When the doorbell rang, Tom came awake with a start and saw that Kelly was still sleeping. He eased himself from the bed and heard Jonathan’s voice as he closed the bedroom door.
“Where’s Tom?”
“He’s resting with Kelly.”
“Tom’s right here,” he said, smiling.
“Hey, that’s a genuine smile,” Jonathan stated, pulling off his coat. “I take it Kelly’s improved?”
“She has. She even managed a little soup.”
“That’s great.”
“What are you doing here? I thought you were out researching the house.”
“Things didn’t exactly turn out the way I planned. You wouldn’t believe the day I’ve had. Things were getting so bad I threw up my hands and came home.”
Marsha took his hand and led him to the sofa. “What happened?”
Jonathan sat down with a thankful sigh and placed a possessive hand on Marsha’s jean clad thigh as she sat beside him, tucking her socked feet beneath her. “To begin with,” he said, “things took longer with Russ than I expected. After I told him what happened, he had me looking through case files for anything that might strengthen his defense. He was astounded that he might be able to use Winward and Hayes as defense witnesses.”
Tom’s laughter was condescending as he sat down in what he now thought of as Winward’s chair. “I’ll bet. What did he have to say about Kelly?”
“Not too much, actually. Only that he doubted he’d be able to use her because of her mental state.”
Marsha gave a dainty snort and rolled her eyes. “How sweet. That just positively oozed with sensitivity.”
Tom refrained from commenting.
“He’s not paid to be sweet, darlin’,” Jonathan replied.
“Maybe not, but he could at least show a little compassion.”
Jonathan hung his head as if he were counting to ten, then lifted his face with a pasted smile. “Where was I?”
Tom hid a grin. “You were just leaving Carson’s office,” he said.
“Thank you. I was sitting in bumper-to-bumper traffic when the car starts overheating and I have to beat my way to the curb. Can you believe it? Thirty degree weather and my car overheats.
“Well, thank the man above for cell phones because I had no trouble calling a tow truck. The only problem was that I had to wait almost two hours for the nitwit driver to show up. He hauled me to a garage and an hour and a half later, another nitwit that called himself a mechanic showed me a busted radiator hose. He told me the part would have to be ordered and that it’d be a couple of days before he could replace it. By then, I only had an hour before the registrar’s office closed, not enough time to do any real digging, so when it started spitting snow, I got out while the getting was good and paid a cab driver forty bucks to bring me here.”
“How could you have a busted radiator hose?” Marsha asked. “The car’s practically brand new.”
“The mechanic, if I may be so loose with the term, said it was probably cut by road debris.”
“It was cut?” Tom knew he was being paranoid, but the fact that Jonathan was kept from reaching the registrar’s office made him uneasy.
“Road debris can be nasty stuff.” Jonathan held Tom’s gaze. Tom gave a nonchalant shrug and let it drop.
“I guess this means we’ll have to carpool for the next couple of days,” Marsha said.
“Nope. I intend to reserve a rental. We can pick it up on the way home. If the weatherman can be trusted, we might need a four wheel drive. We’re supposed to get several inches of snow in the next couple of days, if you can believe that. Which I can,” he said with a disgusted scowl. “What I want to know is what happened to global warming? It feels like January out there. We haven’t needed heavy coats this time of year for over a decade.” He shook his head looking like a sullen little boy. “I hate cold weather.”
Tom chuckled, watching his friend’s animated expressions. “I can’t help you with the weather, but you can always use my car,” he offered. “It’s the least I can do, considering you’re out forty dollars because of me.”
“But what about Merideth Chandler?” Marsha asked. “How would you keep your meeting?”
“I’d use Kelly’s Lexus if I had to. But hopefully you’d be back by then. Unless of course, taking the time off is going to cause a problem for you.”
She dismissed Tom’s concerns with a wave of her hand.
“Meeting? What meeting?” Jonathan’s ears perked at the first mention of the elusive Merideth Chandler. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Marsha smirked. “And what, interrupt your rant about the weather? He hasn’t exactly been given the chance, now has he?”
