Persecution

by C. A. Shives

  Lori frantically waved her hand at her burly partner, who turned off the camera. “That was great,” Lori said, her blue eyes bright with excitement. “That was a fantastic line. You looked perfect. You looked really scary.”

  Herne nodded and walked back to Tucker's office. He'd almost reached the door when he heard the cameraman's low voice behind him.

  “That dude doesn't just look scary,” the cameraman said to Sims. “He is scary. I wouldn't want to meet up with him in a dark alley.”

  In the glass of Tucker's office door, Herne could see Lori Sims press her hands against her hips as she watched his retreating back. “Oh, I don't know,” she said. “I don't think I'd mind it at all.”

  Herne mentally shook his head as he stepped into Tucker's office. The chair Eric Barber had been sitting in was empty. His suspect had left.

  Herne pounded his thick fist on the desk, rattling the photograph of Elizabeth that sat on the corner. Silently, he cursed himself for his stupidity. It wasn't that he had more questions for Barber. But he didn't like anyone slipping out from under him.

  Sheila, the dispatcher, buzzed the phone on Tucker's desk. “Art?” she said. “I've got the Chief on the line for you.”

  Tucker's voice shook with irritation. “Sheila told me you gave Lori Sims an interview. Jesus, Art. I just told you that we were trying to keep these homicides quiet. I’ll have a damn panic in town if everyone finds out that two local guys have had their guts cut out by a crazed killer. What the fuck were you thinking?”

  “I didn't talk about the homicides,” Herne said. “I only mentioned Charlotte.”

  “This is still my town. Still my job. These are my fucking cases, Art. Not yours.”

  Herne sighed as he sank his body into Tucker's chair. He had no desire to argue with his friend. “What do you want, Rex?”

  “Johnson and I just finished going through most of the paperwork at Hayes Construction. Everything seemed on the level. Nothing suspicious. I don't see any signs that Hayes was cooking the books or screwing his customers. But there was one interesting tidbit of information.”

  “Let's hear it.”

  “About a year ago, right after the Flynn house fell, Hayes started having some financial troubles. The bad press didn't do much for business, I guess. So he went and got two private investors to help bail him out of trouble. One of them is his cousin who lives in Baltimore. As far as I can tell, this cousin is loaded with cash and has no real interest in Hayes Construction. He probably just wanted to help out a family member. The other one, however, is a man named Jeffery McNeil. You mentioned him once before, and I had Saxon do a check on him. You wouldn’t tell me the reason for the check. But now I want to know it.”

  McNeil. Charlotte's lover.

  “I’m not ready to share that information yet, Rex,” Herne said.

  “Damn you, Art,” Tucker said. “This is my fucking investigation. You tell me why McNeil was on your suspect list from the beginning or I’ll pull you off this case. I’ll make sure no one in this town will talk to you. You won’t be able to get an interview with anyone, much less use my office for it.”

  Herne’s voice was even and cold. “Do that if you want, Rex,” he said. “I’d rather crawl back into my hole and forget this case ever existed. But if you call me off, you’ll have to answer to Elizabeth for it.”

  With a curse, Tucker hung up the phone.

  Herne turned his attention back to McNeil. For the first time in days, he felt like he had a real lead. Something to sink his teeth into.

  Some prey.

  As Herne slid behind the steering wheel of his truck, he was struck by a thought. He had told Elizabeth about McNeil. He had revealed to her the identity of Charlotte's lover. But she obviously hadn't shared the information with Tucker.

  His heart pounded in his chest as he drove. Had Elizabeth kept the information from Tucker because she didn't trust her husband to find Charlotte? Did she feel an obligation to keep Herne's confidence because she was responsible for his interest in the investigation? Or was she trying to tell him, indirectly, that she would keep his secrets?

  Trying not to imagine the secrets they might keep together, Herne gripped his steering wheel until his knuckles whitened.

