by Vella Day
Maggie didn’t understand, but that was all right as long as she wasn’t the one on the table. “Are you a doctor?”
“My credentials are not your concern. Just do as I say.”
At five foot one, she struggled to lift the tall woman, but she managed. All those push-ups had paid off. Sweat beaded her brow, but the exertion helped relax her bunched muscles.
After making sure the woman was positioned in the center of the table, he brushed the dust from his pants. “I want you to understand what I’ve been doing all the time you’ve been in the house. I know you’ll be impressed.”
She could hardly wait. Not. “Sure. Do your thing.”
He narrowed his eyes and flared his nostrils. A hint of regret stabbed her. She shouldn’t have used sarcasm. Too bad. If he wanted to kill her, he would have done so already.
Why couldn’t she suffer from Stockholm syndrome and think he was Mr. Wonderful? Because the monster had killed her husband, the only man she could ever love. Her lip curled, and she wanted to pound the shit out of the guy, but she restrained herself.
CG stepped over to one of the sheets hanging from the ceiling. Was he into theater or something? She always dreamed of being an actress, but she’d rather die than act for this monster. He pulled back the curtain to reveal some kind of stage set.
About ten statues huddled around an upright log. Weird. “What is it?”
“A tableau.” His nose inched up a notch. “I’m exhibiting a different one next week at the Tampa Art Museum.”
She knew he expected her to gush lots of praise, but the words didn’t form. The only thing that made it out of her mouth was, “Wow.”
He beamed. “I knew you’d like it.”
“They’re Native Americans.”
“Yes, like you.”
An imaginary knife pierced her heart. Like her. “Is that why you took me?” She looked closer at the figures. None looked like her, so he hadn’t used her as an inspiration.
He returned and ran a cold, clammy hand down her cheek. “At first. But you became so much more to me. I didn’t have the heart to take your life once I fell in love with you.”
He called rape and capture, love?
CG motioned toward the stool in the middle of the room. “Have a seat. I’ll tell you why these figures are so incredible.” He dusted his jacket again and strode back to the display. “Can’t you see how life like they are? So real, so perfect.” His bottom lips trembled.
As much as she didn’t want to encourage him or be in awe of his talent, she was impressed. “They’re amazing.”
His shoulders relaxed. “Want to guess how I made them?”
Her stomach soured as she shot a quick glance to the woman on the table. Her mind refused to think where his sick mind would go. “I have no idea.”
“They’re real. Isn’t that brilliant?”
She squirmed on the seat. “Real? I don’t get it.”
“Yes, real. As in I covered real people in plaster and wax. It was a stroke of genius on my part when I discovered the process. It’s rather simple really.”
Her heart thwacked against her chest. “You killed people so you could make realistic wax figures out of them?” Unthinkable. Horrific. Insane.
He stepped closer. “It wasn’t like I hunted all of them down and killed them just to put them on display.”
She bit her tongue to keep from lashing out. Nothing she could say would make a difference. The only upside was the longer he talked, the longer she could be out of the damned house.
“Are you an artist by profession?” Maggie forced enthusiasm in her voice.
“Of course, I’m an artist, but I’m also a historian of sorts.”
“You’re a teacher then?” Background information would be useful when she escaped.
“That’s none of your business, but you can think of me as someone who wants to preserve history.” He smiled and looked down at her like she was some small child in need of education. “I want to record the history of Native Americans; how they were treated; what they did to help America.”
“How are you going to do that?”
The moment he looked away, she searched the table in front of her for something to steal, something that would help her escape. Damn. A bag of powder, some plastic knives, and a small can of paint were the only items present.
He paced in front of the tableau and waved a hand at the display. “It’s a long story.”
“I have time.” Boy did she ever.
He dragged another stool from behind the table and sat in front of her. “My mother is, or rather was, a Seminole Indian.”
“You’re kidding.” Whoops. Maybe she shouldn’t have said that. What she was really thinking was what a disgrace he was to her race.
“No, I’m not.” His jaw clenched.
Sore subject. “What nationality was your father?”
“German.”
Did he have issues with being of a mixed race? “So was George!” Not. Try half Mexican, half American.
“That so?”
“Yes.” He didn’t show the excitement she’d hoped. Back to his pride and joy. “How did you pick your first subject?”
Maggie stole another glance at the woman on the table. Her wide cheekbones hinted she was Native American too. Dear God.
She didn’t really care to know how he’d picked them, she just wanted him to focus on his pet project and not on her. Maybe he wouldn’t notice her memorizing every detail of the place as she looked for a way out.
“Let me show you.” He eased off the stool and drew back the second curtain from the left. “This man right here was my first.”
He pointed to a short, stocky statue that stood next to what she guessed was a chief, if his big, feathered headdress was an indication.
“How’d he die?” Keep him talking.
“I shot him.” He dragged a handkerchief down his face. “The fucker was trying to kill me! He deserved to die a more painful death, but I didn’t want to mar his beautiful face.”
“Did he call you a half-breed or something?”
She waited for him to rush at her and punch her, but his body remained rigid.
“No.”
Stop baiting him. “So what did the bastard do to you?” Better. More calm. Less threatening.
