Broken Places

by Sandra Parshall

  She shifted to face him, her blue eyes placid. “No. Why would I?”

  “Rachel thinks somebody went into the cottage when she wasn’t there and searched her bedroom.”

  “Tommy,” Lindsay said, outrage bringing a blush of pink to her cheeks, “is she claiming I was in her house? Is she accusing me of stealing something?”

  Lindsay’s face was a perfect picture of wronged innocence, but Tom knew how easy it was for her to assume that expression. “No,” he said, “nothing’s missing. She hasn’t accused you of anything.”

  “But she somehow managed to make you suspicious enough that you’re sitting here asking me about it.”

  “It’s not as if you aren’t capable of it.”

  “Tommy!”

  “Look, I’m not going to argue with you. Just remember that I’m watching you.”

  The eruption of anger and self-defense he expected didn’t come. Lindsay was silent a moment, eyes downcast. Then she touched his knee for a second, quickly withdrew her hand, and said, “I want to ask you something, and please don’t get angry at me.”

  Oh god. Now what? Tom looked at her, waiting.

  “How well do you know Rachel? How much do you really know about her?”

  “I’m not going to discuss Rachel with you.” He rose to leave.

  “Tommy, wait a minute,” Lindsay said. “Please.”

  Against his better judgment, he paused.

  “You may not want to hear this,” she said, “but I have an obligation to give you my professional opinion. I don’t believe there was an intruder in that house last night. I think somebody who lives there left the gas on and the back door open.”

  Chapter Twenty-six

  “It’s like Karen Hernandez just vanished,” Dennis Murray told Tom back at headquarters. Seated in front of Tom’s desk, Dennis pulled off his wire-rimmed glasses, held them up to the light, and used a handkerchief to clean the lenses. “No sightings of her car, nobody at her apartment—I got the DC cops to send somebody over there and check—and her cell phone hasn’t been used since Friday afternoon.”

  “Afternoon?” Tom asked. “That was after both the Taylors were killed. Who did she call?”

  “That’s the most interesting part of all this,” Dennis said. “She called the Taylors’ number at home. She was about forty-five miles northeast of here at the time. The call didn’t go through, of course. By then the house and everything in it was burned to the ground.”

  “Hunh.” Tom swiveled his chair to face the windows. The sun hung low in the sky, and the billowing clouds glowed pink and gold. “If she really did make the call, she could have been setting up an alibi for herself. If somebody killed her, he might have been trying to throw us off by making it look like she was still alive.”

  “Her secretary hasn’t heard from her. But there’s an important meeting on her schedule for Monday morning. We’ll see if she shows up. Meanwhile, we’ve got the bulletin out on her car.”

  Tom nodded. Waiting patiently wasn’t one of his talents, but they were doing all they could to find Karen Hernandez. He swiveled to face Dennis again. “Why don’t you go home? Spend some time with your kids before the weekend’s over.”

  After Dennis left, Tom walked down the hall to the evidence room and removed Meredith Taylor’s manuscript CD from the safe. Now that Tom knew Cam had been blackmailing Ben Hern, he saw Hern as a stronger suspect than ever, but the danger to her son also gave Karen a solid motive. Whatever her outward reaction had been, Tom didn’t believe for a second that a mother who loved her child would laugh off a threat to ruin his career and an attempt to extort money from him.

  Joanna’s description of the youthful rivalry between Meredith and Karen made him wonder if Meredith had included it in her book. Although decades had passed with no contact, the past might shed some light on the way Karen and the Taylors interacted when they’d met again.

  Back in his office, with the CD file open on his computer screen, he clicked to chapter two. Not much of interest there, just descriptions of the way Mason County’s poor lived and a scene where the VISTAs talked about plans and priorities and plotted to work around the restrictions imposed on them by local politicians and the directors of the Community Action Program itself. The character named Chad came across as Joanna had described the young Cam Taylor: energetic, enthusiastic, full of ideas, a natural leader. Magnetic. At that point, the narrator—Meredith, Tom assumed—thought everything was perfect between her and Chad. The chapter ended with an overwritten love scene that made sex on a lumpy mattress sound like a romp in paradise. I fell asleep in his arms, Meredith had written, knowing that I could face anything, endure any hardship, with Chad at my side.

