The system hadn’t protected the boy, so he’d taken the job on himself. If he had nightmares over it, he’d bear that burden. Eventually, he had been able to cut himself from that period of his life. It was, as he’d viewed it, a necessity.
Sometimes a man had to take extreme actions or others suffered. It had been one of those occasions.
So for that brief period of time, he’d let himself become somebody else, just as he’d done when he’d served his country.
The problem was that it wasn’t done.
All this time, he thought, brooding. He’d thought it was done. He’d had their names. He’d taken care of them.
But it wasn’t isolated. It was a spreading cancer that was going to eat this town alive if he didn’t excise it. This time, they’d all go down. Either he’d catch them or the police would
A few short weeks ago, he’d had to kill again. It was harder that time but still, mostly, an act of passion and he had less time to think, more time to act. All the thinking had come after the fact.
Now, though, now … there was plenty of time to think. Time to think and worry and brood. And plan. There were plenty of plans to be made, because he knew there were more to come.
The question was … how many?
He’d gotten four names from Junior, right before he’d put him in the river. That was what he should have done the first time around, gotten names from each of them, discovered how much they knew. He’d learned from his mistakes.
A couple of those men were already under investigation. The law wouldn’t fail this time. Jensen Bell wouldn’t allow it; neither would the current chief. The wheels of justice would turn. It was a different time. People couldn’t hide behind their names as easily as they could twenty years ago, even ten years ago.
The biggest concern was uncovering all of those involved. Junior had said he didn’t know all the members, especially the older ones. Junior only knew Harlan because Harlan had been the one to help initiate him all those years ago, and he rarely came to the meetings these days.
More names were discovered going through the files in Harlan’s office—Harlan’s thoroughness was going to be the downfall of quite of a few. The man thought he was careful—oh, the fire had burned up quite a few pictures.
One hadn’t burned, though, and he knew from that scar that it was Harlan in that image.
Stupid, arrogant old fool.
The autopsy would confirm, if the cops were worth much of anything. Jensen was worth about ten of the cops in town, as far as he was concerned, so he suspected things would get along just fine as far as that was concerned.
Harlan’s journals and “minutes” were proving to be very useful. And very disturbing. They’d kept minutes, the sick bastards. They actually kept minutes and notes.
We discussed inducting Abel’s son, Glenn, at the next meeting and decided it would wait until summer.
Abel—Abel Blue, dead quite some now.
His boy, Glenn. Glenn Blue, who was currently in jail.
He’d been one of the victims once. Now he was an abuser, awaiting his day in court.
Perhaps he should feel bad for him, and he could pity the child Glenn had been. But now he wanted to murder the man.
Did they note down the atrocities they committed or just keep it circumspect?
If nothing else, when he started to falter or lose sight of the goal, all he would have to do was look at those notes, written in a spidery scrawl, and he’d find his strength again.
Killing Junior had been harder than what he’d done all those years ago. Last night had been the hardest yet, because he’d had to think it all through and plan. He was under no illusions that this would be easy. But he would see it through.
He’d find the others, and they’d all die.
* * *
Rita lived in a pretty little old house, surrounded by a white picket fence, the gleaming ribbon of the Ohio unfurling just behind the backyard.
The house had seen better years, but she’d been working to fix it up.
She’d even conned him into helping out here and there and they’d spent more than a few lazy Sundays splattered in paint or sawdust as they fixed this room up or worked on the deck or added in those bookshelves.
Just then, he wasn’t thinking about any of that.
Worry gouged deep grooves into his mind as he threw his truck into park and climbed out. The gouges turned into canyons as he slammed a fist against the door, the sound of it echoing through Rita’s quiet house.
A chill raced down his spine. The quiet … it screamed like a banshee to him. Rita didn’t do quiet. She had music playing at all hours when she was home. During the day it was as loud as it could get without her getting in trouble, and at night it was a low, soft thrum coming from speakers he’d helped her install throughout the house.
The silence didn’t have to be a bad thing. Maybe she’d gone for a walk.
There was no reason for him to be this worried, he told himself. The healing burn running down his arm itched as he lifted his hand and banged harder, longer. “Come on,” he muttered. “Come on.…”
He knocked again.
“Damn it, Rita, open the fucking door!”
Nothing.
He looked over at the driveway. Her run-down Accord was parked there.
A breeze kicked up and he listened, eyes closed.
That quiet scared him. More than anything else. Swearing, he took a step back. From the corner of his eye he saw somebody walking up the sidewalk, but he ignored it.
His gut was a raw, bloody mess and he knew, as surely as he knew his own name, that something was wrong.
* * *
Gritty-eyed from lack of sleep, Caine pulled his toolbox out of the trunk and glanced over toward Rita’s house.
Last night had been an eye-opening occasion.
Not just for him, either.
Madison was one fucked-up town, a fact he’d known for a while. Others were just now cluing in to to the fact, but even he was sort of surprised at just how deep the filth ran.
