Nowhere to Hide

by Joan Hall Hovey

  Climbing the tree proved not as easy as Alvin had expected. Twice, his foot slipped on an icy limb, momentarily panicking him. He would feel the cold rough bark through his thin gloves.

  But at last he was there. He’d figured the window would be locked. He was right. Taking the screwdriver from his pocket, he wedged the end under the frame, and pushed down.

  The lock snapped easily.

  The floorboards creaked when he stepped over the sill into the room.

  Closing the window, he walked about the room, touching things, running his gloved fingers over the satin puffs and pillows, and felt anger burn in his gut. He’d never slept in a room like this. He picked up a nightie lying on the foot of her bed. It slid through his hands. Expensive. The sort of nightie a woman like her would never wear for him. He held it against his face, could smell her perfume. It made his head swim. She was like all those girls in school who looked down their noses at him, thought they were too good for him. Acting like he wasn’t alive.

  Well, she was the one who wouldn’t be alive.

  Not for long.

  Thirty-one

  Ellen had been on her way home, but now, with Sam curled up asleep beside her, she was heading back into town, back to the old neighborhood where she and Gail had grown up, as if drawn there by her sister’s voice.

  Driving past their faded brick school, she remembered how, more than once, they had tiptoed hand-in-hand down its polished corridor, late and frightened, hearing the voices of the teachers behind their closed doors. They would sneak past the principal’s office, their own breathing and footsteps echoing as if they were inside a church.

  The car bumped lightly over Smith’s Bridge. Above her, seagulls still soared and wheeled and cried out. She remembered how she used to envy them their wings.

  Nearing her own street, she cracked the window open, and the familiar smells of salt air mingling with those of poverty and neglect sent her spinning back in time.

  She drove past Melick’s Barber Shop. Bars now covered the plate glass window where the Siamese cat used to sleep curled up in the sun. A padlock hung on the door. The barber pole was gone.

  She rounded the corner past what had been Hasson’s Grocery store, and was mildly surprised to see that it was still in business, the rusting Coca Cola sign still swaying above the door.

  Finally, she turned onto Burr Street—their street. She slowed the car. The houses she passed looked sadder even than she remembered, smashed-out windows still being replaced by cardboard, doorsteps sinking ever deeper into the broken pavement.

  She noticed two boys shoving a smaller one, and gave a blast on the horn. Sam woke to add a short, scolding bark. While the two boys glared after her, the young one made his escape.

  As she neared the house where they had lived in the bottom flat, Ellen saw a small, fair-haired girl standing forlornly on the sidewalk, her hands drawn up inside the sleeves of her green, skimpy jacket for warmth, and for one heart-stopping second, it was Gail standing there.

  She drove to the end of the street, rounded the block and drove back the way she had come, through the center of town, past the police station, down King, from where she could see the ocean against the gray horizon. Her gaze was drawn briefly to the McLeod Building, her thoughts to Cindy Miller. To the terrible sorrow of those who’d loved her. Myra told her Carl had been in Anderson Insurance installing phones on the day she went missing. He remembered her.

  Ellen drove on, until the city sped away behind her, growing smaller and smaller in her rear-view mirror, until finally all signs of civilization gave way to trees and fields, and the road narrowed.

  And suddenly there it was. The Evansdale Home for Girls. Gray and bleak, it loomed on the crest of the hill to her left. Behind the prison-like structure, Ellen could see the expanse of field where Myra had once told her they grew their own vegetables, the girls themselves doing the planting and tending. The field was grown over now, backed by dense woods.

  Some of the wire fencing that had surrounded the grounds was still in evidence, though most of it appeared to have been pulled down, most likely by kids who came out here to party. She couldn’t imagine some poor derelict seeking only a night’s refuge going to so much trouble.

  Gazing up at the boarded-up doors and windows, Ellen couldn’t help wondering how many girls had suffered the torments of hell inside those cold, gray walls. You couldn’t grow up in Evansdale without hearing whispers of mistreatment. "The home" represented a bad place where girls could be sent if they didn’t behave. Though nothing concrete had ever surfaced so far as she knew, officials must have at least suspected the sort of abuses Myra confided to her. They hadn’t closed the place down for no reason.

