"She says she thinks she knows who the killer is, Lieutenant. She caught you on tonight’s news broadcast and won’t talk to anyone else."
"Does she sound legit."
"Does to me."
"I’m on my way."
"Right. In the meantime, while Doug is pouring over some old city directories looking for past neighbors of the Betts’, I’m taking off for a bite to eat. We had a couple of leads, but..."
"Another rain check," Carl said when Mike hung up the phone. A statement, not a question. He was standing with a regretful smile on his face, an unopened bottle of scotch in his hand.
"Sorry," Mike said, heading for the door.
"No problem. But I’m gonna hold you to it when this is all over."
"I’d like that." He turned. "Carl, I-uh, don’t want to sound like I’m suggesting anything as dramatic as curfew, but I don’t think it’s a real good idea for your wife to be walking this road by herself right now."
"Neither do I. I was just about to go after her when you drove up."
Mike nodded. "I really do need to ask her some questions about Ellen, Carl. About her and Gail’s childhood."
"I won’t pretend to understand the significance of that, but I’ll talk to her. If she knows anything at all, we’ll give you a ring."
~ * ~
Gabe sat at his favorite table in Papa Bear’s—by the wall facing the door. Officer Gabriel Levine was by nature a people watcher, and with the exception of a bus station or an airport, a bar was the best place to do it. Though right now, pickings were slim. He was one of a half dozen customers in the place. Two guys at the bar, three more—lawyers maybe—at a back table.
The TV was on with the sound turned off. Matlock. Gabe couldn’t stand the guy. Maybe if he didn’t yell and holler so damn much. Even with the sound off, you could tell he was raking someone over the coals.
When his order of a beer and the house specialty, roast beef, arrived, he felt himself starting to relax a little, his thoughts slowing down. This case was making him nuts. He could only imagine what the lieutenant was feeling. Gabe was married to someone he had loved a lot once—for about ten minutes.
He hoped the woman from Southfield really had something solid. They were overdue for a break.
Gabe had decided the FBI could have sent them worse than Frank Burgess, even if he didn’t buy all that crap Burgess had spouted about why serial killers did what they did. That was the trouble with today’s world. We’re trying so hard to analyze the bastards, we can’t see what’s right in front of our eyes. They’re just plain bad. Any dog breeder could tell you bad dogs are born into a litter. Why do we think people are any different?
Gabe cut into his roast beef. Tender as a mother’s touch, depending on who your mother was. He didn’t frequent the tavern, especially if it was busy, but he did manage a meal here from time to time. The food was edible, but it was the atmosphere that drew him. It was sort of like being in a warm, pleasant cave.
And no one gave him any bullshit about his cigars.
"Hey, Johnny," the bartender bellowed, which was Jake’s natural way of talking, and Johnny his name for any young fellow he didn’t know, "That’s a good color lipstick for you—matches your eyes." Setting the beer down in front of the man in the plaid shirt, he let out a loud guffaw, and went on wiping the already clean counter, cleaner.
Jake Pappas was the owner and operator of Papa Bear’s. He had stubbly iron-gray hair and the look of a man who likes his booze, though Gabe happened to know Jake hadn’t had a drink in more than ten years—he just served the stuff.
"Told the bitch to blot," the man mumbled, plucking a napkin from a metal holder.
Jake laughed again. "Wouldn’t kid a kidder, would you, Johnny?"
Takes all kinds, Gabe thought, continuing to eat his meal.
Forty-nine
The woman sitting in Mike’s office had introduced herself as Victoria Gray. She was nervously playing with the gold signet ring on her finger. Mike guessed her to be in her late thirties. She was attractive, brown-haired, maybe ten or fifteen pounds overweight. She was wearing a loose-fitting suit to hide the fact. Her eyes were hazel, intelligent.
"I want to say right at the start, Lieutenant Oldfield, I can’t be absolutely certain it was the same person I taught in my grade ten class. That was a very long time ago. I was hardly more than a girl myself, then. Not much older than my students."
"Duly noted," Mike said. "Go on."