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  He pulled at the curtains, tugging them together to eliminate even the smallest ray of sunlight through the windows. McNeil closed his eyes as he flopped onto the bed. He'd just finished a twenty-four hour shift at the hospital. The babysitter had mercifully managed to get his son to take a nap before she left, so McNeil finally had some peace. And though his body screamed for sleep, his mind refused to slumber. McNeil shrugged and removed his boxer shorts. Since his wife was at work, a little self-pleasuring might help him relax.

  He'd just formulated a fantasy in his mind—the babysitter who watched his son was a young Asian girl who had a penchant for tight pants that hugged her sweet ass—when the doorbell rang. He thought about ignoring it. Thought about finishing his fantasy and drifting off to sleep. But he knew the doorbell might mean business. McNeil's wife liked to spend money. She bought shoes, clothes, handbags, jewelry. She spent thousands of dollars on her hair, her makeup, her gym membership, and her spa treatments. McNeil needed money. A lot of it.

  The man on the other side of the door wasn't there for business. At least, not McNeil's type of business. His gray eyes glittered like a cat with a mouse between his paws. He wore blue jeans, black boots, and a black leather jacket. Although his posture was casual as he leaned against the porch post, the cords that bulged from his neck displayed tension. Lots of tension. Like a man ready to implode, McNeil thought.

  McNeil forced a grin onto his face, although his skin felt stretched and tight. “Mr. Herne,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

  “I have a few more questions,” Herne said.

  McNeil glanced into his house. Paperwork and bottles lay scattered across his kitchen table. He closed the door behind him and joined Herne on the porch.

  “You aren't going to invite me in?” Herne asked. He grinned, and McNeil almost expected to see the sharp, thick incisors of a tiger instead of teeth in the man's mouth.

  “The house is a mess,” McNeil explained. “And I was getting ready to go to bed. I just finished a twenty-four hour shift. My wife is at work, so I haven't had time to clean or cook or anything. And my son is taking a nap in his bedroom. I don’t want him disturbed. I'm sure there's nothing you need in the house. I can't talk long anyway. I really need to get some sleep.” McNeil knew he was babbling, but he was unable to stop the flow of words from his mouth. Something about Herne's gray eyes made him feel guilty.

  Herne nodded as one side of his mouth curved into another grin. He shifted his feet and then moved closer to McNeil, his gaze never leaving McNeil's face.

  “You invested in Hayes Construction,” Herne said.

  McNeil nodded. He knew his involvement with the construction company would come out eventually. “Yes.”

  “How much did you invest?”

  “About two hundred thousand,” McNeil said. “I didn't really want to do it. I have no interest in construction. I know nothing about the business. But Jason came to me and asked me directly. We'd known each other when we were younger, and he knew I had inherited a little money after my dad died. I still didn't want to do it, except…”

  “Except?”

  “Well, Charlotte,” McNeil admitted. “The truth is, Mr. Herne, our affair was over. She refused to leave her husband, so she ended it. Just cut me off completely. I missed her desperately, and I’d been trying to contact her, but she was ignoring my calls. I thought investing in the business would give me a chance to see her again.”

  “Did it?”

  McNeil shook his head. “No, Jason wanted a silent partner. Someone who would be content to pay out the cash and wait for the dividends. He never invited me to get involved in Hayes Construction, so I never saw Charlotte as a result of that investment. I still kept trying to
get her back, though. Was still trying when she disappeared. I guess you can't stop true love.”

  Herne snorted.

  “Is there anything else, Mr. Herne?” McNeil asked.

  Herne leaned in close. So close that McNeil could smell the man's scent: a mix of gunpowder, Irish Spring soap, and nicotine. “Did you make any money from your investment?” Herne asked.

  “No. It was a losing proposition. I never saw a dime in return, and after a few months I never expected to.”

  “Now that Jason is dead, you'll get your money back, won't you?” Herne asked. “His wife will sell the business and return your investment. Do you need the money, McNeil? You've got a nice house. A nice life. A wife who takes care of her appearance. Did you need the money enough to murder a man to get it?”

  “No!” McNeil said. He held up his hands as if to ward off an attack. “No. I've already written off that money. I don't need it. And I don't want it.”

