Shadows of the Past (Logan Point Book #1): A Novel

by Bradley, Patricia

  Could it be her necklace? Taylor broke her nail as she dug furiously in the wood around the metal. She pulled on the object again, and it shifted.

  “Let me help you.” Nick put his weight against the bracing.

  “Wait,” she said as the pendant slipped deeper in the crack, leaving only the loop visible. She grasped the loop. “Now.”

  Nick pushed, and slowly she inched the pendant upward until it was free.

  Transfixed, Taylor stared at the small object in her hand. “Taylor” was inscribed on one side. She turned it over. “Love always, Daddy.”

  The relentless drumbeat of her pulse pounded in her temples. Taylor’s fingers closed over the gold heart, and she clasped it to her chest, remembering when her dad had fastened it around her neck, his fingers clumsy on the tiny clasp.

  She recalled looking for him so they could go to the airport. Where did he go? She remembered. To the basement to find Jonathan. And she came down here to tell him she was ready . . .

  The stairs were dark. She clutched the heart so tightly the chain broke in her fingers. Then she saw him. Her daddy stood in front of the pool table, his back to her. Daddy! His name froze in her throat. Someone was with him, and they were dancing. Impressions of red hair and flowing clothes flashed through her mind. Who was she?

  Taylor slipped behind the stairs, crouching in the shadows. Where was her necklace? It’d been wrapped in her fingers, and now it was gone. Shouting distracted her.

  “You can’t—”

  “You’re not stopping me!” Her dad’s voice.

  She cringed and slapped her hands over her ears.

  “Taylor! Are you okay?”

  Nick’s voice snapped her to the present. Slowly he came into focus, and her gaze dropped to the pendant in her hand.

  “I . . . I was here that day. My dad argued with someone. Whoever it was tried to keep him from leaving.”

  “Do you remember who it was?”

  She shook her head. “I . . . think it was the woman I see in my dreams sometimes.” She stared at Nick. “I don’t want to think it, but he must have been having an affair. Maybe he saw me hiding behind the stairs and knew he’d been caught.”

  “What else do you remember?” Nick asked.

  Taylor tried to pull the memory out. “There was a pool table here, and Dad stood beside it with his back to me. There was a woman with him. They were dancing . . . no, arguing . . . no . . .” She shook her head. “I don’t know what they were doing or who she was.”

  She turned toward the steps. “I hid here, behind the steps,” she said, pointing to the open stairway. “Even with a light on, this corner is dark.”

  “Did anyone see you?” Nick asked.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “What did the other person look like?”

  Taylor stared where the pool table had been that day. She could almost see the other person. Red hair, loose clothes, then the image disappeared, replaced by someone sitting at the desk that had been beyond the pool table. Was it the same person? Then the memory was gone, leaving only the empty basement. She flicked the light around the room. Nothing but concrete walls, the old fireplace that had been sealed for no telling how long, cobwebs, dust, and the door to the tunnels. Nothing that would unlock her memory.

  Nick walked to the door near the back of the basement. “Where does this lead to?”

  “The tunnels.”

  “As in passageways?”

  She nodded. “Oak Grove was a station on the Underground Railroad, and the tunnels were built to smuggle slaves to the caves near the bluffs, where they could rest for the next leg of their journey. Then they would make their way to the boathouse down at the lake under cover of darkness and be loaded into small boats that carried them to the river and on up North.”

  “Same boathouse we were just at?” He slapped his forehead. “Sorry, stupid question.”

  “Yeah. There are a lot of boathouses on the lake,” she said with a grin as her cell phone chirped, startling her. She dug it from her pocket and checked the ID. “It’s Livy,” she said and answered. “What’s up?”

  “Remember the woman who was murdered the other day? The feds have called everyone in on the case, and I mentioned you to the agent in charge. He’d like you to sit in on the meeting. How about it?”

  “What time?” Taylor was both honored and amazed at the invitation.

  “In forty-five minutes.”

  “Just a sec, Livy.” Could she make it to Memphis that quickly? She covered the phone and looked over at Nick.

