For some reason, Tom was hesitant about calling Carson. His gut told him to call Winward’s bluff.
“I’ll wait.”
“Tom, no. He needs to be here,” Kelly said in alarm.
“Kelly, I want to hear what these men have to say.”
Hayes looked at Tom with interest. “Mr. Shear, I’m curious about something. Why haven’t you claimed your innocence? Most people in your position, whether they were innocent or not, would have stated as much from the start.”
“What good would it have done?” Tom asked, shrugging his shoulders. “I can see the way things stand as well as you. All of the evidence points to me. In order to proclaim my innocence, I have to be able to prove it.”
“Can you?” Winward asked. “Prove it, I mean.”
“At the moment, no. But I think I know someone who might be able to shed some light on the subject.”
“Who?”
“Merideth Chandler.”
Winward was silent a moment, then he asked, “How? She was interviewed during the initial investigation and could tell us nothing.”
“Maybe she wasn’t asked the right questions. Maybe she knows more than you think.”
“What do you mean?”
“Everything that’s happened seems to stem from the house I bought from her. Wasn’t it a rental property?”
“Yes.”
“Who rented it before Theodore Chandler’s death? How long was it in their possession? Did Chandler make regular visits to make sure it was being maintained properly?”
“Those questions have already been answered,” Winward replied. “The house remained vacant for several years before it was rented to a man who made his permanent residence overseas. He’d only planned to use the house once or twice a year when he came to the US on business. Unfortunately, he died of an apparent heart attack before his first visit.”
Tom looked thoughtful as he started to pace. “So, the house was never actually occupied,” he said. “Who handled the arrangements? Did Chandler have the rental contracts drawn up or hire a broker?”
“I’m not sure,” Winward admitted, studying Tom’s absorbed expression. “Why?”
Tom stopped pacing to face the detective. “The answer to that should be obvious. If the house was to stay vacant, but under contract, it would give the killer the perfect opportunity to commit and conceal his crime.”
“How are you so sure that that house is where the crimes were committed?” Winward asked.
Tom stopped and impaled Winward with a measuring look. “Because of what’s happened to me since I moved in.”
“Which is?” Winward’s eyes followed Tom into the kitchen and watched him gather a brandy decanter and glasses. Then his gaze fell to Kelly, where she sat motionless in the corner of the sofa. Her legs were curled beneath her, her head lowered in thought. She released a silent sigh and closed her eyes, but not before a hint of morose knowledge could be seen in their troubled depths.
“If I answered that question,” Tom replied with a hint of a smile, “you’d be ordering a straightjacket before I had a chance to finish my drink.” He handed a snifter of brandy to Kelly and winked encouragingly. He then filled two other glasses and presented them to the detectives.
Hayes took the offered drink and swirled the amber liquid under his nose. Winward declined.
“No thanks. I don’t drink on duty.”
Tom snorted in mocking amusement. “Take it and screw duty. If I tell you what you want to know, you’ll be glad you have it. You might as well have a seat while you’re at it. Apparently, you’re not going to be leaving anytime soon.”
Hayes gave truth to Tom’s last statement by pulling a chair away from the dinner table and turning it to face the den. He sat, sampled his brandy, then placed the glass on the coffee table. He crossed his arms over his immense chest and leveled his dark, steady gaze on Tom.
Winward smiled indulgently. He accepted the glass, but refrained from sampling its contents.
“Mr. Shear, because of my profession, I’m well beyond the point of being shocked by anything.” He watched Tom raise his own glass and take a slow sip. “But I have to inform you that anything you say can and will be held against you in a court of law.”
“Are you making a formal charge?” Tom asked. He leveled his inquiring gaze on Winward.
“Not at the moment. I just wanted to make you aware of my position here.”
“Oh, I’m fully aware of your position, Detective. The thing is, something is happening to me that I don’t fully understand. It goes beyond everything I was ever taught or believed in. The only thing that hasn’t been turned upside down by this experience is my gut feelings, my instincts. And right now, only God knows why, they’re telling me to trust you.”