Strain and exhaustion pulled at him and all he wanted to do was just go back to his place, pull the curtains to block out the brilliant sun blazing down on him and sleep. For a month, maybe. He was tired enough that he thought he could get a few hours without the nightmares, the vivid memories and screams and pleas ringing in his ears.
He had to be ready to drop before he could sleep worth shit.
After last night, he thought maybe, just maybe, he was almost ready to get some rest.
“Damn it, Rita, open the fucking door!”
Frowning, Caine turned his head and stared at Adam Brascum pounding on Rita’s front door. It wasn’t quite noon, but between his and Rita’s house there were two kids running around playing. Brascum needed to watch his mouth around kids, Caine thought.
Besides, he didn’t think Rita was going to be opening that door to Brascum.
He needed to—
Adam kicked the door in.
“Well, hell,” Caine muttered, tugging his hat down. With a sigh, he put his toolbox back into the trunk and slammed it shut before jogging down the walk toward Rita’s house.
It wasn’t hard to find Adam. Caine just followed the sounds of the shouting.
And found them both, in Rita’s bedroom.
She lay on her back, a nightshirt that usually reached her knees rucked up halfway to her thighs. Her skin was pale, unnaturally so, Caine noticed. Adam had his arm under her shoulders.
“Damn it, Rita. Come on … say something, sweetheart,” Adam said, his voice harsh and ragged. “You don’t get to do this—”
Something like a sob escaped Adam as Caine knelt beside them. He cocked his head, studying the empty prescription bottle and the gleaming glass flask that had once held Jack Daniel’s, some of Tennessee’s finest. The stink of whiskey hung in the air, mingling with the stench of death and waste.
Her eyes were fixed on the ceiling.
She was gone.
> He could see it, and he knew that Adam could, too.
The difference was that Adam wasn’t ready to admit it.
“Rita, come on!” Adam shook her.
“She’s gone,” Caine said, reaching out to touch Adam’s shoulder, still looking around the room.
The phone, half ripped out of the wall.
Adam sucked in a ragged breath and then dropped his head, pressing it to Rita’s brow. “You stupid woman,” he whispered. “Why did you do this? It wasn’t your fault.”
Silent, Caine rose and moved away, studying the room, the whiskey, the phone. He shot Adam a glance, but the other man was caught in a world of his own and didn’t even notice as Caine got the phone.
As he started to dial 911, he looked back behind him and saw that Adam had put Rita on the floor, flat. The dispatcher came on the phone just as Adam started to blow into Rita’s mouth.
It was too late for that.
But Caine supposed Adam had to try.
Caine left the man to the sad, grim task and spoke softly to the woman on the other end of the line. He had a cell phone for work, but he’d never gotten in the habit of keeping it with him all the time, never did understand why anybody would want to be in contact with people all the damn time.
“Did you say Rita Troyer is dead?” the lady on the other end of the line said.
“Yes,” he said levelly, still watching as Adam moved to pump on her chest. “It looks like she took pills and drank some whiskey. I think she’s been gone awhile.”
“I’m calling the police; please stay on the line—”
“Just get them out to her house. I’ll wait here,” he said, cutting her off. Then he moved back into the bedroom and stood watch as Adam tried to revive Rita.
You knew it wasn’t your fault, Caine thought, studying the lifeless woman.
But there was no answer.
CHAPTER TEN
Betrayal wrenched at her heart.
It’s best if you don’t come back.
That low voice. The promise that it was over and done, it was all that had kept her sane—or close to it—for so long. It was why she’d given everything up, why she’d made herself accept the truths he’d told her, how she’d lived with what she’d done. What had happened.
Is that fair to him? Hasn’t he been through enough?
Swearing under her breath, she tried not to think about the selfish, bitter thoughts that had eaten at her over the years. What about me? What about what I went through?
It did no good.
She’d come back to make things right, like she should have done years ago. Maybe they wouldn’t want to have believed her then. But she’d make them believe her now. Considering how many of the mighty were falling in Madison, was it going to be a surprise that she had more names to add to their list? Yeah, the people she knew about were dead, but she knew things about the Sutter family.
She could do something.
That urgency thrummed inside her mind, but her thoughts stumbled to a halt as a familiar form cut across her line of sight.
Adam—
She’d left his house earlier, her hair flatironed, hanging straight to frame her face, the blunt bangs and the retro-style glasses a basic—and effective—disguise. She hadn’t worn makeup since the day she’d left Madison and her skin seemed paler with the dark hair, the dark lenses. She’d already learned that people saw what they expected to see.
Nobody expected to see Lana here anymore.
So nobody did.
Maybe that was why it was so easy to spot Adam. She kept expecting to see him everywhere lately. And there he was, moving across the street with his head bent, his hands jammed in his pockets. Everything about him screamed, Leave me alone.
He ducked inside the restaurant and her heart wrenched at the sight of him.
She’d heard the news, sitting there in the middle of the coffee shop, surrounded by familiar voices and unfamiliar ones. Listening to the gossip and the chatter, she’d heard one woman’s horrified voice as she talked about the tragedy that had befallen the Troyer family. The father and daughter, both dead. One murdered, one lost to suicide.
