Later that morning I lumbered outside to get the mail. The spring sun was warm on my face, and my veins ran cold as Turtle Creek. Mail in hand I reached for the door to go back inside—and saw dark red smears on the knob. I froze.
My finger lifted to graze the smear. It was dry.
I stared at it.
They say there are moments in your life you'll remember on your deathbed. I'd thought it would be times like Michael Phillips first kissing me. Our wedding day. The birth of our son, Michael Brent II, soon to come. But not anymore. The thing I'll most remember is the horrible sight of that smeared blood.
It hit me then. This was why Mike came back for the rag.
If he'd left blood on the doorknob, he surely left it first in the truck. He'd climbed into it that morning and seen the telltale evidence. Must have been in too much of a rush to notice the front door.
My life drained out my toes as I stared at that blood. Such a little bit of red to mean so very much. Shock stole through my body till I thought I'd pass out. Somehow I made it inside the house and collapsed on the couch. The mail scattered on the floor.
This couldn't be. Everything could be explained away. Somehow. The changed uniform. Coming home late, all agitated. Making me lie for him.
The blood.
He'd told me he'd kill Erika. But who'd ever believe he meant it?
And now he'd almost killed me.
I leaned back against the sofa cushions, giving my crowded lungs room to breathe. What was I going to do?
I'd fallen in love with Michael so hard. I couldn't help it. The flowers, the way he'd listened to me. The way he'd made this nobody feel like the most special girl in the world.
Where did that man go?
Now my whole life was different. I didn't even go to church anymore. I'd gone all my childhood. Had clung to Jesus and made Him part of my life. Jesus faded when Mike came along.
"You hear me good, Tully. I came home at the regular time."
The facts stared me in the face: Mike had killed Erika. And her death was just like all the others. The sixth Closet Killing. When the last murder happened nine months ago, that night, too, he'd come home late from work. Said something held him up at the factory.
The blood on the door.
My head snapped up.
I had to get rid of it.
On someone else's legs, I pushed to my feet and tottered to the kitchen. Bent down to pull a rag from underneath the sink. My gaze fell on a pair of yellow plastic gloves beside the rags. I stared at those gloves a long time.
After an eternity I made up my mind.
Heart still on hold, I reached for the items I needed.
A few minutes later on the porch, I cleaned the blood off the doorknob. I threw the soiled cloth in the washing machine, then hurried to get Mike's dirty uniform. I checked it all over—and found a few dark smears.
Blood? Or just dirt?
I threw the uniform into the washing machine and turned the water to hot.
There. I'd done my wifely duty.
In a fog I returned to the couch to lie down.
I pictured Erika's pulled-up shirt, the bump of her belly, and squinched my eyes shut. When I opened them I'd found myself staring at the Coke stain on the carpet. Same stain I was now staring at a day later while Mike was under the carport, tinkering on his boat. We'd hardly talked since yesterday morning. What was there to say?
The best I could hope for Erika was that she died quickly. My own death was playing out every minute, painful and slow.
Chapter 6
Deena
It had happened two days ago on Tuesday.
Bang, bang, bang.
The hard knocks on my front door at midnight near made me jump out of my shoes. I'd just watched the first half hour of Letterman, and was nearly asleep.
Bang, bang.
I yanked the drawer of my end table open. Snatched up my loaded Chief's Special—one of my two weapons. I kept a second gun just like it in the nightstand beside my bed.
"Deena!" Stevie's voice muffled from my tiny front porch. He sounded scared, like a little boy. "Open up!"
My heart lurched. I threw my gun back in the drawer—didn't want Stevie to know I had weapons around. Then ran to undo my various locks.
The minute the door cracked open Stevie heaved through it, pushin me backwards. I did an awkward two-step and caught myself before I fell. Stevie shoved the door closed and relocked it. He turned to face me, chest all aheave and cheeks pink. His green eyes looked wild, his hair was askew, and his hands waved in the air, nowhere to land. From waist up his blue work uniform looked wet. Worse, blood smeared the fabric. The whole front was red. And on the sleeves, especially the right one—more blood.
I reared back, a hand at my mouth. "What happened to you?"
Stevie paced, fingers in his hair. "I can't tell."
"What do you mean you can't tell?"
"I can't tell."
"Stevie!" I caught him by the wrist. "Are you hurt?"
He looked down the front of himself, face twistin. "No."
"Where'd this blood come from?"
"I don't know."
I forced calmness into my voice. "It's on your uniform. You have to know."
"I can't tell you nothin. I didn't do nothin!"
"Where did this happen? When did you first see the blood?"
"I didn't see it. It was never there." His voice rose. I knew the tone of his lies, had heard it often when Stevie was in a desperate state. He strode away two steps, palms pressed to his temples.
I turned him around. "But it is there. We're both lookin at it."
"It's not there."
I surveyed him. "You're wet. Did you try to wash it off?"
"No. I didn't go in Turtle Creek."
Turtle Creek. That would be some chilly water in the spring. The biggest part of the creek ran through the back of the cemetery—just a block from my house—and down the hill near the large stone steps.
What had Stevie been doin in the cemetery? And whose blood was this?