“I had made a tableau that showed how the Florida Native Americans lived during the time of Osceola.” His nose rose in the air. “It wasn’t very good, but that wasn’t the point. He and one of his friends laughed at my attempts—actually laughed. Then the two of them jumped me. This one,” he said, pointing to one of the statues, “waved a knife and came after me.”
Maggie knew the ending. “You used a gun.” How fair was that?
“I had no choice. Both men were stronger than me.” He touched a one-inch scar on his cheek. “See this? I nearly lost an eye in the fight. I had to defend myself.”
That’s what all criminals said. “If it was self defense, why didn’t you go to the police?”
He eased his way toward her, his lip contorting into a sneer. “I didn’t want the bad publicity.” He straightened and brushed off some imaginary lint from his suit.
“So what happened to the second guy after you shot the first one?”
His lips hardened. “He got away, but I found out who he was. He’ll pay. Big time. Just you wait and see.”
It was time to change to subject again. “To get rid of the body, you decided to hide him in your figurines?”
His jaw clenched. “They aren’t fig-ur-ines.”
Whatever. “Smart. Real smart. No one will ever catch you.” His shoulders relaxed. “Didn’t the guy’s friend ever come back to see what happened to his buddy?” Maybe he’d report the death to the authorities, and they’d be looking for this guy, whoever he was.
“Yes, but I told him if he told anyone, I’d say his friend attacked me first and that I’d turn him in for assault too. The man knew he was guilty of striking me first. That’s why he neve
r told anyone.”
Okay, so maybe it was self-defense. She nodded to the others. “What about them?” There had to be a good ten men and women in the display. “They come after you with a knife too?”
Quicker than the flick of a blade he had her in a choke hold. Air. She needed air. With her wrists still bound, she grabbed his wrist and tried to pull his hands away. He let go and stepped back.
She rubbed her throat. “Sorry.” When would she learn to keep her mouth shut? Her mama always said it would be her downfall.
“You better be. You can’t begin to understand what I went through. My father’s family rejected me because I was a half-breed.” A dab of saliva dribbled down his jaw.
So that was his big issue. “I totally get where you’re coming from. My folks hated George because he wasn’t one of us. That’s why we had to elope. They forbid me to marry him.” Liar, liar.
They loved George more than her, only they worried George wouldn’t be willing to have his children raised in the Ottawan way.
He closed in on her space. “So you understand why I have to prove myself to them?”
“Totally.”
He ran a hand down her cheek. Gross. Creepy. A large shiver took hold of her. He stepped back and narrowed his eyes. Oh shit. Then his face softened as though he actually thought about what she’d said.
“That’s why I have to show the world how great I’m going to be. The Natural History Museum in Washington, DC commissioned me to create this tableau of Pocahontas and John Smith.”
He looked like a little kid begging for parental love. Pathetic really, but in a way she felt sorry for him. A little. Okay, that did impress her. “That’s great.” She forced a smile.
“It’s not complete, mind you, but it will be soon.” He nodded to the table woman.
She swallowed hard. “I don’t even want to know.”
“Yes, yes. You must. You have to help me. Together, we can show everyone the real Native American.”
As in commit murder? She’d never kill anyone. “What would my part be?” She swallowed, fearing the worst.
Please don’t let him say she’d be Pocahontas.
21
Trevor’s cell phone woke him, but it took him a few seconds to orient himself. With one eye open he noted the time on the hotel room’s standard issue alarm clock. Three a.m. Was that the right time? He snatched the phone from Lara’s bedside table. “Kinsey.” He didn’t bother to look at the caller ID.
“It’s Ethan.”
“What are you doing up at this hour?” First he calls at 7 a.m., now in the middle of the goddamn night. Trevor would never catch up on his sleep.
“I have a dead body I think you’ll want to see. The Captain called me about forty minutes ago. I’m at the scene now.” Voices sounded in the background, as did the racket of the cicadas and tree frogs doing their mating call.
As much as he wanted to get into Homicide, he couldn’t leave Lara, but he might not have the chance to work a case with Ethan for a while. Lara rolled over in bed. “What’s so special that you need to drag me into the mix?”
“A Native American woman was found in the woods. And get this. She was scalped.”
Trevor bolted upright and flicked on the nightstand light. “Did you say scalped?” His nerve endings fired rapidly.
“Yeah. There’s something weird going on with the Seminoles around here. I figured you’d want to know.”
“No shit.” At the nearby desk he located a pad and a Sheraton Hotel pen. “Give me the address.” Ethan gave him the directions to the scene, but as soon as he heard it was at the Reservation, he only wrote down the final few turns. “Got it. See ya in a few.”
Lara would either be pissed he dragged her out in the middle of the night, or she might actually want to go. No telling with her. Regardless, she’d be coming with him, like it or not.
He shook her shoulder. She rolled over and placed a hand over her eyes. “What?”
He pulled on pants and a shirt while she roused. “We need to go someplace.” He spoke slowly.
She shot straight up. “What’s wrong?”
He unplugged her batteries from the wall and brought them over to her. Once she was set up to hear, he relayed what Ethan had said.