  “You say that,” Herne growled, “but I'll bet you cash the check when Hayes' widow hands it to you.”

  He turned and walked away, and McNeil watched the man's long, deliberate strides. He felt bile rise in his throat, and he swallowed hard to prevent himself from vomiting.

  If he had come into the house, McNeil thought, he would have seen everything. I have to be more careful.

  Charlotte's disappearance—his lover's disappearance—had brought the cops knocking at his door. At the time, the affair had given him things he needed. Sex. Love. Affection. The things his wife never gave to him. Things a man needed.

  But now that the police were questioning him at his home, McNeil wondered if he should have just stuck with his solitary fantasies in bed.

  CHAPTER 16

  NOVEMBER 8 – THURSDAY NIGHT

  Herne lounged in a chair at the police station, his eyes shut. The scent of Italian herbs from his leftover pizza hung in the air. Saxon sat across from him. She bent forward over the pile of documents on the table. A lock of her black hair fell over her blue eyes, and she tucked it behind her ear. Herne saw Tucker pause to watch his lieutenant’s movement.

  Seeing Herne’s gaze on him, Tucker returned to pacing around the room, his lean body tightly coiled with energy. “I can't keep this quiet much longer,” he said. “Everyone's started asking questions. Sniffing around. If we don't find the killer soon, the state boys are going to overrun us.”

  “They have a lot more resources,” Saxon said, glancing up from her work.

  “Fuck that,” Tucker barked. “These are my people, dammit. We're going to catch this killer ourselves.”

  Saxon's mouth twisted into a grim line, and she stared at the papers again. But Herne thought she wasn't really seeing them.

  “So who are our best suspects?” Tucker said.

  “Well,” Saxon said, “are we assuming that Charlotte's disappearance is related to the murders?”

  “Yes,” Herne replied.

  “Then we have her husband, Thad Allen. But he's really only a suspect because he's her husband. There's no evidence to suggest that he's our guy.”

  “Most homicides are committed by someone known to the victim,” Herne said. “We'll keep him on the list. Who else?”

  “Bobby Flynn,” Saxon said. “The ex-prison guard. It's known that he blames Hayes Construction for the death of his daughter.”

  “He's the guy,” Tucker said suddenly. “He's gotta be. You've been saying all along that these murders are personal, Art. Well, it doesn't get much more fucking personal than seeking revenge on the men who killed your daughter.”

  Herne shrugged. “Maybe. It’s possible. But who else do we have?”

  “Eric Barber,” Saxon replied. “Jason fired him after the Flynn house collapsed. He's held a grudge ever since.”

  “Add Jeffrey McNeil to the list,” Herne said. “He invested in Hayes Construction and lost his money. Can you find out what happens to his investment if the widow sells or liquidates the company? There must be terms written in the contract.”

  “That's not exactly a rock solid motive,” Tucker said.

  He was also fucking our missing woman, Herne thought. Aloud he said, “He was hiding something when I went to question him. I could sense it. The man has a secret, and I want to know what it is.”

  “I'll look into it,” Saxon said.

  “Jesus,” Tucker said. “That's four suspects. Most of them have a pretty decent motive. And there's not a single shred of physical evidence to connect any of them to the crimes. And Charlotte is still missing.”

  Herne picked up a photograph of Vanderbilt's crime scene. Fiona, the crime photographer, was the only professional in town. She brought her camera to weddings, graduations, and grisly murders. And even amid the blood and bile and death that pervaded the picture in his hand, he could see her skill and talent. The close-up of the sharp, large X carved on the victim's buttocks was as clear as if he was examining the body in person.

  “I'd like to know why he's signing the victims,” Herne said.

  “Signing? You think that X is his damn signature?”

  “Yes,” Herne said. “It's his mark. His claim to the crime. But why an X?”

  “Maybe he's illiterate,” Saxon offered. “Maybe he can't write his own name.”

  Herne shook his head. “No. Not this guy. He’s smart. He plans. He’s not illiterate.”

  “Maybe he's marking their asses for a reason,” Tucker said.

