Portrait of Rage (The Marcel Experience Book 1)

by Cynthia H. Wise

“Yes, that’s right. The man was from Europe. I remember Theodore commenting on how it was the easiest money he’d ever made. Then news came that he’d had a heart attack and died. A few days later, Theodore was found.”

  “Do you remember his name?” Tom asked.

  “James Messer,” Winward answered. “We ran a check on the guy during the initial investigation. He did reside in England, and he did have periodic business in Atlanta. We even got a copy of the contract from Russ Carson. Everything checked out.”

  “Did your husband ever handle the contractual agreements?”

  “Oh, no. Even though we had several rental properties, Theodore never wanted to be bothered by them. He had too many other things to deal with, so he left all of that type of business in Russ’s hands.”

  “What about the time before Mr. Messer?”

  “The house was vacant for several years before that. After we moved out, Theodore kept the property up, but never seemed motivated in the direction of renters.”

  “How long did you live there?”

  “Twenty-two years. It’s where we raised our son, Jacob.”

  “Are you acquainted with Mr. Craig Raymond and his son, Michael?”

  “Certainly. Craig, Theodore, and Russ had business dealings for years. Jacob and Michael became great friends. Michael spent more time at our house than he did his own.”

  “So, he actually was very close to your family.”

  “Oh, yes. When things got bad at home he’d come to our house and stay days at a time.”

  “What do you mean ‘when things got bad’?”

  “Have you ever met Craig Raymond, Mr. Shear?” she asked.

  “Yes, ma’am, several times.”

  “Then you know what a dominating personality he has. He was extremely authoritative. He controlled every situation and Michael hated it. His mother was his only bright spot and when she left, it devastated him.”

  “Do you know if Michael Raymond was ever physically abused as a child?” Jonathan asked.

  “Angela would never have allowed Michael to remain in his father’s custody if that had been the case. She left because of Craig’s tyranny. And the many infidelities she’d had to endure over the years. Craig was an insatiable womanizer.”

  “Did any children ever result from his affairs?” Tom asked.

  “There were rumors, of course. Apparently, a little girl had been born. It was said he supported the child even though he never acknowledged her publicly.”

  “Did anyone know who the child was?”

  “Not with any certainty. Everyone had an opinion, of course.”

  “Did you?”

  She held Tom’s gaze. “I had my suspicions, yes. But to voice them would have been nothing more than gossip.”

  “Would you mind voicing them to me?”

  “It all happened a long time ago, Mr. Shear. How could any of this have relevance to the situation at hand?”

  “It might have none at all,” Tom admitted. “But it might help give us a better understanding of the people involved.”

  She was silent a moment, watching Tom. The other men seemed to be forgotten.

  “There was a tragedy. A mother and daughter died. Soon after, Angela left. Craig had become impossible to live with. Michael was only nine at the time, but he gained understanding of what had happened through his parents’ arguments. Of course, he blamed his father for the divorce. And when Craig refused to relinquish custody to Angela, Michael’s resentment only became more embittered. But as he grew older, I think he learned to accept things for what they were. He learned his father’s business, and from what I understand, he’s become quite the entrepreneur.”

  Tom fell silent. He could feel Emmy’s presence swelling inside of him and wondered why. Then he remembered a statement Merideth Chandler had made earlier.

  “Well, I think that just about wraps things up,” Hayes said while taking a menacing step forward. “It’s time to go, Shear.”

  “Mrs. Chandler, you told Detective Hayes that you’re a firm believer in the paranormal,” Tom said, ignoring Hayes’s stolid advance. “Twenty-two years is a long time to live in one place. Did anything happen to you in that house?” From the corner of his eye he saw Hayes stop, put his hands on his hips, and hang his head.

  Merideth Chandler looked down at her entwined fingers before meeting Tom’s eyes with a direct gaze. “There was a presence. I could feel it. Lights would turn themselves on and off. Objects would be moved from where I’d left them. And I heard things when I knew I was alone in the house. I told Theodore, but he didn’t believe me, so I never mentioned it again.”

