on the ignition, then reaching over to stroke the lab’s sleek, gold head, "it’s just you and me, now." As if in answer, Sam, who was now curled up on the passenger seat just as if he’d always been there, laid a gentle paw on her leg.

  Ellen hadn’t had a hard time making her choice. It was as if Sam had been waiting for her. He’d watched her expectantly out of intelligent brown eyes from behind the wire mesh of his cramped cage. He gave a short bark, thumped his tail on the floor, and Ellen had said to the bald man in overalls, "This one. I’ll take this one."

  Sam was much smaller than a purebred lab, hardly the sort of dog Sergeant Branscombe had had in mind for her. Ellen suspected a strain of terrier in Sam as well, which was probably why poor old Sam hadn’t readily found a home, and why he was scheduled to be "put down" in the morning. The man explained they could only hold dogs for so long, that the city didn’t want to spend the money it took to feed and care for them. He seemed genuinely pleased Sam had found someone to take him.

  Other than not having enough flesh on his bones, and badly in need of soap and water, he looked healthy enough to her.

  "I’m something of a mongrel myself," she said, "French Canadian on my mother’s side, Irish on my father’s." The dog was looking at her as if he understood every word. "You’ll let me know if anyone tries to get in the house, won’t you, Sam? You’ll wake me if I’m asleep?"

  Sam barked once.

  Ellen laughed. "How about a little music? Maybe it will soothe the savage beast in both of us. The good Lord only knows what you’ve been through." She turned on the radio, and instantly Gail was in the car with them, her clear, familiar voice sending shockwaves of pain through Ellen, taking her breath. Her hand shot out to turn it off, but she found she couldn’t. In the song, Gail was alive, and Ellen listened through to the end, savoring each nuance, every breath, every word, until the final note had faded. Then, exhausted by the continuing assault on her emotions, she pulled the car off onto the shoulder of the road, laid her head on the steering wheel, and quietly wept.

  In a little while, she felt a warm, rough tongue lick the back of her hand, and Sam’s head nestled gently in her lap.

  Thirty

  "I’m sorry, Carl."

  Though it was afternoon, Carl and Myra were still in their robes, playing Scrabble at the kitchen table. "About what?" Carl was holding two tiles in his hand, trying to come up with a word.

  "C’mon, honey, I know you were looking forward to a little fun in the sun. God knows you earned it."

  "What I was looking forward to, actually, was a little time alone with my wife. And I have that. Look, it was just lousy timing on my part. Of course you should be here for Ellen." He placed his two tiles on the board, horizontally spelling out "page", earning himself seven points. "I just don’t see how we’re helping her sitting here, that’s all."

  "I just feel better knowing we can be there in less than five minutes if we need to."

  An old Beatles’ tune drifted from the radio on the counter. Moments before, they’d sat silently through Gail’s Do You Know Me? It was the first time Myra had heard the song. Though it was very pretty, it had been hard to listen to. She wondered if Ellen had been listening. She hoped not.

  "She could stay here with us if she wanted," Carl said.

  "I already asked—and she doesn’t want anyone staying with her, either. She’s afraid he won’t crawl out from under his rock if she’s not alone. She’s got a gun, Carl."

  Seeing the fear on her face, hearing it in her voice, he said easily, "I feel a whole lot better knowing she’s got some protection. As long as she doesn’t panic and shoot some poor vacuum cleaner salesman or a Jehovah’s Witness."

  "That’s not funny, Carl."

  "Sorry. Just trying to insert a little levity. Anyway, the police seem to be keeping a pretty close eye on her. I saw the cruiser drive by this morning."

  Myra said nothing. She pretended to study the tiles in her hand.

  He got the message. "Listen, why don’t you give her a call? Later, we can go on up if you want. I don’t think she’d object to a little company."

  "I love you, Carl."

  "Of course you do. That’s because I’m so lovable."

  She affectionately mumbled something about him being a jerk, and went into the living room. She dialed Ellen’s number, but there was no answer.

  "She must have gone out," she said, returning. "I’ll try later."

  Carl reached for a celery stick from the pink-flowered bowl. When Myra was on a diet, so was he. Not that he couldn’t stand to shed a few pounds. It was just that his jaw ached from all the chewing.

  Myra was placing an "e" under the "p" in page, following quickly with two "r’s" and a "y".

  "Perry," Carl said, his voice teasing. "Can’t use a proper name. Against the rule
s."

  As Myra continued to stare at the name on the board, the room seemed to darken. A vision of flailing, clawing hands leapt into her mind’s eye. She went absolutely dead white.

  "Myra, what is it?" Carl said anxiously, all playfulness gone from his voice. "What’s the matter?"

  She told him what she’d seen.

  "It’s because of Ellen’s sister," he said. "You’re imagining the scene of the murder."

  "I don’t know, Carl. I’m not sure that’s it at all." She continued to look down at the name she’d unconsciously spelled out. PERRY. The name meant something to her. Something horrible.

  Carl laid his hand over hers. "Why don’t you take one of your pills," he said softly.

  "No. They don’t help. All they do is make me sleepy." She was remembering being with Ellen in McDonald’s, telling her about the girl who had yanked Miss Baddie’s wig off. But it wasn’t that girl’s face that flashed in her mind now, but a pretty blond girl with kind blue eyes who had befriended her on that first night Myra spent in the home. I was crying. The girl was writing in her diary. She laid the pencil down and came to sit on my bed. She didn’t care that I was fat and ugly. "Don’t cry," she’d said. "I’ll be your friend if you want. My name’s Jeannie. What’s yours?"

  It was as far as Myra’s memory would take her.

  ~ * ~

  Alvin worked his way cautiously along the edge of the woods. The back of her house was no more than fifty feet from him. Still, he’d have to be careful. The police were probably watching the place. He checked the pockets of the camouflage coveralls he’d bought at Army surplus. All set. The van was parked in a small clearing in the woods, out of sight.

  Crouching low, he scurried as fast as he could, stopping only when he reached the house. Heart racing, he listened. But there were only the usual night sounds. He hadn’t even needed to use his flashlight. She’d left a bedroom light on. She always did. The tree was perfect. She wasn’t as smart as she thought.