“Why? Because I haven’t placed you under arrest?”
“Partly,” Tom answered. “But I have to ask myself, why? There’s certainly enough evidence against me to warrant the action. So, why haven’t you? I must’ve asked myself this question a dozen times tonight. Then it occurred to me. I remember reading where the commissioner himself made the announcement that officially closed the investigation after Chandler’s suicide. That being the case, it could only mean one of two things. Either that announcement was only a ploy, or you’re working a renegade mission.
“Now I’m thinking, if it was a ploy, why are you hesitating about performing your civic duty? You could’ve at least taken me down to the station for questioning. Your actions speak for themselves, Detective. Obviously, you weren’t satisfied with the way things turned out, so you decided to do a little investigation on your own. Am I right?”
“Mr. Shear, your deductive reasoning is admirable.” Winward sat in the overstuffed chair and made himself comfortable. He placed his glass on the table beside him. “You’re correct in assuming that we weren’t satisfied with the way things were wrapped up. As far as I was concerned, there were too many unanswered questions. There still are.”
“Such as?”
Winward gave Tom a wry smile. “I thought we were the ones asking the questions, Mr. Shear.”
The corner of Tom’s mouth quirked. “Still playing cat and mouse, are we?”
“Not at all,” Winward replied. “I’m just waiting to hear why you’re so sure the house is where the murders took place.”
Seconds passed before Tom began to speak. He started at the beginning and told them everything. He watched Winward’s expression turn from passive interest to incredulity, then from incredulity to disbelieving humor. Hayes had shown no emotion at all.
Winward remained silent, pursing his lips in thought. After a moment, he sighed deeply and looked up to study Tom’s cool demeanor.
“Mr. Shear, there was a portrait omitted from your collection.”
“Kathy Packard.”
Winward nodded and held Tom’s gaze. “Can you tell us why?”
“No, but I can guess. I think it’s because her body was found.”
“So, you think that’s the reason behind the . . . hauntings? They can’t rest until their bodies are found?”
Tom shrugged. “Can you think of a better reason? Besides revenge, that is.”
“I might.”
Tom chose to ignore the provoking remark. Instead, he held his silence and watched the detective over the rim of his glass.
Winward acknowledged the challenge in Tom’s eyes with a shrewd smile. “There was a portrait in your collection I didn’t recognize. I take it that’s the little girl you referred to as Emmy?”
“Yes.”
“And she was the first to appear?”
“That’s right.”
“So you’re saying we have nine victims instead of eight.”
Tom shrugged once again. “Maybe. Maybe not. I don’t have all the answers, Detective. I can only tell you what I know.”
“What you know?” Winward shook his head and spouted an incredulous chuckle. “You actually expect us to believe that story?”
> “It’s true.” Kelly voice was a mere whisper. She had remained motionless until this point. “We ought to know,” she said. Her eyes glistened with tears. “We’re the ones they’ve chosen. I have to live with their presence every agonizing moment. I can’t sleep because of the nightmares.” A tear slid down her cheek and she swept it away in rising anger. “Of course you don’t believe. You haven’t seen. You haven’t felt what we’ve felt. But it’s true.” Kelly visibly struggled to remain calm. “Tom didn’t commit the crimes you’re accusing him of, Detective Winward. Everyone who knows him can tell you that. Even the victims.”
Clearing his throat, Hayes rubbed the stubble on his chin, making a raspy sound. “Mr. Shear, who would have had access to your business cards?”
Tom’s heart had constricted as he’d watched Kelly go head-to-head with Winward. He wanted to hold her, but turned to Hayes instead. “I had them printed before the opening. Any number of people had access to them,” he said. “Why?”
“Detective Winward received an interesting note this morning telling him to check out your Kingston address. The envelope also contained a Shear Gallery business card.”
Tom stilled and his jaw grew hard.