  “Do you need to get going?” he asked.

  Taylor explained to him about the FBI meeting, and he said he would hurry her home.

  She nodded and spoke to Livy again. “I’ll try to be there by the time the meeting starts.”

  After she hung up, they climbed the stairs and hurried to the farm truck. “Will it be too late to talk with Scott when I get back?”

  “Call me. I’ll see how he feels.”

  They pulled onto the lane leading back to the house, and Nick turned to her. “So the FBI wants your input. Ever think about going to work for them?”

  She shook her head. “I worked with them in Atlanta on the prostitute murders. I don’t think I can handle the violence an agent encounters day in and day out.”

  “That would be hard.” As they neared the house he said, “Those tunnels. Do you think I could explore them? They’d make a great backdrop for a book.”

  “Sure. Just don’t ask me to go with you.” She shivered. “I wouldn’t be able to breathe down there, but my mom might guide you. Jonathan said she explored every square inch.”

  “I’ll talk to her about it one day next week. And tell Jonathan I’ll call him tomorrow about the land.”

  They parked the farm truck beside Nick’s convertible and got out. Taylor smiled at him. “I hate to run, but . . .”

  He brushed his knuckles across her cheek. “I understand. Just be careful.”

  Her heart fluttered. “I’m sure I’ll be back before dark.”

  Taylor turned and hurried toward the back door, pausing to watch as Nick drove away. She’d been right. He was a good man. One she could see herself trusting . . . maybe even loving. With a sigh, she stepped inside. Her mother and uncle sat at the kitchen table.

  “I’m going to run into Memphis—” Her mom’s red, puffy eyes stopped her. “What’s wrong?”

  Her mom pushed a Memphis newspaper toward Taylor. “This.”

  Taylor’s heart sank as she read the headline. “Cold Case Files—Man Still Missing after 20 Years.” A computer-generated image of her father showed how he would look today.

  “Are you responsible for this?” Jonathan demanded.

  “Of course not.” She scanned the article.

  “We’ve gotten on with our lives.” The same thing Mom said yesterday.

  She skipped down to a quote from Lieutenant Rob Wilson.

  “At the time, Martin’s disappearance mystified me. Man just vanished. The case always nagged at me, and I think I know why now. One of these days I’m going to write a book, and this case will be in it.”

  The reporter asked Wilson to share his solution, but the lieutenant declined. As she read on, she noted several references to her father’s charitable work, probably gleaned from the Logan Point Tribune archives at the library. That was one stop she could put at the bottom of her list. Had there been anything important in the archives, the reporter would have discovered it. She stared at the computer-generated photo. There was a strong resemblance to Jonathan.

  “We weathered it before, we will again.” Steel rang in her mom’s voice.

  “If someone else doesn’t keep it stirred up.” He crumpled the newspaper into a ball. “Enough of this. Did you and Nick look at the land?”

  “That’s where I’ve been. He loved it, said he’d call you tomorrow. And on the way back, we stopped at the old house. Look what I found.” She fished the pendant from her pocket and held it
out.

  “The necklace your father gave you!” Her mom reached her hand out and grasped the gold heart.

  Jonathan leaned forward. “Where did you find it?”

  “Wedged into the bottom step in the basement. The flashlight beam caught it.” Taylor slipped the pendant in her pocket, and a memory surfaced. A birthday party, Jonathan dressed as a clown juggling balls, wild yellow hair. “You . . .” She swallowed. “You were a clown.”

  He frowned. “For a while.”

  Was her uncle the clown in her dreams? “I remember now. My ninth birthday party. You scared me.”

  “You scared me. I was juggling and you started screaming and shaking. I didn’t know what was wrong, but after I changed out of the costume, you calmed down. And I never put it on around you again.”

  “I remember that,” her mom said.

  “I still don’t like clowns.” Taylor checked her watch. “I need to get going, but I hope to be home before dark.”

  “Be sure you do that,” her mom said. “Storms are predicted for later this evening.”