  Tom kept going, skimming over the narrator’s homesickness, her guilt about secretly receiving money from her mother and aunt when the VISTAs were supposed to live on their small government stipends and experience poverty as the “target group” did.

  “Target group?” Tom muttered. He was astonished by the vanity of these young, naive outsiders who thought they were fit to tell grown men and women how to live.

  He quickly spotted the character who represented Joanna. Another character, a local girl called Donna who became involved in plans for the outdoor play about the Melungeons, might be Denise Ragsdale, Scotty’s doomed older sister.

  Having never met the other VISTAs, Tom wasn’t sure at first which character was supposed to be Karen Hernandez—Karen Richardson back then. By chapter four, though, Meredith mentioned that the girl named Celia had taken a break between her first and second years of law school to spend a year in VISTA. Celia, tall, pretty, and dark-haired, was the only budding lawyer mentioned, so Tom tagged her as Karen. A little farther into the book, he came upon a scene in which the four VISTAs ate dinner at the home of a Community Action Program employee. After the meal, they talked into the night and danced to the rock music that the local radio station never played.

  ***

  Wondering where Chad had gone, I walked into the kitchen. The sight that greeted me made me feel as if I was dropping into a deep, dark pit. Celia was leaning against the refrigerator door with her arms wrapped around Chad’s neck. He had his hands under her skirt, cupping her buttocks and pulling her against him. I could see their tongues moving in and out of each other’s mouths as they kissed.

  I must have made some sound, because Chad looked around at me. I was so shocked that I ran out the back door, wanting nothing more than to get in my car and drive until I was far away from there.

  Chad ran after me and caught up with me before I could get into the car. “Hey,” he said. He wrapped his arms around me from behind. “Slow down, let me explain.”

  He tried to make me turn around, but I couldn’t face him. At the same time, I couldn’t break away from him. I felt like a prisoner in his arms, and so ashamed of my weakness.

  “Celia doesn’t mean anything to me,” he whispered in my ear. “You’re the only one I love.”

  “Then why—” I felt like I was choking. I couldn’t stop myself from crying, and I was humiliated to let him see me like that. “Why were you—”

  “She came on to me,” he said, “and I had a moment of weakness. Forgive me? Please?”

  He went on that way, sounding so contrite that he wore down my resistance in no more than a few minutes. I wanted to believe him. I wanted to be convinced it would never happen again.

  We went back to my house together, and Chad made love to me slowly and sweetly, and I tried to cleanse my mind of the scene I had come upon earlier.

  ***

  Tom closed the file and removed the CD from the computer. He would read more later, but right now he didn’t have the stomach for it. The manuscript might be disguised as fiction, but it felt real, and reading the account of Meredith’s youthful humiliation at the hands of the man she later married felt like voyeurism.

  Did any of this relate to the murders, or was he just wasting
time reading it? The big question was whether Karen Hernandez, a respected attorney with everything to lose, would commit double murder because her son was being blackmailed. Most people were capable of impulsive acts of violence if they were pushed hard enough. Maybe she hadn’t gone to the Taylor house with murder in mind, but Tom could see how an argument might have escalated out of control. But how could she have found Cam and killed him? Ben Hern was the only one who had known exactly where Cam was.

  Caught up in his thoughts, Tom took the CD back to the evidence room and locked it in the safe.

  The incident at Rachel’s house the night before raised a whole new set of questions. It made sense to assume that the person who had tried to kill Rachel and Holly was the same one who murdered the Taylors and that he was trying to eliminate witnesses. Lindsay, though, wanted Tom to believe Rachel had staged the entire thing.

  Recognizing that Lindsay was motivated by jealousy, he should probably discount everything she said. And yet—Tom had examined the doors and windows at Rachel’s house himself, and he hadn’t seen the slightest sign of a break-in. If he hadn’t known Rachel personally, all his instincts as a cop would have made him suspect immediately that the incident was staged.

