Deathscape

by Dana Marton

  “I don’t really have the series ready.”

  He waved that off. “Even a small glimpse would make me happy. You know I’ve been an admirer of your art for a long time. I can’t believe we keep missing connecting.”

  They didn’t so much miss as were kept apart by Isabelle, who’d worked hard to get Ashley’s work into the top New York galleries and refused to go backward by booking shows at smaller venues.

  Small venues usually went hand in hand with small prices, and a lot of patrons collected art as an investment. When they bought something from you for a certain price, they didn’t want to see that a year later, your paintings were going for half that money somewhere. Made them question their judgment of your talent, which made them look for someone else who might be the next big thing.

  Graham’s gaze clamped on a canvas visible up in the loft, and he strode toward the staircase, then up before Ashley could stop him. “Oh, is that it?”

  He made her uneasy, which probably had less to do with his overly exuberant behavior than the fact that she’d become a virtual shut-in lately, unused to too much company.

  She followed him up and waited patiently as he examined her paintings.

  “You have an excellent start.” He rubbed his chin. “A few minor fixes, some lines adjusted…” He stepped from one picture to the next.

  Annoyance bubbled up inside her. Her lines were exactly where she’d meant them to be.

  “You do have amazing talent.” He turned to her with a calculating look. “I’d be happy to mentor you. As busy as I am, I like finding time to help up-and-coming artists.”

  Okay, he definitely was pompous.

  “That’s a very generous offer. I wouldn’t want to take up your valuable time.”

  He kept the smarmy smile on his face. “When do you think I could pick these up?”

  “My agent schedules my shows,” she told him, then started down the stairs, hoping he would take the hint.

  He did follow her. “Of course. Your very young agent. How good of you to give her a start.”

  Which was a laugh. Isabelle might have been young, but she was absolutely brilliant and knew everyone in the business. She regularly put together shows that attracted celebrities and were covered by the New York Times. Ashley was lucky to have her.

  “I should leave you to your work. The sooner you’re done, the sooner we can talk dates.” He stopped at the front door. “Terrible business with that cop on your property. I hope you’re all right.”

  The absolute last thing she wanted to talk about. “It’s over.”

  “Is it? So they’re not coming around anymore?” His look turned apologetic. “Mystery buff. Have you read the latest Konrath?”

  She shook her head. She painted enough dead bodies; she didn’t want to read about more.

  “I wonder if the FBI made any progress in the case?”

  “They don’t really keep me updated,” she said as she opened the door for him.

  “Of course. I shouldn’t have brought it up. It’s just…well, fascinating. Not as if we have too much excitement in Broslin.” He gave a quick laugh. “I should leave you to your creating. We’ll talk again soon.”

  She was relieved to be able to close the door behind him.