Go to him.… a little voice in the back of Lana’s head whispered.
Go to him. She hunched in her seat, bent over the paper she’d picked up after the previous customer had left it at a nearby table. Go to him and do what? Say what? I’m sorry you’re trapped in Hellsville, USA?
No. She had to do better than that, and if she was going to talk to him, it wasn’t going to be just because she felt the insane urge to offer him comfort. Comfort or whatever else he wanted.
She really had to get her mind out of the gutter.
Forcing her mind back to the here and now, she studied the people around her from under her lashes. Maybe she’d be lucky. A clear sign, telling her what she should do, how she should do it and when, would fall right out of the sky. Although hope was something she’d given up on, she shot a peek outside. The sky was clear and blue—nothing falling. No rain and definitely no signs.
She’d come home because it felt right. Now that she was here, though, she felt lost. She needed proof, somebody to go to, somebody to talk to. The only proof was David. Or the disc they’d made.
She had no idea where to find him, or the disc.
But she did know who to talk to, she realized. If she hadn’t been so shaken by the very prospect of being here, she would have already figured it out, too. Biting her lip, she shot another glance around the coffee shop, hoped nothing she felt showed on her face.
She wanted to grab everything on the table, dump it in her bag and lunge for the door.
Instead, she casually started to put things away, drained the rest of her coffee. Nothing much going on here … finished my coffee … She kept the mask she’d worn for so long firmly in place, but then, as she went to push back from the table, somebody came through the door and her heart jumped up into her throat.
Out of all the faces she’d seen in here today, a few had looked vaguely familiar, but nobody had set her internal alarm buzzing.
Not until now. As the woman came striding through the door, Lana’s spine went tight and her heart ached. Too many seconds passed before she figured out who it was.
For one moment, just one, she almost started to cry. Nichole—
The closest thing to a mom Lana had probably ever had. She’d heard about the disappearance, after it had happened, and everything in her had screamed out in denial. It had sent her careening down another spiral as she thought about the Bell kids, growing up without a mom, just like she had.
She thought about Nichole’s wide, wicked eyes and that amused grin.
She thought about Doug’s solemn, serious smile.
Her chest ached and ached until she had to remind herself to take a breath.
That woman wasn’t Nichole. Because Nichole had been killed fifteen years ago, her body only recently found. But if that wasn’t Nichole …
The woman moved to the counter, placing her order while Lana watched, breathing slow, steady. In. Out. Breathing really wasn’t that complicated. She went to push her jacket to pull out some cash and that was when Lana saw the gun.
The dots connected.
Jensen. The cop. Jensen Bell.
A detective here in Madison.
Any second and Jensen would turn her head, Lana thought. Jensen would turn her head, look at Lana, and she’d know. There were probably only a handful who would see through the disguise, simple as it was, but Jensen was probably one of them. Even as a kid, she’d been clever.
Stay cool. Lana just had to stay cool. She continued to casually put up her stuff, keeping her body half-averted, her head tucked low so that her hair hung in her face.
There was a guy with Jensen. Some part of Lana was aware enough to appreciate that guy. He was gorgeous, his skin a warm, soft brown, with dreadlocks tied into a neat tail at his nape. The suit he wore looked like it cost a mint. Jensen sat with her back to the wall and her ga
ze passed over Lana, lingered for a moment and then moved on.
Don’t look at her. Don’t look at her. Don’t look—
Hitching her bag onto her shoulder, she headed for the door. Her knees were knocking, her belly twisting. Don’t look. Don’t look. Don’t look. Pushing through the door, she held her breath, convinced every second of the way that Jensen would call out her name.
It didn’t happen.
When she hit the end of the block, she turned and got the hell out of sight, her gut a hot, angry snarl.
She wanted to go back to Adam’s, bury herself in the bed and just stop breathing for a little bit. Stop thinking. Stop existing.
Except she’d done that. For twenty years.
She knew where to start now, knew exactly where to go.
It was time to face the man who’d sent her away all those years ago.
If anybody knew where to find David, it was him.
* * *
He sat on the porch.
She’d imagined this moment so many times over the years, when she was scraping by, living in cardboard boxes, in shelters, flopping in some guy’s house because he’d said he’d help her score if she’d just let him score. She’d spent years in what felt like hell, all because he told her it was best that she leave.
And he’d spent those years here. Even now, he was on the swing, pushing back and forth, staring out over the water. Like there wasn’t a thing wrong in the world. Like the entire world hadn’t shifted on its axis twenty years ago, like it wasn’t crumbling under her feet, just now.
Maybe it wasn’t, for him.
And that, frankly, sucked.
It wasn’t fair.
Her father had suffered a series of strokes that left him confined to a nursing home.
She was a shadow of herself.
Twenty years had all but rewritten who she was. There were days when she didn’t even recognize herself. She’d spent more than two hours sitting in a coffee shop on Main Street in the middle of the town where she’d been born, where people had said she’d either remake the world or ruin it. But nobody had recognized her. Nobody even seemed to remember her.
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