The Eleventh Victim

by Nancy Grace

  “No problem, V.G.” He was again submerged in the intricacies of the Slurpee motor.

  A cowbell hanging on the store’s door clanged when she stepped out into the muggy night. The moon shone down on the 7-Eleven’s gravel parking lot as she made her way to the car. Looking up, she saw the giant arms of the Island oaks stretched out over her, waving at her in the breeze off the water.

  But were they waving hello or good-bye?

  She climbed into the Jeep, slammed the door shut, and looked out into the darkened parking lot before flicking on her brights, just in time to see a rabbit take off into the oaks.

  Palmetto Dunes.

  Damn! How the hell had this snuck into town?

  25

  Reidsville State Penitentiary, Georgia

  CRUISE SAT WAITING IN A HOLDING CELL, SWEAT ROLLING DOWN the side of his face. Two hundred twenty-five pounds of law enforcement standing six-foot-four sat poised just outside the door with a high-powered long gun balanced across his chest, just hoping, Cruise knew, he would try something.

  Yep, the guard was just hoping he could go home that night and tell some little tramp he had to draw his weapon at the prison that day, shoot down a mad-dog killer, save the world.

  Cruise could picture her sitting there in her nightgown listening, all impressed. Then, as he told the story about gunning down Cruise, she’d be so proud. Proud of the sheriff for killing him! And the asshole would probably get a raise and a promotion, and for the rest of his pathetic life he’d tell everybody about how great he was, how brave he was, how he responded in a split-second and gunned down a serial killer.

  Pathetic.

  These idiots at Reidsville pumped iron religiously after work every afternoon, all in the hopes of being buff enough to kick ass in the unlikely event of a jail uprising.

  The penitentiary was constructed in 1936 and in its entire history there had never once been an uprising. But still, they lived for the moment in crisis, or for the paltry alternative…taking on just one inmate in an ill-matched fistfight.

  Well, it wouldn’t be Cruise today. No way would he give these assholes the chance to shoot him dead in the hall. Why was he in holding, anyway? Who the hell wanted to see him? Who the hell had come all the way to down to Reidsville?

  Matt Leonard knew better than to come near Cruise again with his BS. If it was just another visit from some lackey at Leonard’s office, Cruise would bust a gasket. But he doubted it would be. Now Leonard only sent his assistants, and those visits had dwindled to practically nothing. He gave the finger through the glass window at the two that had come down a few weeks ago.

  He hoped to God it wasn’t another preacher, here to save his soul, either. Last time they sent a prison preacher in to rescue his immortal soul, Cruise had spit on him. A big glob right in the face.

  The door opened, and Cruise looked up to see the guard come in. Behind him was another sheriff wearing a tag that said “Processing.” He was soft and white and looked like he was trying to grow a mustache with no success. Huge stains were under both his armpits.

  “Mr. Cruise, if you could just sign here, we’ll get you processed as quickly as possible.”

  Cruise didn’t speak. He couldn’t.

  Obviously, they were here to take him to the Waiting Room.

  Was it time already?

  How could that be?

  Where was his lawyer? The chaplain? Where were all the anti–death penalty activists with their vigils and protests?

  He managed to swallow over the cold lump of dread in his throat, his thoughts racing.

  Shit, didn’t he have another round of federal appeals to go up one more level to the Circuit Court?

  Even after that, wasn’t there a last-ditch appeal to the U.S. Supreme Court in Washington? Not that he expected any favors from that bunch of asses, but he knew it would at least drag things out for a few more years before he hit the Chair.

  Even Leonard speculated the appeals process would take at least eight years. It had only been two. What the hell? They were that hot to fry him? Now he was headed to the freaking Waiting Room? Damn! Couldn’t they at least have told him him ahead of time?

  True, he hadn’t bothered to read the last series of bullshit documents Leonard had sent him. He could smell the bullshit through the sealed envelope. Right this minute it was still sealed, sitting wherever it had landed when he’d shoved it up under his bunk on the Row.