  But she didn’t give herself much of a break. She marched right back upstairs, to the blank canvas that waited for her on the easel. If somehow she could figure out how to force open that dark door to hell, she was determined, no matter what it cost her, to take the trip.

  ~~~***~~~

  Chapter Seven

  The Broslin flea market flourished every Sunday in an old airplane hangar that had been once part of the county airport. The utilitarian space was now divided into about a hundred “shops” that vendors rented on a permanent basis. In the middle, several rows of folding tables lined up neatly. Those could be rented by anyone just for the day.

  Jack stalked around for half an hour, observing the sellers, the buyers, the gawkers, the complete lack of security, before finally heading back to the last row of stalls to the man he’d come to see. He weaved in and out of the crowd. The place was packed, the usual Sunday crowd of gleaners.

  As colorful as a gypsy caravan, he thought, and wondered if Ashley Price had ever painted it. He had Ashley on his mind entirely too much lately. She was a puzzle, and he was a cop. Cops liked puzzles. And yet, deep down, he knew there was more to it. Another time, another place…if he wasn’t what he was. He forced his focus back on his surroundings.

  He couldn’t imagine the place brought much money to its owners, but then again, the upkeep too looked minimal. Conveniences were slim to none, save the two single-stall bathrooms at the end. A questionable-looking hot-dog cart that stood right by the entrance provided the only place to eat.

  He stopped at the stall he’d come for, neat in comparison with some of the others, offering an impressive array of unrelated goods, anything from corn medication to old TVs and even a few used kitchen sinks, right next to a dozen brand-new, in-factory-packaging, luxury, touch-activated faucets.

  “Cold enough out there for you?” the old guy behind the counter, Lenny, according to the beaten-up sign behind him asked with a friendly smile. He wore a KISS ME, I’M POLISH T-shirt that had seen better days. “You know what they say, in like a lamb, out like a lion.”

  Jack rifled through a selection of bootlegged DVDs.

  “Looking for anything particular?”

  He didn’t want to bust the guy for the handful of movies. For the moment, he needed to keep the good will between them going. “Actually”—he looked up—“I’m looking for a good shovel.”

  The smile slid off the old man’s face. “No more shovels.”

  “You sold them all?”

  “No sell, no more shovels.” When the smile came back, it has become decidedly artificial. “I got very good socks.”

  He didn’t have time for socks. Jack flashed his badge. “I’d like to know how many of those shovels you sold before you ran out.

  The man gave up pretending to smile. “I talk to other police officer already.”

  “Tell me anyway.”

  “I don’t like poor man was buried with one of my shovels. I think he wouldn’t want me sell more.”

  Okay, so Mike had told the guy when he’d picked up his own shovel and questioned him. The trouble with rookies was they talked too much. They screwed up a couple of times, that was how they learned, Jack thought without heat. He’d done the same, more than once, before he’d learned better.

  He put on his friendliest face. “I’m the poor man. All I want is talk.”

  Lenny’s eyes widened. “Is he you? The one came back from the grave?” He made the sign of the cross as he glanced back at a faded poster of the Pope among a hodgepodge of signs on the pegboard behind him. Then he looked Jack over with a mix of horror, fascination, and respect. “Is he really you?”

  Jack nodded, only because he hoped it’d make Lenny more talkative.

  The old man reached under the counter, pulled out a shovel still in its plastic wrapping, and handed it over. “No charge.” Then he picked a black bead rosary with a silver cross from a small cardboard box on the counter and held it out. “Gift for you.”

  But Jack barely heard him. He held the shovel, balanced in his hand, his fingers tightening on the folded-up tool until his knuckles went white.

  For a second, he could feel the freezing dirt on his face, and everything inside him went dark. His lungs constricted. Then someone squeezing through the throng of people bumped into him from behind, jarring him back to the present. He relaxed his fingers with an effort, drew a full breath, and looked up at Lenny, who was still holding out the rosary.

  He reached out his other hand and accepted it. “I’d like to talk to you, if you have a minute.”

  “Wish I could remember better.” The man touched the side of his head. “But too many people come every Sunday. Lots of strangers. I only know the regulars. They good people.�
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  He’d be the judge of that, Jack thought, but the twenty-minute chat that followed didn’t net any new information. Lenny did brisk enough business that he couldn’t possibly remember every single customer.

  He did give a list of his regulars, although all he had were first names and descriptions. Still, a start. Jack could give the list to Leila, who’d grown up in town and knew pretty much everybody. She might be able to add last names to some of the people on the list.

  The only person he recognized on the list was Eddie Gannon. Lenny knew him. Apparently, everybody knew Eddie. He had bought a shovel a few months back.

  Time to catch up with the town handyman, Jack thought as he thanked Lenny. He left the man his phone number in case he remembered more, then took his shovel and rosary and walked back through the market.

  Other than Ashley Price, the only clues they had were the shovel, the shoe print, and the shower curtain. He passed by another store like Lenny’s that had shower curtains hanging up front, and he dug through the particleboard bin under the display. He didn’t see one exactly like the see-through one he’d snuck in to see in the evidence room but found one that was pretty close, except with some polka dots.

  He picked that up. He could compare size, material, and brand later. He also grabbed a flyer that listed three other stores the owner had in the area, shoved the slip of paper into his pocket, then stepped inside.

  The store was packed. He looked for boots. If Blackwell had bought his shovel at the flea market, which was still a big if, who was to say his shower curtain and his boots didn’t come from here too. Jack scanned the merchandise, didn’t find what he was looking for, so he stepped to the end of the line in front of the counter with his shower curtain.

  Everyone he saw paid cash, and so did he. He didn’t even ask if they kept customer records.

  If the shower curtain was a match, he’d come back. If not, there was no point in wasting his time here.

  Shovel and shower curtain under his arm, rosary in his pocket, he walked through every single store, and found half a dozen that did sell footwear. He checked the treads of every boot the flea market had, wasting the rest of his morning. Not one of them was a match to the footprint cast on his cell phone.

  Didn’t look like Blackwell had done his one-stop shopping here after all. Would have been too easy. But easy or hard, he would catch the bastard.