  How well did he really know Rachel? She didn’t like to talk about her family, especially her dead parents, so he’d learned next to nothing about her background. She had a maddening habit of withdrawing emotionally, the way she had after the break-in and today when they were arguing. Every relationship had trouble spots, but Rachel’s silence about her past was a lot bigger than a bump in the road. Why, though, would she fake something like an attempt to kill her and Holly? Purely to draw suspicion away from Ben Hern?

  Tom didn’t know. He couldn’t be certain what Rachel was thinking and feeling and he couldn’t predict what she would do.

  Lindsay, on the other hand, was a known quantity. He could see her stealing a key from Joanna’s office and poking around in Rachel’s house. It was the kind of thing she might do out of jealousy. But she would never own up to it.

  This petty squabbling between the two women was a distraction he didn’t need. Until he uncovered the whole truth, the only safe assumption was that the person who murdered the Taylors had also tried to kill Rachel and Holly. The killer was still nearby and posed an imminent danger to anyone in his way.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  “Dr. Goddard?” A young woman with a bright red smile rose from a chair in the animal hospital’s waiting area and rushed toward Rachel.

  Behind her, a man wielded a professional video camera with a cable news network’s logo.

  Rachel groaned inwardly. It was barely eight o’clock on Monday morning and she and Holly had just walked through the door, ready to begin the work day. The sight of a reporter coming at her made her want to turn around and walk right back out again.

  “May I have a minute of your time?” the reporter asked.

  Rachel had seen her on TV, and it felt weird to see her in the flesh, dressed in a stylish pants suit, with her dark hair falling to her shoulders in sculpted waves. Rachel couldn’t help staring at the woman’s vividly painted lips and unnaturally white teeth.

  She gave Holly a hand signal to move on, out of the reporter’s range. “I don’t have any information to give you about the Taylors,” she told the woman. “I didn’t see or hear anything.”

  The reporter’s smile died like a light being switched off, replaced in an instant by an expression of deep sympathy. “This must be a difficult experience, losing both Mr. and Mrs. Taylor in such horrifying circumstances.”

  Was the camera running? Rachel couldn’t be sure, but the lens was aimed at her, so she assumed it was recording. “I’m sure it’s a terrible time for their family and friends,” she said, “and my sympathy goes out to them, but I barely knew either of them. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to get to work.”

  Rachel walked away, but the reporter and camera man stayed with her. “You found Mr. Taylor’s body in the woods, didn’t you?”

  Rachel stopped and looked at the reporter. “Where did you hear that?”

  “From many different sources. Although Captain Bridger discounted it, most local people believe you’re a key witness in the case. Some say that you might be able to identify the killer. I’ve also heard that you had a break-in at your house Saturday night, and it might be connect—”

  “It’s not true,” Rachel said. “I didn’t see the killer. I can’t identify him. Now I’d appreciate it if the two of you left the building.”

  She strode past the main desk, where Shannon, the young receptionist, stood transfixed by the sight of the celebrity journalist. Inside her office, Rachel closed the door and leaned against it.

  Why were people spreading that story? Didn’t they realize they were endangering both her and Holly? Was that what they wanted—more violence?

  Now she had to worry about what the reporter would say on the air. The truth didn’t matter, denials counted for nothing. If a newscaster said on national television that Rachel might have seen the killer, everybody would believe it.

  She pulled on her white lab coat, determined to concentrate on work and put everything else out of her mind. She and Holly were safe here, and tonight they would be secure at home, with all the doors and windows bolted and Brandon bedding down on the couch as he had the night before. They were going to be all right, and Tom would find and arrest the Taylors’ killer soon.

  Rachel and the two other vets on duty had back-to-back appointments all morning, and she quickly immersed herself in the work she loved. She was at the front desk saying goodbye to an exuberant collie pup and his owner when Shannon told her she had a personal call.