  The clerk cleared his throat. “What are your plans, Mr. Cruise?”

  “What the hell are you talking about, ‘plans’?”

  “I mean, we all agree this was sudden, but where will you relocate…Any idea of a job out there?”

  “Out there?”

  “Well, I assumed you’d head to Atlanta, don’t you still have relatives there?”

  He stared, uncomprehending. “My mother.”

  The clerk nodded. “If you’ll just bring your belongings down to processing, we’ve got three hundred dollars and a Greyhound bus ticket waiting for you.”

  The implication slammed into Cruise like a two-by-four, followed by a tide of pure glee.

  What a monumental mistake. Didn’t they realize who he was?

  He knew enough to say nothing unless he had to, lest he arouse suspicion and make them realize they were releasing the wrong person.

  “Your street clothes are in Property, we still have those for you. And a Bible. Think of it as a gift. From us to you, Mr. Cruise.”

  The clerk smiled thinly, like giving him a Bible was some great favor. Well, if this little twit expected some sort of thank-you, he got nothing. Cruise stared at him, then quickly looked down, afraid the clerk could somehow read his mind if he looked into his eyes long enough.

  He limped along down the corridor, walking slowly, and not just because of his bum leg. His every breath carefully controlled, he kept his eyes down and his mouth shut. Keep walking, keep walking. Keep it together…keep it together.

  This couldn’t possibly be happening. It couldn’t.

  Any second now, they’d realize their mistake and haul him back to the Row. Probably beat the crap out of him, too.

  Cruise kept a wary eye on the guard, who stayed with them every step of the way, gun locked and loaded.

  When they arrived at Processing, another clerk asked, “Did you want any of your belongings that you left back on the Row?”

  “No,” he said simply, quietly. All he had under his bunk were some legal files and the papers he had worked on, outlining why he was innocent, especially of the last murder. And the articles about Hailey. If he made it out the front door, he sure as hell wouldn’t need any of that bullshit with him.

  When he finally stepped outside, he had nothing but the clothes he’d worn at trial, a folder of legal papers explaining his release, three hundred dollars, and a bus ticket voucher worth fifty-five dollars.

  Cruise took a deep, expectant breath.

  The air was not at all as he imagined it would be. During all those nights in a twelve-by-twelve, he imagined the sweet smell outside.

  Bullshit. It still smelled bad.

  He made it all the way down a long cement walk and through two series of chain-link fences with barbed wire coiled across the tops, and he still smelled the funk of Reidsville.

  Would the stench be in his nostrils the rest of his life?

  He said nothing climbing into the prison van, acting perfectly calm. The radio was tuned to easy listening, low and irritating in the background.

  “How’s it going?” the driver asked, and it took a minute for Cruise to realize he was talking to him.

  Cruise remained silent but the guy just kept talking.

  “You come out of a place like that, and it’s gotta be awesome, dude.”

  Cruise managed a tight half-smile.

  “Gorgeous day, isn’t it? Not too hot. That’s how I like ’em. ’Cause when it’s too hot, I sweat. And I don’t like to sweat.” He glanced over at Cruise, like he was looking for an acknowledgmen
t.

  And the guy kept talking. Couldn’t he see Cruise didn’t want to have a conversation? Like they were friends or something?

  He had to concentrate, but that damn music whining through the car speakers was driving him crazy, buzzing around his ears like a mosquito.

  Cruise wanted to look out the window at the roadside, but he had to keep staring down at his hands. They were getting electric.

  The music buzzed, the driver chattered, and Cruise’s hands twitched with need.

  Until the moment they pulled up to the bus station.

  “Well, here we are,” the driver announced, like he was the happiest guy in the whole friggin’ world. Stupid bastard. If Cruise wasn’t in a public parking lot, he’d twist the driver’s head off.

  “Good luck to you.”

  Cruise ignored him.

  He stepped away from the van as if in a dream.

  The van pulled away. He could see the driver glancing at him in the rearview.

