by T. R. Ragan
When she opened the door, she found herself face to face with Nate.
“Sawyer,” he said, surprised. “What happened to you?”
If she looked anything like she felt, it had to be pretty bad. “It’s a long story,” she told him. “What are you doing home in the middle of the day?”
“Got off early.” He grimaced. “Is that blood? Come inside. Let’s get you cleaned up.”
Once she was inside, he examined her closer. “You’ve been banged up good.” He shut the door and led her into the bathroom down the hall, grabbed a couple of clean washrags, and handed them to her. “Here. Clean that blood off so we can see how bad those wounds are. I’ll grab some ointment and bandages.”
By the time Nate returned, she had found seven cuts, some deeper than others. Some of the cuts on her face and arms were from the glass vase after it broke. She had multiple bruises all over her body from falling and thrashing around on the ground. Four claw marks traveling from her face to her collarbone were from Lena’s fingernails.
Nate took a closer look at the cut on her arm. “It’s deep, but I think a couple of those Steri-Strips will do the trick. Unless you’d rather I take you to the hospital?”
“No. I’m good. Is Harper home?”
He shook his head. “Fix yourself up, then we’ll talk. I’ll be in the kitchen when you’re done.”
It didn’t take her long to clean up. Nate was where he said he’d be. “Do you know where Harper is?”
“No idea. Your guess is as good as mine.”
He had bread, lunch meats, pickles, and mustard lined up on the island.
“Hungry?” Nate asked.
“No, thanks.”
As he made a sandwich for himself, he used his chin to gesture her way. “So what happened to you? Or would you rather keep it to yourself like your sister tends to do?”
Sawyer understood his frustration. He wasn’t the only one tired of Harper’s secretive ways. Bruised, battered, and pissed off, Sawyer was way past the stage of keeping secrets. If Harper was in any way involved with Lena Harris, then Nate needed to know about it because as far as Sawyer was concerned, his entire family could be in danger.
And yet she hadn’t called the police because something told her that her sister might be in more trouble than danger.
Slipping onto a stool overlooking the island where Nate worked, Sawyer started talking. She told him all about the Kia Soul that had been following her, how she’d tracked the car down, and how the driver had turned out to be a dark-haired, petite female. “Harmless, right?” she asked Nate. “Wrong. When I asked her why she was following me, she invited me into her apartment, then shut the door and lunged, said she wanted to kill me.”
Nate stopped what he was doing. “What the hell?”
“She was terrifying. I thought I was going to die right there in her apartment.”
Nate grabbed a towel, wiped his hands, and pulled out his phone. “Did you call the police yet?”
She shook her head. “We can’t call the police.”
“Why not?”
“Because the woman told me to talk to Harper if I wanted answers.”
Nate exhaled and simultaneously raked his fingers through his hair. He came around the counter and took a seat on the stool next to Sawyer. “Listen,” he said. “I don’t know what Harper is up to, but I know it can’t be good. On Sunday, somewhere around two in the morning, Harper got out of bed. Quiet as a mouse, she walked through the house, gathering her purse and the keys to her car. What she doesn’t know is that I followed her.”
Sawyer said nothing. Just listened.
“There weren’t too many cars on the road, so I had to stay far enough back not to be seen. She drove all the way to Power Inn Road and took a dirt driveway up to an abandoned warehouse. The only reason I know that much is because I returned the next day. The place was empty. I didn’t stay long.” He shook his head. “Why would she go to an abandoned warehouse in the middle of the night?”
“I don’t know,” Sawyer said.
“Every time I ask her what’s going on, she tells me more lies.”
“Like what?”
“Weeks ago, she told me she was writing a book and meeting with other aspiring authors to exchange pages. There is no book,” he said. “She told me she was taking classes at Sac State. I went to the main office at the university and discovered she had never registered. They had no record of any Harper Pohler or Harper Brooks.” He exhaled. “Whenever she’s on her computer, she shuts it down if I walk into the room.” He drew in an unsteady breath. “I was the last one to find out she was pregnant.”