  “What things did you hear?” Winward asked.

  “Crying. A child’s sorrowful crying.” Merideth Chandler took a deep breath and began to study the hands she held clasped in her lap. “She only appeared to me once. But she was always there.”

  “Did you ever know who she was?” Tom asked and held his breath.

  “Oh, yes,” she stated, looking up. “I knew exactly who she was. The woman Theodore bought the house from had a little girl who died tragically when she fell down the well at the back of the property.”

  “Well? What well?” he asked.

  “It was no longer used and an obvious hazard, so Theodore sealed it with a slab of concrete and built that large out-building over it. He intended to have it filled in, but never did.”

  Tom exchanged a questioning glance with Winward. “What else can you tell us, Mrs. Chandler?”

  “There’s nothing left to tell, really. After her little girl’s death, Mrs. Carson just gave up. She sold Theodore the house and then committed suicide.”

  An electric shock seared the room.

  “Did you say ‘Mrs. Carson’?” Winward asked. Excitement brought him to the edge of his seat.

  “Yes.”

  “Would this be Russ Carson’s mother?”

  “Yes, Detective. He found her body. The poor boy was completely traumatized. His hair turned white overnight.”

  “Was the little girl named Emmy?” Tom ventured, already knowing the answer.

  Merideth Chandler looked startled. “Yes, that’s right. Her name was Emily, but her mother called her Emmy. She was Russ’s half-sister. How did you know?”

  Tom bowed his head. When he looked up, Winward was watching. An understanding passed between them. Then he looked over at Hayes. The big man stood staring at Mrs. Chandler, looking shell-shocked.

  Jonathan shook his head in astonishment. “I can’t believe it. I worked side by side with the man. I’m the one who fed him information. I told him everything. The only thing he didn’t know about was this meeting. And if you hadn’t refused him knowing—” he said, looking at Tom.

  “Then he would’ve kept it from happening, just like he kept you from the County Registrar’s Office.”

  “He also knew about our surveillance teams,” Winward replied.

  “I noticed they were missing.”

  “Yeah, well. Someone tipped the commissioner. He had them withdrawn.”

  Winward rubbed his bristling chin. “Did Carson know you were staying with Miss Stafford last night?” he questioned.

  “Yes, he did,” Jonathan stated sourly. “I called him when Marsha and I got home last night around seven o’clock to give him a status report. The son of a bitch acted genuinely disappointed because I’d failed to reach the registrar’s office.”

  “Did he also know what type of security system Mr. Shear had installed in his gallery? And that only the first floor was wired?”

  “Yes,” Jonathan said, disgusted. “I remember the conversation at the gallery after the two of you paid him a visit at his office. Tom was still upstairs with Michael Raymond.”

  “So he knew the house would be empty and he knew the safe way in. It gave him the perfect opportunity to abduct Brenda Kellerman and stage it so everyone would think you did it, Shear.” Winward looked at Hayes. “Don, I think we need to locate Mr. Russ Carson.”

/>   Hayes’s expression had turned lethal. He gave a sharp nod, turned on his heel, and stalked out.

  “What are you saying?” Merideth Chandler looked to each man. “Surely you’re not suggesting Russ Carson is responsible for all of this. If you are, you’re saying he’s a murderer. That he killed Theodore.” She gave her head a vigorous shake. “That’s impossible. Russ was one of Theodore’s oldest and dearest friends. Theodore mentored him after his mother’s death; he helped Russ through college.”

  “Mrs. Chandler,” Tom said, his voice gentle but firm. “He’s the only common link. Russ Carson killed those little girls, and he killed your husband.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  An insistent chirp drew everyone’s attention as Jonathan stood and extracted his cell phone from his jacket. Tom paid close attention and rose to his feet as the blood drained from Jonathan’s face.

  “I’m on my way,” he said.

  “What is it? Is it Kelly?” Tom asked, barely breathing.

  “No. It’s Marsha.” Jonathan began searching his pockets, the concern on his face chilling. “Marilyn said the hospital called. Marsha was in a car accident this morning. They’re taking her into surgery. I have to go. Damn it! Where are my keys?” “Here,” Tom said, tossing them over. “Go.”