  The small, urgent whine drew her attention. "Sorry, Sam." She went around to the passenger side and let him out, holding fast to the leash. They didn’t know one another all that well, yet; no point in taking chances. But Sam seemed quite content to simply do his business and hop back in the car.

  Why am I here? Ellen wondered. Why did I make this journey into the past today? Did I expect to find Gail sitting on the steps of our old house? Or do I imagine she’s up there still—a small, pale figure waiting inside for me to come and rescue her.

  It’s too late, Ellen. The moment when rescue was possible is gone. And you can’t bring it back. The truth she’d been refusing to look at now rushed to the surface of her consciousness, too clear to deny. If I had warned Gail to get out of that apartment, or even if I’d telephoned 911 the instant I hung up from talking to her, she would still be alive.

  She and Gail had always been able to tune into one another. She’d always known when things were not right with her little sister. Just as she’d had a sense of foreboding that day—all day. Long before they spoke on the phone, and after. Well into the night. She remembered how hard it had been to fall asleep. Even while she waited for Gail’s plane to arrive, she knew.

  She’d received the messages loud and clear. She just hadn’t listened.

  No, Gail wasn’t here. She wasn’t anywhere to be found. Ellen let out a long, shuddering sigh, and took a final look at the building. "Might as well go home, huh, Sam? No point in hanging around here. We’ll get you some grub on the way. You must be starved. Maybe a box of treats for your patience."

  Sam cocked an ear. She could have sworn he smiled at her.

  Driving a little further along, Ellen turned up a narrow road, backed out again, and, taking little notice of the weather-beaten sign nailed to a tree, on which was crudely printed "Bishop’s Lane," headed back into town.

  ~ * ~

  Alvin wandered about the kitchen. After opening and closing several cupboard drawers, he found the one he was looking for. He chose the longest knife from among several—a butcher knife. Holding it up, he ran his gloved thumb and forefinger along its steel blade. Yes, he thought, this would do just fine. In case she was not alone when she came back. He would use it on her, too, if he had to, though he had something much more appropriate in mind for her.

  Thirty-two

  Lieutenant Mike Oldfield was in his office with Artie Wood, their computer man, going over the printout an excited Artie had brought in to him yesterday.

  Over the past ten years too damn many women were murdered in a similar method to Gail Morgan and Cindy Miller, but happily, if he could call it that, only four on this list had also had their faces painted up to look like clowns. Two of the women were murdered in California, one in the west end of Boston, with the latest victim being found late last spring in a wooded area just outside Augusta. No connection had ever been made.

  Two names. Two Jane Does, including the one in Augusta.

  The creep got around, all right. Mike wouldn’t be in the least surprised if there were more victims out there—victims who would never make their way into anyone’s computer, whose bodies would never be found. Hookers. Runaways. Mike suspected there were more than even he could imagine.

  "I need everything you can get me on
these women, Artie," Mike said to the bespectacled man who looked more like a college freshman than the twelve-year veteran he actually was. "See if we can find a thread to link them."

  "They’re all similar physically," Artie said, raising an eyebrow, shrugging. "All blond."

  "More. I need more, Artie. Concentrate on the two identified women. Get back to me. Thanks," he called to his colleague’s disappearing back.

  Artie gone, Mike leaned back in his swivel chair, laced his hands behind his back and stared grimly at the spot on the ceiling where a leaky roof had, over time, sketched a pretty fair map of Italy.

  Ellen’s phone call was still nagging at him. It had left him feeling a little bewildered. She’d sounded so short, like she was angry at him for something. Maybe he shouldn’t have kissed her, not that he thought he could have stopped himself. Come to think of it, she really didn’t kiss him back. Maybe he’d missed something. Did she think he was getting too familiar, coming on too strong? Trying to take advantage of her vulnerable state of mind? Was she right? Damn it, I’ve been out of circulation too long. Except for Angela, and the verdict wasn’t in on that, yet, he didn’t know how to act around a woman anymore, unless it was in connection with his job.