Sawyer thought about Lena Harris and what she’d said about asking Harper about Otto Radley. She wasn’t sure why she kept that part to herself, but she did. “I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, me too. When Harper returned from her middle-of-the-night outing, I was standing right over there, waiting.” He pointed.
“What did she say?”
“Her lips were sealed. She wouldn’t tell me anything. I told her she had one week, and if she didn’t talk to me by then, tell me everything that was going on, then I was filing for divorce.”
Sawyer’s heart sank. “She loves you. This family means everything to her.” She had to find a way to help her. Harper had always been the most caring, loving person. She was a good mother and a good wife. Her sister had to have gotten involved in something dark, something so horribly bad that she just couldn’t seem to find a way out. Sawyer needed to go to the warehouse, their only clue.
Sawyer came to her feet. “Do you have an address for the warehouse on Power Inn Road?”
“I do. Are you sure you want to go there? You’re in bad shape, Sawyer. I really think you should go to the emergency room and get checked out. That cut by your eye might need stitches.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Maybe I should go with you.”
“The kids will be home soon,” Sawyer said. “Stay here. They need you.”
He didn’t look happy about it, but he knew she was right. “If you learn anything about what’s going on, anything at all, will you call me?”
“I will. I promise.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Aria took a right off Old Auburn Road in Citrus Heights. The road was pitted with holes. Pebbles and gravel rolled and pinged against the undercarriage. She felt as if she were driving to a house in the woods instead of a business. She exhaled when she saw a sign for SH’s Taxidermy.
The parking lot was empty, so she took the spot up front. She got out of her car, made sure her gun was locked tight in the holster around her waist. Above the wooden entry door was the head of a deer with beautiful antlers. It was enough to make her want to turn around. After being confronted by Christina Farro, she had thought she could handle anything, but now she wasn’t so sure.
You can do this, she told herself. Don’t be a wimp.
She pushed open the door and stepped inside. The rich tones of a single cello rolled over her at once. It was beautiful and somewhat eerie. The place reminded her of a museum with rows of glass-covered displays. There were six aisles. She chose to walk down the middle aisle, trying not to look to her left or right so as not to see the displays of raccoons, squirrels, and birds in flight, all frozen in time. She made the mistake of looking up and seeing stuffed bats hanging from wires hooked to the ceiling. Her stomach clenched. “Hello?”
Just as she took her last step out of the aisle and into an open space in the room, she saw a lone man standing over a workbench. He wore goggles with magnifying glasses attached like something she might see on a heart surgeon. As she drew nearer she saw that he was using a sharp dental tool to clean the area around the eye of a rabbit.
She was about to turn around and head back to the car when he looked up. He lifted his brows in surprise, then set down his tool, took off his goggles, and turned down the music. “Hello. How can I help you?”
Suddenly speechless, she said, “Um, I c
alled earlier and left a message.”
“I haven’t checked my messages. Sorry.”
His voice was monotone and so quiet she could hardly hear him. “I can come back later, if that would work better for you?”
“Now is fine.”
“Okay. I am helping Sawyer Brooks, a journalist with the Sacramento Independent, on a story about the deaths of Nick Calderon, Bruce Ward, and Aston Newell.”
His mannerisms and facial expression remained the same. He gave nothing away. She noticed a bowl of white powder on the table and thought maybe if she showed interest in his work, she might get him talking. “What’s that powder for?”
“It is a chemical called borax. It is used to draw out moisture and dry the flesh. It also keeps insects away.”
“Oh. What about that?” She pointed at a waxy figure.
“We call those mannequins.”
The whole thing was disgusting. And trying to get this man to open up was like pulling teeth. It wasn’t happening. But she was here and she wasn’t coming back, so there was no reason to beat around the bush. “Is there anything you can tell me about Jimmy Crocket or Emily Stiller?”