My brother's teeth started to chatter.
"Stevie, come on in the den and sit down. You can tell me what happened." I pulled him by the arm, laughter rollin out from the TV. The sound grated my nerves.
"Nothin happened. I didn't do it." Stevie allowed himself to be led.
"Didn't do what?"
No answer.
I nudged him onto the couch and turned off the television. Took a seat in our mom's old rockin chair. "Listen now." I leaned forward. "It's Deena, your sister. You know you can tell me."
"No I can't!" Stevie flipped his hands up and down.
"Were you with someone who got hurt?"
"No."
"You didn't see anybody get hurt."
"No!"
"And it's not your blood?"
"I'm not bleeding." He squeezed his eyes shut. "Just my brain."
"Then whose blood is it?"
"I was so mad."
Oh, no. "Who were you mad at?"
"I don't want to talk about it."
"You have to talk about it."
"No, I don't!" Spittle shot from his mouth. "No, no, no!"
"Okay, okay." I held up my hands, palms out.
Stevie looked down at himself. "Get this off me!"
"You want to take off your uniform? Go ahead. I'll give you a robe to put on." And I'd throw those clothes in the washing machine fast, before anyone else saw them. Whatever Steve had gotten himself into, it couldn't be good.
Just like that, Stevie's expression switched to angry. His chin came down and his mouth tightened. His eyes lined into that mad-as-a-bull look I'd seen far too many times, and his voice thickened. "She ma
de me do it."
Cold crept over my arms. "Who made you do what?"
He glared at me. "It's her fault."
"Sure. Sure it is."
"She's so mean to me."
Who? Lots of people had been mean to my brother.
"But she won't do it again."
"Why won't she do it again, Stevie?"
He leveled an evil grin at me, and my stomach dropped out. "Because I fixed her."
I licked my lips. Tried to keep my voice quiet, even as my heart hammered. "How did you fix her?"
He passed his tongue between his lips—and smiled.
My body went numb. Unbidden, those awful questions rose to the surface—about my brother's whereabouts at the time of the Amaryllis murders. He always claimed he'd been home alone. But who could prove it? My brother had been agitated the day after every one of those murders—and he'd never told me why. And every victim had hired him at some point to do work around their property. The police questioned Stevie after the second murder. He'd been rakin leaves in Sara Fulgerson's yard the day she was killed. But they couldn't pin anything on him, much as they wanted to. At the time I'd convinced myself the cops just wanted the murders "solved" to save their own shaky reputations. And what a way for my ex to get back at me for divorcin him and takin back my maiden name—lock up my brother. I'd fought John Cotter's suspicions—and the Chief's—at every turn. No way would I ever admit I had a few of my own, based on a gut feelin I'd carried around for years—that my unpredictable brother would grow up one day and do somethin really bad.
"Stevie. How did you fix her?"
He stood abruptly. "I got to go home."
I rose and caught his arm. "No, wait—"
"Leave me alone!" He threw my hand off him.
"But—"
"No!" He backed away, wrapped his arms around his chest and self-hugged—like he used to do when he was little. "I don't know nothin, Deena. Don't you say nothin to nobody. Don't you dare."
My head nodded. "I won't."
His face darkened. "You tell anybody, I'll hurt you."
I stared at him.
"Real bad."
He'd never threatened me before.
"You hear me, Deena?"
"Yeah. Yeah, Stevie, I hear you."
He headed for the door. I gathered my wits. "Stevie, let me wash your uniform. I can get it a lot cleaner than you will."
"I know how to wash my own clothes."
"Come on, Stevie."
"No!" He whirled around, hand raised. "Leave me alone!"
I cringed back. He glared at me, then turned again for the door.
Without another word he left. I stood on my porch and watched him run down the street to his little trailer, two doors away. Back inside my house I relocked and bolted the door.
Sleep would not come that night.
I sat up in bed, gun next to me on the covers. Somethin terrible had happened out there. In my heart I knew what it was. But I pushed the knowledge deep down, hopin against hope.
The next day brought news of Erika's death.
By the time the wildfire news leapt across town yesterday mornin, I was in the shop, cuttin Ruthann Becker's frizzy hair. When I heard the sirens peel out from the police station, down one block on Main, my veins iced. I dropped the shears and near stabbed my own ankle. Not five minutes later Theodore Stets ran over from the drugstore next door, sayin he heard the squad cars were parked at Erika Hollinger's house.
Erika, so young. Dead, just like the rest of them.
"She was mean to me." Stevie's words vibrated in my head. Erika had always been mean to him. Made fun of him unmercifully. I'd caught her at it once a couple years ago and near slapped her. She hadn't set foot in my salon since.
Now it was Thursday. In the back room of my shop, I felt like my insides had been hollowed out. Stevie hadn't talked to me since Tuesday night. I went down to his trailer this mornin to ask about the uniform. Had it come clean? He wouldn't answer.
Had anybody heard him bangin on my door? Or seen him runnin down the street in bloody clothes? Surely not, or the police would be all over him by now.
I glanced at my watch. Twenty-five minutes had passed since I left Mary Harell's color to process. Time to check on her.