"The first artist’s sketch they ran on television and in the papers meant nothing to me, you understand, but this one... anyway, the boy I remember, he was an odd boy with a very definite mean streak. He had disturbing eyes. Liked to bully the little ones. His mother—Lili was her name—seemed unable to control him. I called her in for a conference on a few occasions. She seemed actually frightened of him. "
"She was very pretty in a tired way. Blond. Exceptionally blond. I perceived her, perhaps unfairly, as not the brightest person around, and certainly too generous for her own good, but she did seem to me a decent soul. I believe she tried. "
"She told me she was a high-school dropout, herself, that she’d gotten pregnant at sixteen and had waitressed most of her life to support herself and her son. I got the impression she was lonely, and maybe liked men—the wrong sort, of course—and strong drink, a little too well."
Mike hadn’t heard the term "strong drink" since his grandmother was alive.
Trying to contain his impatience, he said, "Something other than what you’ve told me, Miss Gray, must have happened to make you think this person is going around killing women."
He felt her bristle. "Yes. I’m coming to that. Please bear with me, Lieutenant. This isn’t easy for me."
"Of course. Sorry. Please, take all the time you need."
"Thank you." She let out a long, shuddering sigh and Mike heard its underlying sadness. "There was a girl in my class that year by the name of Debby Fuller. Debby was cute and bubbly—a cheerleader type. A nice girl. She had a wild crush on this boy. Some girls are drawn to dangerous types. Anyway, I watched him play cat and mouse with her for weeks. And one afternoon out in the parking lot, I saw her get into his car. I wanted to call out, to warn her, but they were already speeding away. She probably wouldn’t have listened anyway. "
"I didn’t see her or the boy for—oh, two or three weeks after that. Actually, he never returned. The family moved away, I have no idea where to. Debby came back a much quieter, timid girl. There were bruises on her face and neck—faded, but I could still see them. Perhaps because I half-expected to see them, because I looked for them. I know I should have gone to the authorities, but I didn’t. I was just so relieved to have that terrible boy gone from my class, from my life. I always knew he’d come to no good end."
The woman looked drained, paler then when she’d begun her story—which Mike suspected she’d told for the first time. He also suspected it was not the whole story. Her memory was too clear.
"I think any doubts you may have had about the composite are gone now, aren’t they, Miss Gray?" Mike said quietly.
She nodded.
"Do you remember his name?"
"Of course." Her voice was barely audible. "It was Alvin Raynes."
After a long silence, Mike laid his hand on the woman’s shoulder. "Debby wasn’t the only one who suffered at the hands of Alvin Raynes, was she, Victoria?"
She shot him a surprised look, seemed about to challenge his implication. Then she lowered her head into her hands and began to weep.
~ * ~
Alvin remained at the bar just long enough not to appear in too big a hurry to take off. He’d been looking in the mirror behind the bar when Jake made his comment about the lipstick. The guy was in plain clothes, but Alvin could always smell a cop.
Now, as he drove toward the outskirts of town, it took all his concentration to keep his foot easy on the gas pedal. Once, he saw lights flashing behind him and came close to panicking until he realized
the lights were on a tow truck.
It was that witch. She was doing it to him—making him mess up. Like she’d made him take that painting back after he’d killed the Miller girl. And now, tonight, taking off the wig and coat, then forgetting to wipe off the lipstick. How could he have forgotten that?
He knew how.
He wouldn’t wait for the fireman’s torch. Morning was a long way off. He’d finish her off himself—tonight.
The decision made, he felt calmer. He was also feeling a warm buzz from the three beers he’d had and thought he might just have a little fun first, sample a little of what the lieutenant was getting. He began to grin, thinking about it. And then he wondered if her boyfriend had gotten the little souvenir he’d sent, yet, and what he thought about that.
Soon, he let his thoughts drift back to the cop at the bar. Alvin had been careful to keep his back to him, not to let him get a look at his face. He might start putting two and two together, though he doubted it. Cops were generally pretty stupid. Besides, Alvin didn’t think he looked anything at all like that artist’s drawing they were showing on TV.