“Like what?”
Come on, mister, she thought. Throw me a bone. No, never mind. Don’t throw me a bone. Gross. “Did either of them strike you as the type of person who might want revenge?”
“Ah.” He wagged a finger her way. “I know why you’re here. I’m not a killer.” He spread his arms wide. “I’m an artist. I make it possible for these animals to live forever!”
“Yes. I can see that.”
“But do you really?”
She offered a watery smile, glad to be standing a safe distance away from him. She guessed his height to be at least six feet until he stepped off a stool behind the table, making him closer to five foot nine. His hair was pulled back into a ponytail. His eyes were squinty.
“I get the impression you’re offended by my work.”
She couldn’t lie. “It’s just not my thing.”
He shrugged and said, “If I had killed any of those bullies you mentioned, they would be displayed on my wall in the back room.”
His thin-lipped smile did nothing to settle her nerves. God, she thought. There was more in the back?
“Come with me. I’ll show you.” He turned and walked toward the back. She took a tentative step that way, thought about declining his offer, but something drove her to follow him down a semidark hallway, at the end of which was a closed door.
She reached under the light jacket she’d put on to conceal her weapon and felt better with the gun grasped within her palm.
He opened the door, then waited for her to step inside.
“After you,” she said.
He stepped into the room. When there was a good distance between them, she walked inside and felt all the blood drain from her face.
“Isn’t it wonderful?” he asked.
There were lions and tigers and bears. Literally. All with human faces made of wax. It was beyond crazy. Dizzy, she could hardly breathe. “What is this place?”
“People pay money to see this room.”
There were chairs made of three-headed sheep and squirrels with doll heads where their face should be. Dozens of frogs, one on top of the other, forming a pyramid.
And much more. So much more.
She was going to be sick. She turned around, and this time, she did run. She could hear him calling out to her, telling her to come back anytime.
CHAPTER FORTY
Sawyer used the navigation system to get to the address Nate had given her. She knew she was at her destination the moment she saw the long line of police vehicles with swirling lights. After pulling into a dirt area off to the side of the road, she shut off the engine and called Harper. It went straight to voicemail. “It’s Sawyer. Please call me right away.”
She climbed out. Ingress and egress was being controlled by security. She showed the uniformed officer her badge, and he let her through. The crime scene tape stopped her from being able to see inside the warehouse. Pictures were being taken, sketches were being made.
Detective Perez talked to the ME who had just arrived, then raised a hand and called out for one of his men to show her the way. Detective Perez then walked over to where Sawyer stood with other media personnel. “You looked bad enough this morning,” Detective Perez told Sawyer. “What did you do now?”
“Just another day on the job as a reporter.”
“How did you get here so quick?” His head tilted. “Don’t tell me. You carry a police scanner like the rest of these hacks?”
“No scanner needed,” she told him. “Mind telling me what you found?”
“I do mind. I thought I made that clear. You might want to take a ride to the hospital. Whoever tried to scratch your eyes out might have caused an infection. It doesn’t look good.”
She watched him walk away. “What an ass,” she said under her breath.
The woman standing next to her with a lanyard hanging around her neck said, “No shit. I’ve been working the beat for over a decade, and he doesn’t even know who I am. So I guess that makes you special.”
Sawyer looked at her. “Any idea what’s going on?”
“Oh. You really don’t have a scanner, do you?”
Sawyer shook her head.
“Dead man. Throat was cut. Whoever killed him covered him up with leaves and debris.”
“Is the body inside the warehouse?”
“No.” She pointed farther into the wooded area.
“Do we have a name?” Sawyer asked.
“We do.” The woman smiled. “Eddie Carter.”
“Eddie Carter,” Sawyer repeated. A cold lump formed in her throat. Eddie Carter, Don Fulton, and Felix Iverson. Those were the names Lexi had repeated over the phone. All three of them were named as defendants when Lena Harris took them to court.