Somehow I dragged myself to my feet and put on my perky face. Took a deep breath. The day wasn't even half over, and already it seemed like a lifetime. A choice weighed on me that I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. I couldn't bear to give up my brother to the police. But if I didn't tell them what I'd seen—
How many more women would die?
Chapter 7
Cherrie Mae
After Mayor B's house I had two smaller ones to clean before I was done for the day. I dusted and swept and scrubbed on automatic, my mind goin all directions.
What was I gon do bout what I seen?
I slumped into my own house a little after 4:00, wishin more than ever my Ben was still with me. He'd passed from a heart attack two years ago, just one year shy a retiring from his job at the bank. But I still talked to him and felt his presence in the house. And I still read the fine literature he'd introduced me to early in our marriage. Benjamin Bane Devine may only have been a high school graduate—like me—but I'm tellin you, that man was a reader. Chekov and Tennyson, Milton and Dante filled his head and stretched his dreams. Them dreams played out in his children. Both our son and daughter graduated college, Lester in business and Donelle in communications. Now they both had good jobs and families.
If only they hadn't moved out a state to find em.
I kicked off my shoes and headed to the refrigerator for a glass a sweet tea. Then to my favorite chair in the livin room, worn brown with a pop-up footrest. On the nearby table sat my Kindle e-reader, the fancy present my children gave me last Christmas. I couldn't understand why I'd want such a thing until Donelle tol me I could get lots a classic books for free. Wouldn't need to run to the Bay Springs library so much. Right now in my Kindle I was re-readin Alfred Lord Tennyson's Idylls of the King. I kept a little black notebook and a pen next to the Kindle so I could write down quotes I wanted to remember.
I set down my glass and collapsed in my chair. At sixty-two, I didn't know how many more years I could clean houses. Trouble was, I needed the money, and that wasn't likely to change anytime soon. But my ankles swelled ever day. At the end a work I always put em up fast as I could.
Gazin out my front window I could see my neighbor's house across Third Street. Esther Goins, in her seventies, used to live there by herself, another widow. Now a granddaughter and her husband had moved in. Esther was too scared to live by herself. Couldn't blame her. Our pretty little Amaryllis had turned into a war zone between regular folk and some crazy person.
"'Behold where Ares, breathin forth the breath of strife and carnage, paces—paces on.'" I said the words aloud—words Sophocles coulda wrote bout our town today. Chill bumps popped down my arms. We didn't exactly have the Greek god a war in Amaryllis. We had a round-faced, half-baldin mayor. Wore what was left a his gray hair in what white folk call a comb-over. Not the likeliest a killers. But I seen what I seen.
Why on earth would Mayor B kill those women?
Did Mrs. B sleep so sound she wouldn't know if her husband slipped out at night? Or was she just not talkin?
The phone rang, and I jumped. I lifted the receiver off the table beside me, thinkin night would fall in a few hours and fear would leak into my bones like acid. Never failed when the sun went down. Now the fear would have a face attached—Mayor B's.
How would I ever step foot in that man's house again?
The ID said Thomas Howzer. I hit the talk button. "Hi, Lucelia."
"Cherrie Mae, just checkin on you. Tom and I still say you should sleep in our extra bedroom tonight. We'd
feel better if you did."
"Thanks, but I'll be all right. You know I keep that billy stick right beside me."
"You can bring your billy stick with you."
"Lucelia, I cain't be sleepin at your house ever night. Besides, I'm safer now than I'll be in six months or so. That's his pattern."
"Patterns can be broken."
She was right, so I just grunted.
"Why're you so stubborn, Cherrie Mae?"
"I been stubborn since we was in first grade together. You just now figurin that out?"
"Now it really matters."
I arched my feet. They were beginnin to feel a little better.
Lucelia heaved a sigh. "You see the article in The Jackson Bugle today?"
A jolt went through me. "Didn't have time to read it this mornin." The paper still sat on my kitchen table. "Trent got an article in there?"
"Yup."
I was already pushin down my footrest.
"He got down here yesterday afternoon," Lucelia said. "I seen him carry his suitcase in next door, then he was right back out. Gatherin information, no doubt."
One thing bout Lucelia, she did know what her neighbors were doin. Ever time Trent came into town to cover the latest murder, he'd stay next door to her, with his sister and brother-in-law. "I'm gon read the article now. Call you later. Thanks again for checkin on me."
In the kitchen I sat down hard at the table and pulled the newspaper close. Shuffled to Section C—Local News. There sat the article.
Killer Strikes Again in Amaryllis
On Tuesday night, Erika Hollinger, 20, became the sixth murder victim in three years in Amaryllis, one and a half hours southeast of Jackson. Police are attributing the crime to the so-called "Closet Killer," who has stabbed all six victims in their own homes and left their bodies in a closet . . .
I read the rest a the article, lookin for some piece a news I didn't already know. Trent had talked to Erika's neighbors, none of em hearin a thing. The police didn't give him any more information than was rumored round town. No mention a the missin ring. Apparently Trent didn't even know I'd been at Erika's house that night. Thank goodness. I didn't want my name in the paper.
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