“When is it?” Jonathan asked, ignoring the woman by his side.
“Tomorrow morning. Nine o’clock.”
“Do you want me to tell Russ?”
“No,” Tom stated emphatically, shaking his head. “I intend to handle this one solo.”
“Not without me, you’re not.”
“Jonathan—”
“Look, Tom. I’m already into this thing up to my receding hairline. If you think I’m going to miss a meeting with Merideth Chandler, you’d better think again. Besides, you may need a witness to the conversation. Can you think of anyone better?”
Tom heaved a sigh and rose from his chair. He walked to the window and looked out.
“You didn’t happen to see our watchful friends outside, did you?”
“Come to think of it, no,” Jonathan answered as he stood and walked over to stand beside Tom. “Why?”
“Because, unless they’ve changed tactics, they’re gone.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
The crowd in Towne Center Mall was growing thinner. Everyone around him were either customers hurrying to make last minute purchases or clerks in a rush to ring up last minute sales. Some of the smaller merchants had already engaged metal security gates across store entrances with the lights behind them dimmed. Colorful vender carts lining the mall avenues were closed down and empty, their merchandise put away until morning. No one bothered to notice the dark-haired, bespectacled man wearing white coveralls, a blue Atlanta Braves baseball cap, and latex gloves pushing a broom.
He scanned the people around him and saw a frazzled woman pull a stroller to a stop. The blond bangs fringing her brow barely concealed the frown between her eyes. As the child inside the stroller wailed, she searched the contents of a diaper bag. The blond haired, blue eyed little girl by her side squirmed as she pulled on the woman’s sleeve. His gaze turned to the child with incisive precision.
“Mommy, please,” the little girl begged. “I have to pee.” “Shush. Do you want everyone to hear?” The woman looked around to see if anyone was watching. “You’ll have to wait until I go into this store and buy the shirt for your daddy that we saw earlier.”
“I can’t,” she whined, squeezing her knees together as she bobbed up and down. “I have to go now!”
“Brenda, please. In a minute.”
“Why can’t I go by myself? I know where it is. I can see the sign.”
The woman looked up and realized the child was in true distress as a melodious male voice came over the mall’s P.A. system announcing mall hours. Glancing around, she too saw the restroom sign pointing the way down a corridor a few feet away.
“Oh, all right,” she said. “I’ll pay for the shirt and wait for you right here. But hurry up. The mall’s about to close.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the little girl said, performing one last squeezing bob before scampering away.
“Be sure to go in the right one,” the woman warned. “And don’t forget to wash your hands.” She watched until the child disappeared around the corner, then inserted the nipple of a bottle between the lips of her disgruntled infant.
Repressing a smile, he strolled past the unsuspecting woman as she and the stroller entered the store and traced the little girl’s steps into the corridor. He returned the broom to the j
anitor’s closet and remained behind the cracked open door as voices reached his ears. The clap of multiple heels on tile grew louder and a woman’s laughter echoed hollowly in the deserted corridor. He listened as they passed, hearing the heavy metal door to the employee entrance a few feet away clang open and then click shut as the two employees left the building. Making sure he was once again alone, he removed the chloroform bottle from his pocket and soaked a handkerchief with a small amount. He positioned himself against the wall beside the women’s restroom and watched the door open. As the little girl stepped out, he covered her face with the handkerchief. She fell limp against him without making a sound.
Seconds later, he was through the employee door, jogging through freezing wind and stinging snowflakes toward a non-descript gray Chevrolet. He was alert for mall security and curious onlookers, but the few people he saw hurrying to their vehicles were either wrapped in scarves or had their chins buried in coat collars. No one noticed as he got into the backseat with the child, closed the door, bound her with duct tape, and hid her small body under a blanket. Then he climbed over, slid into the driver’s seat, and started the engine. His cackling laughter rang out as he eased his way from the mall parking lot through accumulating, sludgy snow and into merging traffic.