  “Take a message,” Rachel said. “I’ll call back at lunchtime.”

  “She’s kind of insisting.” Shannon made an apologetic face. “She says to tell you it’s Janet Shaw.”

  The name startled Rachel. Janet was the business manager at the animal hospital where she used to work. Why would she be calling?

  “I’ll take it.” Rachel hurried into her office and grabbed the receiver of her desk phone. “Janet? Hi. How are you?”

  “Fine, thanks, but I just had a weird phone call about you.”

  “What? Who was it?”

  “Some woman who wanted information about you. She said she was with the Virginia Crime Lab and it had to do with a murder investigation.”

  For a second Rachel was too stunned to respond. Lindsay. Who else could it have been? The woman had gone off the deep end. “Did she give you her name?”

  “Johnson. Ann Johnson.”

  “Yeah, right,” Rachel muttered. To Janet she said, “That’s not her real name and she had no right to call you. What did you tell her?”

  “I didn’t tell her a damned thing. But get this—she threatened me. Said I’d be in a lot of trouble if I withheld information. I told her if anybody wanted to ask me questions they’d have to show up in person and produce a subpoena.”

  “Thank you,” Rachel said.

  “Can I ask you what’s going on? Does this have something to do with that politician’s daughter who was murdered down there?”

  “It’s a long story,” Rachel said. “But, really, the woman who called you was just snooping. Nobody’s investigating me. If she calls again, please don’t talk to her, and please let me know about it. Okay?”

  “Sure.” Janet paused. “This sounds pretty wacky, Rachel.”

  Rachel sighed. You ought to try it from my vantage point. “Don’t worry about it. I’m sorry you were bothered, but thanks for calling. Take care.”

  Rachel hung up, buffeted by a storm of anger and frustration. This was too much. This went beyond simple jealousy and curiosity. If Lindsay discovered certain key pieces of information about Rachel’s background and refused to stay quiet, she could bring a world of hurt to people Rachel wanted to protect. She had to find a way to stop Lindsay.

 
Chapter Twenty-eight

  Tom knew something was wrong as soon as he saw Lloyd Wilson’s two dogs. Instead of trotting over to greet Tom and Brandon when the cruiser pulled into the driveway, the dogs huddled together against the front door of Wilson’s house. No sign of the old man, but his truck sat in the driveway.

  Uneasy, but not sure why, Tom got out and stood looking at the dogs. The shrill song of cicadas in the nearby woods rose and fell, rose and fell.

  Tom had come out here to get Wilson and take him back to headquarters to give a written statement about the cars he’d seen at the Taylor house the morning of the murders, as well as his many sightings of Scotty Ragsdale’s car in the past. He hadn’t called in advance because Wilson was contrary enough to disappear if he decided he didn’t want to get any further involved. Tom had brought Brandon along in case he needed any help in overcoming Wilson’s objections.

  Brandon asked quietly, “Something feel off to you?”

  “Yeah.” Tom unsnapped his holster, drew his pistol. “Go around back. I’ll try the front door.”

  Tom advanced slowly. Brandon trotted around the side of the house.

  The dogs started whining when Tom approached. As he mounted the steps, they scrambled to their feet, nails scraping the planks. They pressed against each other, their eyes on Tom, their tails tucked between their legs.

  “Hey, girls,” Tom whispered. “What’s wrong? You know me. It’s okay.”

  They erupted into sharp, loud barks.

  “Hush,” Tom said. “Hush now. Quiet down.”

  The dogs went on barking, not at Tom but at the door. When one threw back her head and began to howl, the other joined in.

  Jesus Christ. Anybody in the house was already aware that visitors had arrived. He had to act fast.

  He wrenched open the screen door, grabbed the knob of the main door. Unlocked. He threw the door open, raised his pistol in a two-handed grip and stepped inside. Across the living room, a man appeared in the kitchen doorway, gun raised and aimed at Tom. Jolted, his heart thudding, Tom tightened his finger on the trigger. A split-second later he realized it was Brandon looking back at him.