  “I think the location of his signature is definitely significant. Somehow, it almost feels like an act of defiance, like the way young boys will moon a passing police car.”

  Saxon sighed, pushed out her lower lip, and blew her short bangs away from her eyes.

  “You disagree?” Herne asked. “Do you think the X means something else?”

  “Maybe he's just a queer who likes ass,” Saxon replied.

  Herne shook his head. “No. He's marking the victims in a way that's personal to him and personal to them. As far as I know, neither of them were homosexuals.”

  “Perhaps he's been scarred in some way. Like a birthmark. Or a wound,” Saxon suggested.

  “Great, great,” Tucker muttered. “So am I supposed to ask every man in town to drop his drawers until I find one with a big mark on his ass?”

  “No,” Herne said. “X may carry a mark on him, but it's not physical. It's on his mind and soul. But like the symbol he carves on his victims, it's drawn in blood.”

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  His heavy tread sounded hollow on the wood floor. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind he knew that Charlotte could hear his footsteps. But he didn't pause to wonder if the noise filled her with dread and fear. He just paced around the room, his shoulders hunched and his eyes on his feet.

  They were getting closer.

  Artemis Herne was getting closer.

  Trout had seen the news report with Lori Sims. Herne hadn't mentioned the murders. He'd only talked about Charlotte. And Trout had seen the clenched muscles of the man’s body.

  Herne would keep going until he found Charlotte.

  He’s just a man, Trout thought. Just flesh and blood. He’d bleed like the rest of them if I took my knife to him. I don’t need to be worried about him.

  He tried to convince himself that he was smarter than Herne. Smarter and more cunning.

  But then he would remember Herne’s gray eyes, cold like metal, and a worm of fear would curl in Trout’s heart. It didn’t matter if he was smarter and more cunning than Herne.

  Because Herne teetered on the edge of sanity. And he wouldn’t stop until it was over.

  There's not much time left, Trout thought as he strode across the floor. I have to finish the job. Finish the work. Make them all pay before I run out of time. And then I can get out of town. No one will ever catch me.

  He tried not to think about what would happen if Herne found him before his work was finished.

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  She heard his footsteps above, so she hurried. She had no idea how
long it would be until he came down to visit her. Charlotte only knew that he would eventually appear, his heavy steps echoing on the wooden staircase.

  She pulled together the small hole she'd torn in the mattress. She’d made the hole with her fingernail, wiggling her finger in the fabric until it grew bigger and bigger. When the hole had grown to the size of her fist, she'd been able to reach the coiled springs inside the mattress. She chose one—one that seemed a bit loose—and wiggled it back and forth, trying to force it to break off in her hand. It was a job that required patience. A job that would only reward her after hours of systematic work and diligence, if she was rewarded at all. So far, her work had not paid off.

  Ignoring the groan of her sore muscles, Charlotte flipped the mattress over to hide the hole and the exposed spring. She didn't think Trout would notice the mattress had been turned. Both sides of it were dingy gray and stained, pitted with the decay of time and neglect and age.

  She flopped on the mattress and massaged her hand. Hours of bending the coil had stiffened her fingers, giving them a dull ache reminiscent of arthritis. She stretched her fingers and turned her wrist, listening as his footsteps thudded on the floor above her. The pain in her body had dimmed to a constant, unrelenting ache that seemed to permeate her bones. But she had a purpose now. A goal. A focus other than the hard strikes of his weapon against her tender flesh. It helped her ignore the throbbing torment.

  For an hour Trout paced on the floor above her, his steps unrelenting. Charlotte had never before heard him walk like this, and she wondered if he were exercising. Or celebrating. Or praying.

  Or maybe he's planning, Charlotte thought. Planning another way to torture me. Another way to hurt me. Another way to exact his sick and twisted revenge.

  Earlier that day or night—time meant very little to Charlotte in the dark basement—Trout had brought her a bottle of water, a peanut butter sandwich, an apple, and a chocolate chip cookie. It reminded her of the type of lunch a mother would pack for her child. If Trout had been honest when he claimed she'd receive only one meal per day, then she'd been there for six days.