  And who the hell was Sam? He knew he was acting like a jealous schoolboy, but he couldn’t seem to help it. Did he imagine a woman as attractive and as bright as Ellen Harris would have no other man interested in her besides him?

  No, he wasn’t that big a fool.

  Well, at least she isn’t alone.

  He turned his attention to Cindy Miller.

  Why hadn’t the creep painted her?

  Three possibilities came to mind. One, that she didn’t fit in with some special criteria he had. Two, there hadn’t been time. And three, and this seemed the most likely to Mike, this particular prey simply lived too close to home.

  The chair squeaked as Mike swiveled around to face the window from where he could look directly across the street in the public library. He could see people moving about inside, could even make out the QUIET PLEASE sign on Miss Danfield’s desk.

  Mike made a careful pyramid of his fingers, rested his chin there. His gaze ventured beyond the two-story sandstone structure to the radio tower that disappeared into the milky gray sky, and farther still to the misty hills that marked the county’s boundary. Where are you, you sick son-of-a-bitch? Anger churned in his gut.

  Sighing heavily, he swiveled slowly back around, his hand going involuntarily out to cover the names on the page—a strangely protective gesture, made unconsciously. But these women were far beyond anyone’s protection.

  How many more before they caught him?

  If they caught him.

  He called his daughter at home. "Are you okay, honey?"

  "Yeah, everything’s cool. Mrs. Balena’s teaching me how to make divinity fudge. Then we’re going to watch Gone With The Wind—it’s her favorite. Why? Anything wrong?"

  "No, no, nothing wrong, sweetheart. I just wanted to—tell you I love you."

  "Yeah, me too." She sounded embarrassed. "Bye, Daddy."

  He sat motionless for several minutes, then thought, To hell with Sam, and dialed Ellen’s number. He needed to talk to her, tell her what they’d uncovered, and the connection to her sister. He wasn’t looking forward to it. He also needed to find out if there might be other connections. While Mike had a strong feeling some of the victims were chosen at random, he didn’t believe they all were.

  He let it ring six times before hanging up. They’d obviously gone out, probably to dinner. Another twinge of jealousy made him annoyed at himself.

  There was a light rap on his door and Gabe Levine entered. Officer Levine was a tall, loose-jointed man with a hawk-like face and a deceptively lazy way of moving. He set a blue and silver bow, sealed in a clear, plastic envelope down on Mike’s desk. "An Edie Carr brought this in earlier. She cleans over at the McLeod Building. She said the bow was on a gift the Miller woman bought for her mother—a painting. It was for her birthday. Said she found it behind the toilet bowl when she was washing the floor."

  "What’s the significance?" Mike asked, picking it up.

  "The painting seems to have vanished. The mother never got it." Levine produced his notepad, thumbed back a couple of pages. "The Carr woman said she saw the gift herself on the same night Cindy Miller went missing." He referred to the notepad. "‘It was standing against the copier. I didn’t actually see the painting because it was wrapped, but Cindy said it was a farm scene, said her mother grew up on a farm. It was her mom’s birthday the next day, don’t you see.’"

  Levine was the only man in the department who wrote out all his interviews verbatim, even to capturing speech rhythms. The practice, or compulsion, had proven valuable on a couple of cases Mike could recall. That it would help crack this one was probably too much to hope for.

  "Could she be mistaken about the time?" he asked.

  "Nope," Levine said adamantly. "Everyone in the office saw the painting that day. Said she bought it from an off-the-street salesman a couple of days earlier. Apparently, they get a lot of sales people walking in, hawking everything from office equipment to pots and pans."

  "Anything else?"

  "Yep. He had a mother of a scratch down one side of his face. Joked about being attacked by a Siamese cat his favorite aunt gave him for his birthday."

  Mike sat up straighter. "No name, right?"

  "Right. But we collected a bunch of business cards; they’re being check out."

  "What about the private eye?" Mike asked, even though he’d all but dismissed him as a serious suspect.