Though it did resemble, just a little, he thought, his Aunt Mattie.
Dear Aunt Mattie.
He could still hear her laughing when he would ask if there were any mail for him, any phone calls. "What did you expect from that tramp?" she would say of her younger, prettier sister.
After a while he stopped asking.
He’d been planning to stay with his aunt just until it was safe to go back home. But when he phoned his mother about a week after he got there, the operator told him the phone was disconnected. That’s not possible, he had said. There must be some mistake. Try again. And then two days later he got his letter back marked "address unknown."
Like the old joke—every time I leave the house my parents move.
The heat was rising up in him, the vein in his forehead beginning to pulse the way it always did when he thought about her. Caution forgotten, Alvin clutched the steering wheel and lowered his foot on the gas pedal. The van shot forward.
Fifty
Ellen drifted in and out of consciousness. Someone was calling out to her, urging her to wake up. Hurry, Ellen! Hurry!
Gail? She forced her eyes open and was met with a deeper, almost palpable darkness. Her head felt as if it was packed with gauze, and her mouth tasted faintly of chemicals.
She lay very still and waited for her memory to tell her where she was. She felt disoriented. She couldn’t remember. She tried to move her hands and felt them trapped behind her. Panic seized her.
In the next instant, memory rushed down on her like an avalanche, and with it the horrible knowledge of where she was and why she was there. The city was going to burn down the Evansdale Home and he intended her to perish in the fire.
She tested the ropes binding her hands, and felt encouraged. They were not as tight as before. Ignoring the pain and stiffness in her right hand, and her raw, bleeding wrists, Ellen began systematically to work at the ropes. Ten minutes later, she slid one hand free and then the other. Trying not to breathe too loudly, she gently rubbed the circulation back into them, and quickly undid the ropes around her ankles.
She was free. It had seemed almost too easy. Was he close by, waiting, amused at her pathetic attempt to get away?
She strained to listen, but there was no sound but her own breathing now, not even the wind.
Outside the cocoon of blankets, she was shivering with the cold. It seemed to reach right inside her bone marrow. Dressed in just a cotton shirt and jeans, clothes she’d changed into to bathe poor little Sam, she knew she’d last maybe fifteen minutes out in the open.
First things first, Ellen.
Which meant trying to stand up.
After a couple of unsuccessful attempts to get to her feet, she finally made it. Her legs were shaky, and there was nowhere she didn’t hurt. Beads of perspiration broke out on her forehead, but she managed, by leaning against the wall, not to sink back down to the floor.
Waiting a couple of seconds, she took a tentative step in the direction she’d heard him leave.
With no light to guide her, her hands held out in front of her like a woman newly blinded, she took maybe a dozen steps before she felt the wall in front of her. Yes, she thought, this is where his footsteps begin to fade. She moved her hands over the rough wood, testing, touching—until a section of wall gave beneath her hands.
A door.
She stepped through, and knew at once by the musty smell of old clothes that she was inside a closet. Her guess was confirmed by a rattling of wire hangers as her shoulder brushed against them. Further exploration brought her in contact with a couple of cloth coats still hanging on the rack. She pulled what felt like the larger of the two from its hanger and put it on. It was snug across the shoulders and the sleeves were too short, but as far as Ellen was concerned, it was as welcome as a luxurious mink.
Slowly opening the closet door, she peered into the hallway. By the shaft of moonlight coming through the tall window at the end of the hall, she could see faintly.
Every silhouette was a beast crouching, ready to pounce.
No, not a beast. Just a high-backed chair, an old trunk. Calm down. Easy. You can do this, Ellen. You can get away.
Warily, she stepped into the hallway. She held her breath. Objects came gradually into clearer focus as her eyes adjusted to the semi-darkness after the total absence of light. She could make out the doors leading off the hallway on either side.
The stairway was to her right.
She was about to descend the stairs when she heard the heavy thud of boots on the lower floor. For an instant, like a deer caught in the glare of headlights, she froze, her mind flooding with panic. Quickly, she ducked into one of the rooms.