  Nick parked under the oak tree beside the bed and breakfast, his heart aching to help Taylor. Someone out there wanted to hurt her, and she took unnecessary risks, trusted in herself a little too much. Just like Angie. He pushed away the thought, but it would not stay away.

  With a troubled heart, he entered the house through the back door and checked on Scott. He found him burrowed under a quilt, asleep. Taylor still thought his brother was involved in her stalking case, that even if he wasn’t the stalker, he knew something about it. He hoped she was wrong.

  A commotion stirred downstairs, and Nick closed the door before the noise woke Scott and walked to the landing.

  “Kate, where’d you hide my keys?” Charlie Adams’s voice bellowed from below.

  “What are you talking about?” Kate answered.

  “My keys. They’re gone. That pint of whiskey too.”

  Whiskey? Maybe leaving Scott with Charlie this morning hadn’t been such a good idea.

  “Anything wrong?” he asked.

  Kate and her husband looked up at him.

  “She hid my truck keys,” Charlie huffed. Wiry white hair protruded from beneath his Cardinals baseball cap. “Ain’t right.”

  “Charlie, I haven’t had your keys. Or the liquor.” Kate sniffed the air. “Have you been drinking again?”

  “I ain’t ever opened that bottle. Just had the pint settin’ on the dresser. Easier to stay quit when I know I can get it if I want to. You had no call to mess with my things.”

  “For the last time, I didn’t touch your keys. They’re probably wherever that whiskey is. Did you look to see if you left them in the truck?”

  Nick came down the stairs. “I’ll check for him,” he said, glancing at Charlie’s bare feet under his bib overalls. “Where’s it parked?”

  “Right side of the house in the shade,” Charlie said. “Appreciate it.”

  “Next to the oak tree? I parked there five minutes ago. There’s no truck.”

  “It’s gotta be there. I ain’t moved it.”

  A bad feeling started in the pit of Nick’s stomach and spread. “Let me see if Scott knows anything.”

  He took the steps two at a time and didn’t bother to knock at Scott’s door. “Do you know where Charlie’s truck is?” he asked as he burst into the room.

  Scott didn’t move. Nick jerked the blanket away.

  Pillows.

  26

  Blue lights on the side of the road sent ice rushing through Scott’s veins. Surely the old man hadn’t discovered his truck was gone yet. No, the Memphis cop was ticketing a speeder. His relief was short-lived. They’d be looking for him. Soon. He slapped his forehead. “Idiot.”

  Borrowing Charlie’s truck had been dumb. But he couldn’t wait around for them to come and arrest him. He regretted telling Nick he’d been at Dr. Martin’s house that night. If he couldn’t convince his own brother he hadn’t attacked her and that sheriff, Dr. Martin sure wouldn’t believe him. Or the cops. He had to get away.

  Scott glanced down at the pint of whiskey in the seat, still unopened. His fingers shook as he wrapped them around the bottle, desire blindsiding him. No. The last thing he needed was to get pulled over for drunk driving and for somebody to find the gun he’d stashed in the glove compartment. Not to mention he was driving a stolen truck.

  His insides quivered like a strummed guitar. He needed to rest. And his mouth tasted like he’d been drinking with pigs. Should’ve brought a bottle of water instead of the whiskey. An exit sign on I-240 loomed ahead. Perkins Road exit. Wasn’t there a city park somewhere close by? He whipped off the Interstate. Audubon Park. Nick and Angie used to take him there for picnics. A few minutes later, Scott pulled into the entrance to the park and found an empty spot beneath a huge oak. Not many people around. Maybe no one would notice him. He scanned the area and couldn’t find a water fountain.

  Scott slid the whiskey under the seat and rolled down the window, wishing he’d never left Kate’s house. He shouldn’t have run. Nick would be so angry, he’d never help him . . . Dr. Martin wanted to put him in jail . . . but what if she’d only wanted to talk to him? His thoughts chased through his head like a mouse caught in a maze.

  A light breeze wafted through the cab of the truck. His head nodded . . . so tired . . . maybe he’d just sleep, then figure out what to do. Scott nestled his head against the door and slipped into a troubled sleep as Kate’s words whispered in his heart. God loves you.