  Then it disappeared around the corner and was gone. Cruise waited until it was out of sight before he moved. The music, the chatter, the noise was all gone now. He was alone. Totally alone for the first time in over five years. No cellmate, no warden following his every step as he walked in and out of his cell, no camera trained on him as he slept and ate and shit every day.

  Alone…holding his jailhouse file with the Bible inside.

  Before they could hunt him down and drag him back to the penitentiary, he turned and walked toward the station.

  He stepped inside and was amazed at seeing people milling about, playing video games, and eating hotdogs in the bus grill.

  Stepping up to the ticket counter, he could tell the clerk knew he was straight from Reidsville. Was the haircut the giveaway?

  “Can I help you?” she asked, looking almost smug.

  Bitch. She was fat with too much makeup, and her perfume stank.

  Cruise stared at her neck. It was freckled and fleshy with powder caked on it, same as on her face.

  Nothing like Hailey’s neck.

  In that moment, a surge went through Cruise’s body, starting in his hands and pulsing to his head, his feet, his chest, his legs.

  Cruise was breathing again. A smile crossed his face and he knew.

  It wasn’t a dream. It was all real.

  “Sir, can I help you? Do you need a ticket somewhere?”

  He spoke the first words he had uttered in hours.

  “New York City. One-way.”

  26

  New York City

  “HOW DOES THIS OUTFIT MAKE ME LOOK?” DANA ASKED HAILEY, spinning in circles in her kitchenette as they waited for the morning’s second pot of coffee to brew.

  “Curvy,” Hailey said, and reached out to brush a speck of lint from Dana’s snug blue dress.

  “Curvy-good or curvy-fat?”

  “Curvy-good.”

  “I hope so. There are supposed to be a lot of single guys at this party tonight. Are you wearing those boots, or did you bring dress-up shoes to change into?”

  “I’m wearing these boots…home. After work. And then I’m wearing a pair of socks,” Hailey told her as she took skim milk from the fridge.

  “Party pooper. You said you were going.”

  “I said I might go.”

  And that was just to humor Theresa, one of the therapists who worked down the hall, who had popped over yesterday with an invitation to a housewarming party she and her roommate were throwing.

  “Give me one good reason why you can’t,” Dana said.

  “Because I don’t want to?” Hailey said with a smile.

  “That’s not—”

  “Excuse me,” a male voice interrupted from the doorway.

  Hailey saw Dana light up and looked over her shoulder to see a familiar man dressed in a white coat, a sterile mask dangling around his neck.

  “I’m Adam Springhurst…I work downstairs?”

  “Hi! I’ve seen you around the building…I’m Dana. This is Hailey. It’s her office. I’m across the hall.”

  “Oh, okay…that’s good. Nice to meet you.” The dentist shook Dana’s hand, then Hailey’s.

  There was something so familiar about him…as if Hailey had seen him before…but of course she must have. He worked downstairs. You’d have to be blind not to notice the dark hair, dark eyes, and traces of a tan that spoke of outdoors.

  Dana, looking him over head to toe, held out a mug. “Coffee?”

  A peek at his ring finger revealed that it was bare.

  Not that it mattered to Hailey.

  “You’re probably wondering why I’m here.”

  “To borrow a cup of sugar?” Dana asked him, openly flirting, and he smiled…at Hailey.

  “Sugar?” He recoiled in playful horror. “Do you have any idea what that stuff does to teeth?”

  Hailey couldn’t help but grin, and Dana laughed as if it were the funniest thing she’d ever heard.

  “No, actually, we’ve got a leak in the ceiling right underneath this”—he indicated Hailey’s sink—“and I was wondering if you’d mind if someone came up to take a look at the pipes.”

  “No problem. I’ll be here till six tonight, so…”

  “Great. See you later, then, Hailey.”

  She and Dana exchanged a startled glance.

  “You’re going to inspect the pipes yourself?” Dana asked dubiously.

  “Oh—no. Of course not. Maybe I’ll just come back up and see what the plumber finds. And to say hello again.”