“Married man with two children,” the woman was saying. “He was reported missing three days ago.”
Sawyer’s phone buzzed. It was Lexi. She’d forgotten all about their meeting. Sawyer thanked the woman and excused herself to go find a quiet spot out of earshot. “What’s going on?”
“Looks like we’re going to have to reschedule our meeting for another time,” Lexi said. “I just got a call about a guy found dead in the trunk of his Porsche Cayenne.”
What the hell was going on? Sawyer wondered. Dead guys were coming out of the woodwork. “Where?”
“At a baseball park, of all places. My source said it appears he’s been in the trunk for at least a few days.”
“How did he die?”
“Somebody sliced his throat wide open. And you’ll never believe who it was.”
Eddie Carter was dead, his body only a few yards away. And Felix Iverson didn’t drive a Porsche. That left Don Fulton. “Tell me,” Sawyer said.
“Don Fulton. Isn’t that crazy? You were just asking me about that case with the three defendants all those years ago, and suddenly up pops his name. And now he’s dead.”
“I’ve got to go,” Sawyer said, cutting her off. She shoved her phone into her pocket, then turned around. Through the canopy of trees she could see Eddie Carter’s body being slipped into a body bag. She thought of Christina Farro with all the scars from her time spent with Otto Radley. She thought of Lena Harris, raped by multiple men at a fraternity party. There was also Tracy Rutherford, the woman who had taken a squad of high school football players to court for sexual assault and then watched them walk free. Lastly, she thought of Harper, her own sister, and how she was raped by their father, night after night, nobody to save her.
Sawyer swallowed hard as she filed away the names of the Black Wigs in her memory: Christina Farro, Tracy Rutherford, Lena Harris, and Harper Pohler.
Had her own sister been a part of the Black Wigs all along?
Where was she?
As she watched the body bag being lifted onto a gurney, her mind snapped back to Felix Iverson.
<
br /> Eddie Carter and Don Fulton were dead.
Shit! If she didn’t hurry, Felix would be next.
She took off running for her car.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Hidden beneath an old rusted Ford truck with the back end propped up on an even older washing machine, Cleo watched and waited for Felix Iverson to head out. For the last two days, she’d watched him leave his trailer around this same time and walk over a mile to a roadside diner, where he ordered a breakfast burrito.
After Harper’s sister had left her apartment, she’d cleaned up the mess and then continued with her plans as if nothing had happened. If a rookie crime reporter was closing in on her and the other crew members, then it wouldn’t be long before the men in blue started coming around and asking questions too.
The clock was ticking.
Cleo let out a grunt as she maneuvered her body in the tight space so that all her weight wasn’t on her right hip. She’d already been lying beneath the truck for thirty minutes. She could hear more than one rodent scurrying around inside the old clunker above her head, but she couldn’t see them. A friend’s rat had bitten her when she was ten years old. Rodents freaked her out. If a rat scurried too close, she might scream. And she wasn’t a screamer. Snakes, no problem. Spiders, fine. Rodents—no thank you.
The creaky metal door leading into the trailer opened.
Felix Iverson clomped down the stairs as he pulled a T-shirt over his head, tugging it over his rail-thin body as he walked past the truck where she lay hidden. Farther on down the gravel road, he passed by another half dozen trailers, all tilting and sagging, all surrounded by heaping piles of garbage and filth.
When Cleo could no longer see him, she crept out from under the truck. Briskly but quietly, she walked to his trailer and made her way up the stairs, careful not to fall straight through the rotted wood.
The door was unlocked. She walked inside. The disgusting smell hit her like a punch to the gut, but it didn’t stop her. She knew what she had to do. She closed the door and made her way through the narrow kitchen to the back end of his trailer. His bedroom consisted of a thin mattress and a couple of worn blankets. She looked around for a place to hunker down until he returned. Since he didn’t have a bed frame, she couldn’t slip underneath the mattress. There was a closet, but the slider doors were gone.