  "Matchett? Nothing. We’ll keep an eye on him, though. From what the Fisher woman said, he just looked at Cindy, mostly made her feel uncomfortable. She had a cute figure, apparently liked to show it off."

  Mike got a vision of Angela in her too-tight sweater and vowed to lose the damn thing as soon as he got home. He was grateful to Mrs. Balena, their upstairs neighbor who kept a motherly watch on Angela when he wasn’t around. She was widowed, and Mike was only too happy to pay her generously for her time. Her good soul they got for free.

  "Anything else, Lieutenant?"

  "Nothing I can think of. Phone calls still coming in on that composite?"

  "Five hundred odd so far. Like we’re running an open line game show. People calling in sure it’s their boyfriend, ex-husband—lots of those—brother-in-law, the guy next door. We’re chasing down every lead, no matter how weird."

  "Good. You never know when we could get lucky. Any mention of the sketch bearing a resemblance to the salesman with the scratch?"

  "Nope. In fact, the Fisher woman—she’s sort of a self-appointed spokesman for the entire office—said it was very definitely not him."

  "Okay, that’s it, then. Keep me posted, Gabe."

  "You got it."

  As soon as the door closed, Mike tried Ellen’s number again.

  Still no answer.

  ~ * ~

  The ringing telephone had Alvin’s nerves screaming. He’d cut the damn line except whoever was calling would probably get suspicious and the next thing he knew cops would be bursting in here.

  Where in hell was the bitch?

  In the very next second, he heard a car pull into the yard. Heard the motor cut to silence, a door open and shut. Keeping well back, he peered out of the upstairs hall window.

  He recognized the blue Sunbird as hers. He watched her walk around to the passenger side, open the door. Seeing a dog hop out sent alarm racing along his nerve endings.

  On closer inspection, he saw that the mutt was small and mangy-looking—nothing to worry about. Nothing he couldn’t take care of.

  Alvin withdrew into the shadows.

  Thirty-three

  Sam’s leash hooked over her wrist, Ellen struggled into the house with the two bags of groceries she’d purchased at the supermarket, containing mostly dog food. She bumped the door shut with her hip, kicked off her boots.
/>   In the kitchen, Ellen deposited her burden on the table, peeled off her gloves and set about getting Sam’s supper prepared while the little dog sat on his haunches, watching her every move, tail beating a happy rhythm on the floor.

  Filling one bowl with water, the other with food, she set them on the floor by the fridge. "There you go, fella. Just soft stuff for now. Eat up. But not too fast, okay? You don’t want to get sick."

  She needn’t have worried. Sam ate hungrily, but with a touching dignity. Ellen was already in love with him. "Good dog. Later, we’ll get you cleaned up. You’ll feel a whole lot better after you’ve had a bath." Not at all sure how Sam would feel about that, she left him to enjoy his meal in private.

  Remembering to re-lock the front door, she then started up the stairs.

  ~ * ~

  Mike was standing at the bathroom mirror, holding his shaving brush in midair, but rather than his own face, it was Ellen’s he was seeing, as she’d looked when he told her that her sister was dead. He mentally blinked the image away, as he’d had to look away from her terrible anguish that day. Hearing her cries from the back seat, so primal and raw they tore at him, he’d been more than a little grateful her friend, Myra, was in the back seat with her to offer comfort.

  Not that she’d taken any.

  And not that it was the first time he’d ever had to break lousy news to someone. Generally, though, it was to a parent whose kid had wrapped his car around a telephone pole, or OD’d. It was a part of the job every cop dreaded.

  This wasn’t New York, but they had their share of crimes just the same, mostly break-ins, assaults, but a few murders over the years. And last spring there was a suicide—a husband and father of two drove out to the edge of town, parked the car and blew his brains out. No one knew why. Mike saw his widow in town from time to time.

  Splashing warm water on his face, he toweled it dry, slapped on a little shaving lotion, winced in the mirror. He glanced at his watch. It was 8:25 p.m. He’d been home twenty minutes.