  With a jerking nod, Jonathan rushed from the room. Tom watched him go before turning to face Winward. His voice was thick with urgency.

  “Marsha was supposed to stay with Kelly today. If her accident happened this morning on her way there that means Kelly’s been left alone. Will you take me to her?”

  “Hayes and I were there this morning. No one answered the door.”

  “She couldn’t answer the door, Detective. Her condition has gotten worse.”

  Winward’s frown deepened. He gave a quick nod. “Let’s go.”

  “Mr. Shear?”

  Tom felt a hand on his sleeve. He looked down to see Merideth’s lovely face marred by worry.

  “My prayers are with you.”

  He looked deep into her shining blue eyes. “Thank you, ma’am.” He squeezed the delicate hand on his arm. “Thank you for everything.”

  He turned away and caught up with Winward in the foyer as Peter pulled the front door open. Hayes stood outside beside the Impala and watched them exit the house with urgency.

  “What’s going on?” he asked, slipping his cell phone into his pocket. “Fields just tore out of here like a bat out of hell.”

  “Marsha Webster was in an accident this morning,” Winward said, almost leaping down the steps and trotting toward the Impala one step behind Tom. “She’s in the hospital. We have to get to Miss Stafford pronto.”

  He jumped in the driver’s seat as Tom took a place in the back. Then the engine roared to life. Hayes had barely made it inside before they lurched forward, Winward throwing the car in gear and fishtailing, slinging a rooster tail of grimy slush.

  “Did you have any luck locating Carson?” Winward asked, barreling down the long, slick drive toward the intersecting residential street.

  Hayes attached a police emergency light and siren to the roof of the car, then pulled his arm back in and rolled up the window. “No,” he said, securing his seatbelt and bracing himself for the harrowing ride. “He wasn’t in his office, and if he was home, he wasn’t answering his phone. I left messages at both places.”

  Winward jammed the accelerator as he turned on the street, whining tires fighting to gain traction. “Good,” he said, coming up fast on a slow moving car. “Hopefully, he’ll think it’s all routine.” He swerved around the car as it began to pull toward the shoulder of the road and pressed the accelerator even further.

  Hayes cleared his throat. “Mr. Shear, if all of this works out the way I think it will, then I’ll owe you an apology.”

  Tom sat in the backseat with his arms splayed to keep himself from being thrown from side to side. “Detective,” he shouted, trying to be heard over the screaming engine and ear splitting siren, “that’s the last thing on my mind. Just get me to Kelly.”

  At Highway 92, Winward came upon a red traffic light and a row of vehicles waiting their turn to cross the intersection. He slowed and pulled into the oncoming lane. “Shit. I hate doing this. I’m going to get hit head-on one of these days.”

  “You mean you do this often?” Tom asked from the backseat, emitting a nervous snort.

  “No, thank God, I don’t.” Nosing his way to the front of the line, he inched his way into the intersection and a woman talking on her cell phone barely missed taking off the front end of the Impala. “Shit,” he repeated, slamming on the brakes at the same time the woman slammed on hers, causing her minivan to slide sideways, blocking the intersection. Winward began gesturing rudely and yelling for her to move her vehicle. Her eyes widened even more and she dropped the phone. With a death-grip on the steering wheel and a muddled nod, she creeped the minivan forward. Winward pulled around her back-end and sped up through the intersection, turning west on Highway 92. He handled the Impala perfectly as it slid across the slippery asphalt in a graceful arc that ended in the direction they wanted to go. All of the other vehicles had stopped as their drivers watched the drama unfold.

  The six-lane highway narrowed into a divided four-lane as they approached the northern city limits of Marietta. Winward once again proved to be an expert driver as he swerved around late morning traffic and bullied his way through intersections. As they crossed over Hwy 5 in Woodstock, traffic congested considerably. Forward motion was slow and tedious, but they soon pulled onto Interstate 575 and headed south at an alarming rate considering the condition of the roads.