  “Hello again?” Dana echoed when he’d walked out, closing the door behind him. “Did you hear that? What did he mean by that?”

  “Who knows?” Hailey turned away, taking a mug from the cabinet.

  “Hailey! Don’t be so clueless. It means he’s interested in you.”

  “How am I clueless when you’re the one who asked me what he meant?”

  “We both know what he meant. And in the first place, don’t you think it’s a little strange that a dentist himself comes all the way up here to talk about the pipes, check out your office and you? Not one of those old birds that works in his office?”

  “I don’t know…maybe.”

  “I bet there’s not even a leak down there. It was probably just an excuse for him to come up and introduce himself.”

  “That’s crazy.”

  “So you’re not interested?”

  “I hadn’t even thought about it…”

  “So you are interested?”

  Maybe…but she’d never let on to Dana. The next thing she knew, Dana would skip Theresa’s party to stick around here and play matchmaker.

  “You know I’m not looking for anyone, Dana. I don’t want that in my life right now.”

  “If you found the right person, I bet you’d change your mind.”

  Hailey thought of Will. She already found the right person. And lost him.

  “Maybe,” she told Dana. “But I don’t think so.”

  27

  Atlanta, Georgia

  THE GREYHOUND TOOK OFF FROM THE REIDSVILLE BUS STATION, kicking up gravel and heading north in a cloud of dark gray exhaust.

  It was headed directly to its main hub in inner-city Atlanta.

  How many times had he poached the place like a fox…waiting for just the right woman to step off a bus from nowhere? How many times had he lurked a half block away, watching as a new crop of waitresses, hotel domestics, mall sales-clerks, secretaries, and showbiz wannabes hit town?

  The bus stopped and the familiar smell of the hot, congested city’s downtown slinked its way through the heavy automatic doors, stealing all the way to the back row, where Cruise sat at an angle against the bus’s wall.

  It hit him hard…the smell of the heat radiating off pavement, diesel fumes, and something else…something sweet and hot and familiar.

  Downtown Atlanta, where it all mixed together: the heat, the exhaust, the whiff of downtown department stores full of pink-faced salesgirls meandering heavily air-
conditioned aisles…the new steel and concrete sky-rises looking down on old flophouses right next door on the same city block, the smell of fresh boiled collard greens and cornbread served up on dinette four-tops at the cafeteria next to the station.

  He was home.

  Unlike the drifters pouring onto the sidewalk from all corners, this was his town.

  He knew where to go, how to get by, where to have fun, and where to lay low when he needed to…when he was disgusted with the sickening presence of other people. He knew where to find everything he wanted.

  But not now.

  It took every fiber of his being not to walk down the narrow center aisle and down the two bus steps, leave the bus behind, and melt back into his old haunts.

  But instinct told him no.

  Instead, Cruise stayed rooted to his seat, staring down at the gray-and-blue pattern woven into the upholstery, knowing that if he kept looking out the window into the city’s night, he’d walk out onto the sidewalk and fade into the hundreds of drifters milling around the bus terminal. He’d disappear right back into his own world, the world he had known before Reidsville Pen.

  Twenty minutes later, the bus motor churned and they were off again.

  He watched the last streaks of light leave the sky, replaced by total darkness.

  Time seemed suspended as they headed north…far from the city’s core, through the suburbs and cul-de-sacs of cluster homes. Past the ball fields, the shopping malls, the Starbucks, the gas stations. They fell away from the highway like empty husks, like they’d never existed.

  He’d be back…he knew it. He’d pick up his old life again. It was all just a matter of time.

  First, he had business to take care of; business he’d dreamed of for all these years, business that gave him a reason to keep breathing in the cement crate he’d been crammed into.

  28

  St. Simons Island, Georgia

  IT WAS PITCH DARK OUTSIDE, BUT THE MOON WAS SO BRIGHT VIRGINIA could see in clear detail the separate limbs of tall, thin, lanky pine saplings near the entrance to an unpaved two-mile access road that ended at the Island’s southernmost beaches.