“The fact that I grew up in Kingston is no big secret. Though my grandparents and Mrs. Padgett are the only ones who know firsthand about the abuse. That is, until I was forced to tell Jonathan Fields and Russ Carson. The only other people I can think of that might have an interest keen enough to dig it up are Craig and Michael Raymond. I had dinner with them last night to discuss a business proposition, and Craig Raymond seemed very interested in my background.
“They’ve also been very adamant with their interest in the Rage collection. They offered to buy it twice, each time raising their offer considerably. Another thing, they both knew Theodore Chandler.”
“Really?” Winward smiled in pleasant surprise. “Now, these are the kinds of facts I can believe in, Mr. Shear.” Disregarding his earlier statement, he picked up his brandy glass and raised it to his lips, leveling his shrewd gaze on Tom.
“I don’t blame you for not believing me. I know how it sounds,” Tom said. “Jonathan didn’t believe me either. Oh, he said he did, but only because he knew I believed.” Tom chuckled with humorless mirth. “Seeing the spirits of Vicki Martin and Amanda Sawyer took care of that.”
“I think it’s time to have a chat with Mr. Fields.”
“I’ll make it easy for you. I’ll have him meet us at the gallery. That is, if you’ll trust me enough to do so. I’ve got something to show you that you might find interesting.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The bright, chilly day had grown cold and overcast with the lowering sun. Dampness hung in the black, night air and seeped to the bone if one was exposed too long. As Tom pulled into the driveway, a light mist began to fall. It grew into drops and pinged against the car with a mixture of frozen precipitation. He moved slowly forward, then felt Kelly’s hand upon his arm. He drew to a stop and turned on the Jag’s wipers, making the minute ice crystals melt as they were pushed to the sides. He followed her transfixed gaze to the house.
The long, narrow windows flanking the front door were softly illuminated from within by the foyer lamp. The remainder of the house was dark. It seemed to have an air of alertness, like it was waiting for its living occupants to return and stir the life within it.
“It feels like it’s been waiting for us,” she said, verbalizing his thoughts.
As they sat in the warmth of the Jaguar, all was quiet except for the freezing rain and purring engine. Suppressing a shiver, Tom pried his eyes away, pulled beneath the colonnade, and turned off the engine. Lights stained the rearview mirror as Winward and Hayes pulled in behind.
“Why aren’t you parking in back?” Kelly asked.
“It’s raining.”
“So?”
“You don’t need to be out in this mess. Besides, that’s what this thing’s for, to protect damsels. I might as well get some use out of it.”
She gave him a knowing smile and ran her fingers along his sandpaper jaw. “You’re sweet, Tom.”
He scoffed, then gathered her hand in his and pressed her fingers to his lips. “Speaking of protecting, I still don’t like the idea of you being here,” he said, watching the headlights behind him blink into darkness.
“Tom, we’ve been over this.”
Kelly pushed her door open and stepped from the car before he could say anything further. With a sigh of resignation, he escorted her to the front door as the two detectives followed. The icy rain grew heavier and the ticks and taps as it fell grew louder.
“Jonathan should be along any minute,” Tom said, looking at Winward before inserting his key. “He’s already seen what I’m about to show you, so there’s no reason to wait.”
Winward gave a silent nod and entered the house behind Kelly and Hayes. Tom closed the door then started to punch in the security code to deactivate the alarm. The alarm wasn’t activated. He looked at it perplexed.
“I know I—”
“Tom?” Kelly’s voice shook.
Dreading what he might find, he turned. Hayes and Winward stood motionless. Tom’s scalp crawled as he followed their transfixed gazes and looked into bruised, sunken eyes.
The sight of a juvenescent image staring at Tom from the somber darkness of the hallway made his heart lurch, and he was momentarily spellbound as a small arm lifted to motion him forward. Her short, honey blond hair was stringy with sweat and grime. She wore purple shorts and a violet print white T-shirt, both spotted and smeared with blood. The left side of her small pixie face was swollen where she’d been beaten. Blood trickled from her nose and oozed from her left thigh. Ugly, reddish-purple bruises blotched the delicate skin of her arms and legs. Her dirty feet were bare.