  “Agent Keller, Taylor Martin,” Livy said.

  Taylor tucked the interview notes she and Livy had discussed for tomorrow’s meeting with Lieutenant Wilson in her purse and held out her hand to the silver-haired FBI agent. Unlike his subordinates, he’d shed his coat and tie. Even so, she sensed a no-nonsense manner.

  “I’m glad you could join us, Dr. Martin. I read the paper you published on the need for a stronger focus on victim profiling. Excellent work.” He checked his watch. “Time to get started. I’ll be interested in hearing your take on the victims.”

  Livy gave her a discreet thumbs-up as they walked toward the door. When Taylor turned the corner, she almost ran over Zeke Thornton. She didn’t know which of them was more surprised. Taylor recovered first. “I thought your conference ended yesterday.”

  “It did, but I got to talking with a couple of the Memphis detectives and found out the FBI was taking over this case. Billy’s handling the investigation back in Newton as well as I could, and I thought I might learn something that would help in other investigations. How about you—you’re not FBI.”

  “Agent Keller invited me.”

  His eyes widened. “I’m impressed.” Zeke licked his bottom lip. “There’s something else . . . I want to apologize for the way I’ve acted in the past. I’ve never thought victim profiling accomplished anything, but after the Coleman case, I figured out I was wrong. Should have already told you.” He offered his hand. “Okay?”

  “Thanks,” she said, accepting his hand. She’d waited a year to hear him admit that. “You want to sit with Livy and me?”

  He nodded toward a couple of detectives. “Think I’ll sit with them.”

  Taylor took the seat next to Livy, then turned off her cell as Agent Keller handed out packets.

  “We have four victims prior to this case. Raped, beaten, and strangled, each murdered in a different state, seemingly random. The only common denominator is they were all prostitutes, and their mouths were glued shut.”

  Ladies of the street were the easiest target. Taylor sorted through the photos and tried to block out memories of the Atlanta case as she focused on the pictures of the women when they were alive—before this monster did his work. She wrote each of their names on her notepad along with a brief physical description. Straight black hair, blue eyes, with ages from early to late twenties. “When and where was the first murder?” she asked.

  “The first murder was ten years ago in New York City.�
�� Keller pinned a photo of the youngest victim.

  Someone else asked about the other locations.

  “Florida, Georgia, Louisiana, and now Tennessee.”

  Her hand stilled as Keller wrote the states on a whiteboard and put a date by each name. She’d lived in four of the five states at the time of the murder.

  “Dr. Martin, do you have any comments?” Keller asked.

  She looked over her notes. “At first glance, the only thing these five women have in common is their looks and occupation. A good percentage of violent crime victims have come in contact with their perpetrator in the past, but I don’t think that’s the case here. I think with these murders you’ll find the connection in his past. He has a mental illness that may or may not be obvious, but at some point in his life someone wronged him, and it triggered emotions he couldn’t deal with. Perhaps a woman he fixated on scorned him, but he wouldn’t kill her because he believes one day she will be his. So, he finds a substitute. These five women had the bad luck of having characteristics similar to the woman he’s fixated on, and they were readily available.”

  “Thank you. Good observations. Questions anyone?”

  Several questions were asked, then Agent Keller moved on to other details of the murders. When they finally took a break, Taylor had five front and back pages of notes, and Keller had asked her opinion twice more. “Whew,” she said to Livy as they stood. “Keller can talk faster than anyone I’ve ever known.”

  “He’s good, all right, but so are you.” Livy glanced toward the photos of the women. “Does the first victim remind you of anyone?”

  Taylor walked to the board where Keller had pinned the photos. There was something vaguely familiar about the victim. All the victims, actually. “Not really.”

  “The way she wore her hair reminds me of you ten years ago.”

  “You’re kidding.” Livy wasn’t and Taylor looked at the photo closer. The woman’s black hair was pulled up in a ponytail, Taylor’s regular hairstyle in high school. She supposed she could see a slight resemblance.