“Tom, Tom, Tom, Tom,” he repeated in a sing-song voice. “I’m going to enjoy seeing you squirm with this one. You’ll never have the chance to meet with Bitch Chandler and learn the history of the house. I’m even going to make sure you lose your pretty little plaything. That itself will be a joy. Almost orgasmic, I guess you could say.” His laughter exploded and then quickly died. His expression turned snarled and ugly. “Oh, yes. Making that bitch pay will be sheer pleasure.”
As he neared Shear Gallery, he extinguished his headlights and pulled into the driveway in darkness. He drove to the back of the house, away from prying eyes, and checked his sleeping passenger before opening the trunk. He replaced the latex gloves he wore with a clean pair, then repeated the process, double gloving his hands. Two pairs of shoe covers went over his size eleven tennis shoes to help hide their tread and another went into the pocket of his coveralls along with a third pair of gloves. He put a chisel and a small hammer in another pocket, then retrieved bolt cutters and a flashlight and made his way to the shed. The frozen grass crunched beneath his steps and a red flag went up in his brain. He looked back at the path he’d taken and then up to watch the increasing snowflakes dancing in the air as they fell to the ground. He grinned with renewed confidence and turned back to face the shed.
With a grunt, he removed the padlock securing the doors and stepped inside. He avoided shining his light on what was hidden in darkness beneath the wide work table, and located an extension ladder.
At the back of the house, he extended the ladder, climbed to the second floor, and used the chisel and hammer to pry the molding from a pane of glass. It wasn’t long before he had full access to the house. He then returned the tools to the trunk of his car and lifted the little girl to his shoulder.
At the top of the ladder, he passed the child through the window then removed the outer layer of gloves and shoe covers, replacing them with the clean pairs from his pocket. He climbed through, closed the window to prevent any trace of moisture from entering, and wiped the area dry before lifting the child and following the beam of his flashlight up to the attic he recalled so well. After securing the shutters, he turned on the light, put the flashlight in his pocket, and then removed the tape binding the little girl’s tiny wrists. The tape securing her eyes, mouth, and feet he left in place.
He stood for a moment, admiring the little girl at his feet and then sneered. “Count your blessings, bitch. You’ll be leaving here with your life. The others weren’t so fortunate.”
The thought of having to set her free was maddening. Resisting the urge to lash out, he pressed his clenched fist against his sides and turned his back. His attention was immediately drawn to a partially covered canvas, and he stepped over to remove the cloth. His breath quickened and his nostrils flared as he removed another, and then another.
He studied the painting of Chandler’s hanging corpse and recognized the man standing before it. As with the painting of the dark silhouette, the resemblance was remarkable, but the fact that the faces in both paintings were obscured only made him smile.
“Why, Tom. Aren’t you a clever boy? Your imagination is astounding.”
His eyes shifted to the painting of Tom cowering in fear and his smile widened. He couldn’t believe Tom had predicted his own future. He was unable to control his laughter as it shattered the silence. He scanned the attic more closely.
“What other treasures have you got hidden away, Rabbit? Anything I might find interesting?” He pulled the cover from a canvas leaning against the wall and felt as if he’d been punched in the gut.
The face of the woman was flawless. Her brown eyes danced with mischief as her full lips curved in a seductive smile. Her soft, dark hair draped one bare shoulder in waves. The white peasant blouse dipped low, revealing the cleavage of firm, full breasts.
His hand trembled as he stroked the canvas with a lover’s touch. “Mother,” he breathed, and drank in the sight he thought he’d lost forever.
A movement caught his eye. He looked over to see the waking child struggling to sit up. He smirked when he heard her muffled whine.
“There, there now,” he said in a magnanimous voice, carrying the canvas with him as he approached. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you no one likes a whiner?”
As she began clawing at the tape covering her eyes, he jerked her hands away and gave her a rough shove.