By now she was soaked in perspiration, her body screaming in pain. Her heart was hammering so hard it seemed as if at any second it might fly straight out of her body.
Unable to take another step, she sank to her knees and began dragging herself past the three remaining iron-framed beds into the farthest corner of the room, where moonlight did not reach. Huddled there like a frightened, wounded animal, trembling inside the moldy coat she clutched about her, she tried to make herself as small as possible.
And listened.
And waited.
Thump!
Yes. He was coming up the stairs. She pressed her back hard against the wall and felt the cold pouring through.
Thump! Thump!
He was nearly at the top now. She sensed something different in his step. A calculated slowness. Measured. Anticipating. He was coming for her. She knew it as she knew her own name.
He was coming to kill her this time.
Fifty-one
Myra sat on the edge of the bed staring at her reflection in the mirror as if it were not one familiar to her. In a way, it was a stranger she was seeing. There were gaps missing from her life—whole chunks she couldn’t remember. This thing with Jeannie—why couldn’t she remember anything more about Jeannie? She was sure they’d been friends. What happened to her? And what did it have to do with Ellen’s disappearance?
What did I see in the basement?
I’m trying too hard. Just let the memory come, Myra. Let it come.
She closed her eyes.
Suddenly, she was back in the Evansdale Home sitting with the other girls at the dining room table. They were having breakfast. Miss Mattie has come into the room. She is tall and frightening in her black dress. Her long face is hard beneath the red wig. Her voice sharp. "I have distressing news. The new girl, Jean Perry, has run away. The police are combing the countryside looking for her. She is a worthless girl and you will all forget about her. Her name is not to be spoken on these premises. She is not to be discussed either among yourselves, or with anyone else. Any girl caught disobeying will answer to me."
I watched her go out of the room, heard the whisper of her black skirt, saw that stiff, unyielding back and I
knew she was lying. Jeannie had not run away. But I obeyed the order. I forgot about her. For all these years I forgot about her.
And then Myra remembered something else. A few days before Miss Mattie’s announcement, Jeannie had told her a secret—an important secret. One that had frightened both of them. What was it? But all she remembered of the secret was the fear she saw on Jeannie’s face when she was telling it.
"Myra? Are you all right?"
She turned to see Carl standing in the doorway. "No, Carl," she said, her hands going to her head. "I really don’t think I am."
~ * ~
They now had a name to go with the face. APB’s were issued around the country for possible serial killer, Alvin Raynes. Law enforcement agencies were in close contact with one another, cooperation at a maximum. In Augusta, Alvin’s name showed up on a computer. At sixteen, he’d been charged with rape with violence. Later the charges were dropped. The girl said she’d lied, that she’d consented to have sex with him. Mike didn’t think so.
By all accounts, they should have apprehended Alvin by now. The problem was they still had absolutely no idea where to look. He wasn’t in the city directory, had never applied for a credit card, not even a driver’s license, which had to mean he was operating under an alias. All efforts to trace him fizzled out.
They were back where they started. Which was exactly nowhere.
He rose from his desk, his hands clenching and unclenching. He paced. He sat down again.
Frank’s analogy about the guy who jumped on his horse and rode off in all directions didn’t really fit Mike. He felt more like he was running in place.
Gabe had managed to track down an elderly landlady who had once rented a flat to the Betts. A copy of his notes were in front of him on the desk. Mike reread them, thinking he might have missed something important.
"That wretched old devil made all their lives miserable. No summer camps for those two children, no sir. They were lucky to have shoes. He used to beat those little tykes unmercifully—and didn’t spare no rod on his missus. It’s probably why the poor woman’s head went bad. He was a mean drunk, Ralph Betts. It was a happy day when he left; too bad he did it too late. The children were in and out of foster homes half the time cause she wasn’t able to look after them properly. I heard the girl—Tracy—took off for greener pastures as soon as she was old enough. Pretty little thing. I don’t believe the boy fared too well—a lot like his father. Like they say, ‘The apple don’t fall too far from the tree’."
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