  He stopped in front of a booth that sold nothing but snow gear, including a variety of shovels. He picked up a sturdy one for Ashley. Only because she couldn’t lead him to Blackwell if she broke her pretty neck, he tried to tell himself, then gave up pretending. Truth was, he liked Ashley. Not that it meant anything. Like or not, he wasn’t going to start anything with her. He was definitely not the right man for her, and he was too far gone to change.

  On his way out of the place, he grabbed a sorry-looking hot dog and a soft drink, forcing his thoughts from her. A normal life was out of his reach, but revenge wasn’t. That was where he had to focus his energies.

  He ate as he drove, spending the rest of the day checking out over a dozen mom-and-pop stores in Broslin and the surrounding small towns. He didn’t find any other places that sold army-surplus shovels, which didn’t mean Blackwell had gotten his from Lenny. Could have ordered it online or could have picked one up far away from here, on a trip.

  He also stopped by every place that sold boots, hoping he’d luck out with that, but found none with the kind of tread he was looking for.

  Since he didn’t consider shopping fun under the best of circumstances, his mood was pretty sour by the time he finished. Another day wasted without progress. And all this time, Blackwell was out there, laughing his ass off at him, possibly stalking his next victims.

  When he spotted Bing’s SUV in front of Main Street’s most popular watering hole, he pulled over. Maybe they had trouble. He could have used a good bar fight, gotten his frustration out. He walked in with all kinds of hope for a need to restore order, into the din of a drunk crowd. A horribly terrible band played loud enough to raise the dead and make them run for a place that did have some of that eternal peace.

  Instead of being engaged in some satisfying police work—like, say, knocking drunk heads together—Bing was quietly nursing a beer in the back.

  For a moment, Jack considered turning around, if nothing else, to save his hearing. But Bing looked just as pissed as he felt, which appealed to him at the moment, the whole “misery loves company” thing. So he strode through the gyrating, sweaty crowd and joined the man. What the hell.

  Bing’s eyes narrowed as he looked up. “You better not be here investigating something.” Even in the back, he had to shout to be heard over the din.

  Jack lowered himself onto a chair across from him. “No.” He was pretty much done for the day.

  “Good. You should be at home resting.”

  “I was just getting to that.” He grabbed a handful of peanuts and tossed them into his mouth that still tasted like mystery-meat hot dog.

  The waitress came by, smiled at Jack, tilted her head, and gave him a flirty look. “Hey there, handsome.” Her body language held all kinds of invitation.

  At another time, even a few weeks ago, he would have taken her up on that. He wasn’t relationship material, but he wasn’t a monk either. On the occasions when he ran into someone who didn’t want more than he could offer…

  “I’ll have what he’s having,” he said simply and turned back to Bing.

  “I’ll be right back.” She gave some extra swish to her hips as she sashayed away.

  The captain arched an eyebrow but didn’t comment.

  Jack pulled the basket of peanuts closer. “Rough day?”

  The captain drank from his bottle. “Freaking FBI.”

  He leaned closer, instantly alert. “They got something?”

  Bing shrugged. “They can’t catch the bastard soon enough.”

  Amen to that. “He needs to be taken down,” Jack agreed as the beer came, cold and perfect.

  “Listen, I know your sister—”

  “It goes beyond Shannon. Fifteen women.” He shot his captain a hard look. “All young, pretty, between the ages of fifteen and thirty-five. They were abducted in batches. Three in one week, then nothing for another year. Then two women. Then a three-year pause. Then another three victims, within days of each other.”

  Normally, they wouldn’t have discussed a case in public, but the music was loud enough so that nobody could have heard them unless he or she sat on the table between them.

  “So he takes his victims in groups. Why?” Bing asked, getting into it. He was too much of a cop to ignore a good mystery. But he did shake his head after a minute. “Forget it. He almost killed you once. Let the FBI figure it out.”

  “To hell with the FBI.” Jack fisted his hand on the table. “The women in each batch were taken on different days. But what remains were found indicate that each batch was killed at the same time. Why?”

  Bing couldn’t resist a guess. “Efficiency?”

  “They were found in pieces, together, with various body parts missing. As if he took what he wanted and disposed of the leftovers. What did he do with the rest?”

  The captain’s face darkened. “Some sick ritual.”

  “Then there’s me. I don’t fit the victim profile. He had just me. Nobody else. And he didn’t kill me and take me apart.”

  “He meant to kill you. You would have been dead if Ashley Price hadn’t found you.”

  He stared at the bottle as he remembered, cold sweat breaking out on his back. “I was in the tunnel,” he admitted for the first time. “I was walking toward the light.”

  Bing swore and took a swig. “Leave the evil son of a bitch alone.”

  “Wouldn’t matter. He won’t leave me alone now. I’m the one that got away. His ego can’t take that. He wanted me, and I slipped away. He’d been waiting for me. He had a trap all set up.”

  “You got too close.”

&nb
sp; “Not close enough.”

  “Be grateful he changed his SOP.”

  He’d given that some thought in the last couple of weeks. “The women were his victims. I’m different, because I’m something else. I’m his opponent, like in a chess game. That’s why he did things differently with me. Whatever he needed those women for, with me, he just wanted to prove that he’d beaten me, both intellectually and physically. And he buried me alive so I’d have a little extra time to think about that defeat.”

  “A stupid move. You survived.”

  He thought about that for a few seconds. “Yes. He was too cocky. He thinks he has hometown advantage here. He got overconfident.” He shrugged. “Not unreasonably. If Ashley Price hadn’t dug me up, I would be dead. He didn’t count on that.”

  Bing swore. “How did you know he was here, in Broslin?”

  He explained about the spores.

  “You saw the mushroom company? Talked to the workers?”

  “As soon as I got here. Nothing popped.” He drank some.

  “You told the FBI about this?”

  He nodded. When they’d first interviewed him after he’d gotten out of the hospital. They were here now anyway. Agent Hunter didn’t seem impressed by Jack’s theory. He didn’t think the spores meant anything. “The workers alibied out. One or two might have been on vacation when the murders had been committed, but not one has been missing on all the dates.”

  He was going to check on the artist next who’d done those mushroom paintings. The timing lined up nicely. He wasn’t going to tell the FBI about that, not yet. “Hunter thinks Blackwell caught on that I was hunting him and came here to make me stop.”

  “I like that theory. I don’t want to think that the bastard has something to do with Broslin.”

  “I feel it in my bones, Bing. This is his lair, right here.”

  Bing gave a dark scowl. “They’ll get him. Let it go.”