Tom swallowed past his restricted throat and forced his feet to move. “Stay here, Kelly,” he ordered, keeping his eyes leveled on the little girl. “You two stay with her. Don’t let her out of your sight.”
Obeying the silent summons, Tom stepped forward and watched the little girl turn into the oppressive shadows beside the main staircase. He was vaguely aware of Winward being beside him, and for once, was glad of the man’s presence. The darkness deepened as they approached the looming kitchen door. Tom’s heart pounded as the little girl peered at him over her shoulder, then stepped through the closed door and vanished.
Tom pushed the door open and saw the light he’d left on over the stove. The little girl stood in the corner watching. As he stepped through, hissing reached his ears just as a sickeningly sweet smell filled his nostrils. His eyes widened in horror.
“Gas,” he said. “Hayes! Get Kelly out of here, now!”
Tom rushed for the controls of the stove as Winward shoved open the windows. They headed for the back door and left it open to help ventilate the gas-filled room. Standing on the stoop–gasping cold, clean air—they peered back inside.
“Look,” Winward said, pointing to a small device on the table. “I’ll know more after I get a closer look, but it looks like it’s rigged with a timer. Someone knew what they were doing.”
Tom glowered over Winward’s shoulder. “What is it?” he asked, his voice calm, almost monotone.
“My guess is that it’s some type of detonator. With the gas, one spark from that thing would have leveled the place. The guys in the lab will be able to tell us for sure though.
“Come on,” he said, moving across the patio toward the walkway. “Hayes needs to know what’s going on.”
“You go ahead,” Tom said, propping the glass storm door open. “I’ll open a few more windows and meet you out front.”
“You shouldn’t go back in there until the gas has cleared.”
“I’ll hold my breath,” Tom said with a smirk. “That detonator thing, will it explode?”
“I don’t think so. I didn’t see any explosives. I think its purpose was to create a spark to set off the gas.”
; “You don’t think so,” Tom repeated. “Great. That’s just great.”
Gathering his resolve, he stepped back inside. He used a chair from the kitchen table to hold open the interior swinging door to help disperse the gas, then slid the window’s open in the room of Ice.
Hurrying across the hall beneath the main staircase, Tom entered the darkness of the Rage gallery and was stunned as a sudden blow to the back of his head sent him to his knees. Instinct and training took over as he threw up his arm to avert the next strike, which turned his body in the assailant’s direction. Deflecting the attack, Tom growled in fury and heaved himself forward, tackling the man to the floor. A grunt was forced from his aggressor as the full impact of Tom’s superior weight came down on him, then the man began to choke as Tom gripped his throat with one hand and dealt several brutal punches before being forced off balance and shoved to the side. Scrambling to stop the man’s retreat, Tom made it to his feet before his reeling senses drove him back down to his hands and knees. Panting, with his head hanging limp, he was dimly aware of running feet thumping across hardwood, then a shout from outside. He flinched at the popping sound of gunfire.
“Tom! Where are you?”
Kelly’s frantic voice had barely penetrated the buzzing in his ears when the red room was suddenly flooded with blinding light.
“Kelly! Marsha! In here!”
Trying not to vomit, Tom squinted against the harsh brightness as Jonathan helped ease him back against the wall. His scowl darkened when he saw that his paintings had been replaced by bad imitations. The original, frameless canvases were stacked against the wall, ready for transport.
Kelly was by his side in an instant. “Are you all right?” she asked, rubbing the tousled hair from his brow.
“I’ll be okay.” His voice was a hoarse whisper. “Just give me a minute.”
“Marsha, I need a towel,” Jonathan said, kneeling down to examine Tom’s bleeding scalp.
As Marsha sprinted from the room, Winward entered. His grave expression deepened at the blood soaking Tom’s dark hair and collar.
Portrait of Rage (The Marcel Experience Book 1) Page 21