“Tsk, tsk, little Brenda. That is your name, isn’t it?” He waited, but the child only quailed and began inching her way backward.
“Isn’t it?” he growled, bringing his palm down hard across her cheek. The blow sent the child reeling and her head hit the wall with a resounding thump.
“Mind your manners, bitch! I asked you a question and I expect an answer!”
As she struggled to push herself into an upright position, he took a moment to regain his composure. When he spoke again, his voice was calm and controlled.
“Now. Shall we begin again?”
The dazed little girl began crying in earnest and he released an explosive sigh.
“Shut up,” he bellowed, “and answer the question. Is your name Brenda?”
The little girl jerked and began nodding her head vigorously up and down, as if she sensed his hand rising to deal another blow.
“That’s much better. Now, Brenda, I’m going to remove the tape from your mouth. If you cry out, I’ll hurt you. Is that understood?”
Cringing, she pressed herself against the wall and nodded. As he stepped forward, her small body flinched with each footfall and he grinned before ripping the tape from her tender lips. Her pain filled whimper was swallowed behind a sob as her small hands jerked up to cover her mouth.
“Now, bitch, how old are you?” he asked, setting the canvas aside.
She hiccupped, holding back another sob, and croaked, “Eight.”
He grinned once again at her ready response. “Well, bitch, my name is Thomas Shear. Can you say Thomas Shear?”
She gave a faint nod.
“Then say it!”
“T-Thom—”
“Thomas Shear!”
“T-Thomas Sh-Shear,” she stammered.
“Again.” He began a march across the floor.
“T-Thomas Shear.”
“Again.”
“Thomas Shear.”
“One more time.”
“Thomas Shear.”
“Excellent! Give the bitch a cigar.” He clapped and squatted in front of her, reveling at the way she cringed. “Now, what’s my name?”
“Thomas Shear.”
“Wonderful!” He rose to his feet. “You’re an astute pupil, Brenda Bitch. And as a reward—” He drew back his fist and punched her in the face. She went sprawling a
nd began wailing hysterically.
“Shut up,” he said softly as he examined the blood on his gloved knuckles from her split lip. “I said, shut up!”
She gulped air, trying to control her crying and curled into a ball on her side.
“Now. I have to leave for a while,” he said, retrieving the portrait as he made his way toward the door. “I want you to be a good little girl until I get back. Do you understand?”
“Y-Yes.” Her little girl voice had grown tiny.
He pulled the flashlight from his pocket, started down the stairs, then stopped and looked back. “If you want to remove the tape from your eyes, that’ll be okay,” he said. “But you have to count to one hundred very slowly before you do. Is that understood?”
“Yes, s-sir.”
“Good,” he drawled and continued his way down the stairs.
He was almost at the bottom when hands shoved him from behind. He fell hard to his hands and knees and his head exploded with pain as he crashed into the opposite wall.
Snatching the flashlight from the floor, he scrambled to his feet, searching wildly, the beam of light jumping sporadically from wall to wall. Seeing nothing, he grabbed up the canvas and ran, then bolted through the study door and screeched as searing pain burned across his torso.
Holding back a sob, he shoved the window open and hauled himself outside, securing the canvas between his knees and the ladder. He leaned back in, retrieved the pane of glass and molding he had left on the floor, then lowered the window and secured the lock with shaking hands. Once the glass was back in place, he returned the ladder to the shed and drove away.
During the drive home, his eyes were wild as he took slow deep breaths to ease his pounding heart. Then he cackled insanely and rubbed the gouged scratches along his chest. He was still chuckling as he stepped into the shower to wash the black dye from his hair.
Brenda’s sobs subsided as she began listening to the silence. When it only deepened, she peeled the tape from her eyes and struggled with shaking hands to remove the tape binding her feet. She stood, scanning the room, then froze, riveted by the frightening paintings in front of her. Carefully sidling around them, she eased downstairs, listening to every nuance of the settling house.
Portrait of Rage (The Marcel Experience Book 1) Page 28