“I can be ready in five.”
True to her word, Lara was dressed in about three. The trip to the crime scene was near where the Seminoles held the Snake festival.
“Seems like yesterday we were here,” Lara said, lowering the window. The damp, cool breeze helped wake him up.
“Try three weeks.” In his mind, they’d interviewed Billie Jumper’s wife a lifetime ago.
With Ethan’s instructions in hand, Lara directed him down several winding roads toward a park. Flashing lights led him the rest of the way. He cut the engine. “Let me speak to Ethan first.”
“I’m coming with you.”
He pressed his lips together, debating how to convince her to stay put. Lara touched his arm and his mind stopped working. “I won’t be long.” He hoped.
“Do you think I’m going to throw up if I see a dead body? Remember I deal with corpses all the time.”
“Your dead don’t have flesh on the bones.”
“Sometimes they do. Remember Tanya Dansler?”
“True, but this will be different.” He hadn’t mentioned the scalping.
She slapped the dash. “This isn’t my first crime scene, you know.” She pushed open the truck door and slid out. He hopped out too. She came around to his side and planted her hands on her hips. “I’m no rookie. I’ve helped out on my share of murders during my tenure at the University. Please don’t treat me like I’m incompetent.”
Her words stung. “I never said you weren’t capable.”
“Locking me in the car is about the same thing to me.”
She stepped so close he could smell her sweet scent. She turned him inside out, which wasn’t helping when he needed to stay objective about a crime scene. Her need for independence would get her in trouble some day. He recalled her voicing concern about not living up to some mythical high standard.
“Fine. I don’t have time to get into a lengthy debate anyway.” She probably participated in mockups of murder scenarios, which weren’t like the real thing. Truth was he couldn’t exactly lock her in the car. “Come on then.”
He grabbed her hand as they made their way through the dense forest. Fallen logs and vines created an obstacle course. Had it not been for the many flashlights lighting the area, one of them might have stumbled.
Ethan was directing the Crime Scene Unit when he and Lara approached. “Tell me what you know,” Trevor said.
Ethan acknowledged Lara with a nod. “Woman was Julie Bowman, aged thirty-two.”
“Who found her?”
His brother pointed to an elderly gentleman in a bathrobe. “He said his dog was outside barking up a storm, and when he came out to investigate, he found Julie and then called us.”
“No witnesses to the actual murder, I take it.”
“Nope. There are some freshly broken tree branches, along with heel marks on the path, if you can call anything around here a path. Whoever did this dragged the body in from the road.”
“Any identifiable footprints?”
“One, maybe. We’re taking a cast of it now. Good thing it rained this afternoon or we’d have squat. Mud has a way of preserving prints.”
Trevor motioned Ethan for his flashlight and shone the light on the victim. “There’s a lot of blood around her head. Was the scalping the cause of death?” He admired the fact that Lara hadn’t made a sound when she heard what happened.
“I don’t know yet, but the examiner said the victim bled out. That doesn’t mean it was the cause of death though.”
“Christ. The girl must have been alive when he scalped her or there wouldn’t be so much blood.”
“True.”
Lara stiffened at his side. She stepped in front of Trevor and faced Ethan. “Do we k
now if Julie was from the Reservation?”
“She was.”
He didn’t like any of this. Hope of finding the rest of his men alive diminished with each Native American killed. This case was getting weirder by the moment.
Lara leaned into him. “Sensible women don’t go out alone at night in a dark, creepy park.” She kept her voice low.
“You go out running by yourself.”
“Yes, but this woman doesn’t look like a runner. Look at her shoes.”
Trevor pointed the beam on the victim again. “You might be right.”
He handed the flashlight back to his brother. “Did you hear mention of anyone else being scalped in this neighborhood? Could this be a ritual of some kind?”
Ethan shrugged. “I have my men canvassing the neighborhood now. I’m reluctant to let anyone know how she died. I don’t want to cause a panic.”
“Not to mention the media frenzy if they get a hold of this story. There could be a slew of copycats.”
“You got that right.”
Derek Wolfe, Ethan’s partner, jogged up to them. “I spoke with Julie’s neighbor.” He consulted his pad. “A Mrs. Natalie Culver. She said Julie and Charlene Eason went for a walk together almost every night.”
“Mrs. Culver see them tonight?” Ethan asked.
“Yes. They stopped by her place before they left. Julie’s a nurse, and Mrs. Culver was experiencing some pain in her legs and called her.”
“So let’s talk to this Charlene,” Ethan said.
“I tried, but she’s not home.”
Trevor’s gut soured. “Is her car at her house?”
“Yes.”
Ethan held up a finger and stepped away from the group to direct the Medical Examiner to the victim. He rejoined them a few minutes later. “If the two women were together, where the hell is Charlene?”
Derek shrugged. “My guess is he’s got her.”
Ethan whipped out his phone and punched one number—most likely the department’s.
“It’s Ethan Kinsey.” He relayed the need for a battering ram to break down the door of the missing woman’s home.
Ethan and Derek moved away from him and Lara, their conversation lost among the leaves crunching under the men’s feet.