  Tom peeled his fingers from the gouges he imagined he’d left in the vinyl backseat when Winward finally pulled to a stop in front of Kelly’s building. He sprang from the car as soon as a door opened and raced up the stairs two at a time to the second-floor apartment.

  He tried the doorknob, then lifted the mat to retrieve the key. “I left it this morning for Marsha,” he said, his adrenaline spiking as he unlocked the door and pushed it open. When he reached Kelly’s bedroom, he was stunned to see the bed empty.

  “She’s not here. And her blanket’s missing.” Tom turned to Winward. The fear on his face was gripping. “There’s no way she could’ve made it out of here by herself.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  “Positive. She couldn’t even get out of bed, much less leave the apartment.”

  Suddenly, Tom’s expression turned wrathful. “Carson,” he sneered. “He called Jonathan this morning to tell him about last night knowing he would come here to warn me. He knew we would run. And if he caused Marsha’s accident—”

  “That means he wanted her out of the way as well,” Hayes finished.

  “He knew we’d leave Marsha a way in and he took advantage of it.”

  “Our problem is where to start looking,” Winward said. “He could’ve taken her anywhere.”

  “No.” Tom’s eyes reflected the deadly edge in his voice. “He has all of his victims collected together. He’d take them back to where it all began.”

  Carson drove around Shear Gallery to the back of the house and parked like he did the night before. He got out of the Suburban, unfolding a tall, lean body shrouded in long, black wool. Combat boots encased his feet. Closing his eyes, Carson lifted his face to the sun and stood motionless for a moment. The crisp air was alive with the drips and gurgles of snow as it melted from foliage, trees, and power lines and ran from roofs into gutters and drain pipes. When he opened his eyes and looked around, he was pleased to see how much the hedges lining the property had grown during the past year. They obstructed the view from neighbors and his confidence soared as he opened the rear doors of the SUV.

  Kelly’s blue-tinted eyelids fluttered open in the glaring light, but her green eyes remained unfocused. She let out a low guttural moan and he took a lung-filling, elated breath. He let it out in a satisfying huff, then un-wrapped the blanket from around
her body. He watched gooseflesh rise on her skin in the cold air and grinned as her nipples hardened and pushed against the thin fabric of her white, cotton gown.

  “Ah, is the bitch cold?” he asked with mocking concern as he took each nipple between a thumb and forefinger, twisting as he squeezed, relishing the moan of pain he received. “They really are beautiful, you know. I bet Tomboy creamed himself when he first saw them.” Malicious desire filled his cold, gray eyes and he bent lower until his hot breath caressed her ear. “Don’t you wish you had his mouth on them right now, sucking and biting until you squirm, until all of your inhibitions are ripped away?”

  Carson’s expression became a sneering leer as he straightened and grabbed a roll of duct tape. “Forget about it,” he said. “That’s a sensation you’ll never have to worry about again.” He bound her wrists with a long strip of tape, then repeated the process on her ankles. As he placed a strip over her mouth, he looked into her green eyes and saw a moment of intense clarity in their depths before they rolled upward, her lids closing. He shook off the cold finger of unease that traced his spine as he gathered her in his arms and lifted her from the Suburban.

  He found her feeble attempt to struggle amusing as his long stride carried them across the snow-patched back lawn. At the double doors of the out-building, he pulled a door open and carried her inside where he laid her down on the hard-packed, cold dirt floor. Instead of turning on the overhead fluorescent lights, Carson opened the double doors wide so they could lend their late morning light to the two large windows in each of the long walls. Turning back, he stood over Kelly where she lay shivering. He watched her eyes open and saw lucidity; it thrilled him to see them widen with glazed fear.

  “Well, welcome back, Bitch Stafford. Are you among the living now? You’ve been with the dead so long I was beginning to wonder if you would ever come back.”

  Kelly pulled at her bonds and he smiled. “Please, excuse the tape. I’m afraid it’s a necessity. I couldn’t have you regaining your senses and trying to escape, now could I? As far as the tape on your mouth, well, I must admit, your mewling began to get on my nerves.”