Half a block up on my side of the street is an elderly woman. She’s heading in the same direction as I am, scooting her walker down the sidewalk at a snail’s pace. I can almost feel the vibrations of the aluminum legs with each scrape. The noise wears on my already frayed nerves.
Atop the retaining wall at the front of the yard is a three-foot-high, white, iron fence with squared lances across its top. A stairway with four stairs splits the raised yard and climbs up into it. White, iron handrails flank the stairs.
A thought in the back of my mind keeps niggling at me. In all the time I’ve spent trying to figure out this stalker-turned-killer, I never once pictured him living in an upscale neighborhood like this or in such a nice house.
The yard is perfectly manicured. Through Sarah’s memory I remember his broken nails cutting into my skin. A man so unkempt couldn’t possibly live here, could he? It doesn’t fit his profile.
I proceed up the stairs with caution. My right hand rests on my gun, ready to draw it in a moment’s notice. If he does turn out to be the Braille Killer, I’m not sure what I’ll do. I can’t think that far ahead right now.
No one lurks in the shadows in the yard, and no one peers through the windows. A single window is lit to the right of the front door, but all the other windows at the front of the two-story home are dark.
The front door sits about six feet back from the front of the house, squeezed between what I imagine are the living and dining rooms. The roof extends over the open area, creating a dark alcove ripe for monsters. The overhead light is off, leaving only the doorbell to light the darkness.
I reach for the doorbell button and my phone buzzes in my pocket, sending my pulse racing and me gasping for air. Get a grip, Alice.
I breathe deep and push the button. A melody of chimes sounds deep in the house and I wait. Around me, the world ages decades. I reach to press the button again, but then the overhead light turns on. A lock turns, then another, and then a chain falls, knocking on the doorframe a few times as it settles.
The door whines and swings open a few inches. A red-headed woman peers around the side of the door.
“Can I help you?” Her voice is muffled a bit through the glass storm door.
I reach back, take my credentials out of my back pocket, and hold them up to the glass so the woman can see them. “I’m Detective Bergman. May I come in for a few minutes?”
The woman opens the door all the way, squints at my badge for several moments, and then looks at me. “Homicide? What’s this about?”
I step back and return my credentials to my back pocket. “I have a few questions to ask the two of you. It will only take a few minutes of your time. I promise.”
She unlocks the storm door and pushes it open. “Doesn’t it seem a bit late for a house call, Detective?”
“I’m sorry, ma’am. I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t urgent.” I step around her and into a grand foyer.
It reminds me of the entrance to a five-star hotel where you’d pay a thousand bucks per night. It pulls me right out of my comfort zone and into a place of angst. I didn’t grow up wanting of food or shelter, but we never had money to waste. If we had, it would’ve gone straight to the church or to charity.
Directly ahead of me lies a marble staircase that curves around the wall as it rises toward the second story, and its intricately detailed, rod iron banister looks like it came from some European castle. Its cost probably exceeds that of my car parked down the road.
The woman closes the door and leads me into a living room the size of Mother’s entire house. Grayish-tan hardwood runs throughout the room, covered in places with lavish Egyptian rugs and furniture straight out of the palaces of movies. A large fireplace on the far-left wall demands attention with its gray-and-white swirled marble façade stretching to the ceiling.
She gestures toward a black leather couch. “Please, have a seat.”
“Thank you.” I sit on its edge. It’s far more comfortable than I imagined it would be.
She folds her hands in front of her. “May I offer you a drink?”
The smile she wears looks more like an elaborate mask that she puts on for company than it does anything genuine, and her cold, green eyes look right through me as though I’m an apparition.
“No thank you. I’ve little time as it were.”
She settles down on the matching leather chair that sits perpendicular to the couch. “I am Grace.” Her gaze dips to the floor for a moment and her lips purse. “You may proceed with your questions.”
I nod curtly. “When was the last time you or your husband visited your storage unit at Dunharrow—”
“I’ll stop you right there.” She crosses her arms and looks down her nose at me. I can tell she thinks herself superior to me. “If you are a detective, then do some detecting. Do we look like the type of people who would rent out a storage unit? I think not. Own an entire franchise perhaps, but never rent.”
The tone in her voice is so condescending that I want to jump up and slap her. Knock that stupid smiling mask from her narrow, angled face. Instead, I move forward with what I came to find out.
I clasp my hands together. “May I speak with your husband? Perhaps the unit is something he’s never mentioned to you.”
She scoffs. “Absurd. He doesn’t lift a finger without my knowledge and approval of it.” She spreads her arms wide. “I own everything you see here, Detective.”
The longer I sit here the less impressed I am with this woman. “Perhaps that’s true, but I’m going to have to insist on speaking with George. It is George, correct?”
Grace rises from her chair like a skeleton from a grave, her hands locked on the armrests and her arms ratcheting herself up. “If you insist on talking to my half-wit husband, I will call for him, but his answer will be the same as mine.”
I stare at her so hard that my lip nearly curls into a snarl. “Please do. Half-wits are more my speed.”
She glares at me for several seconds, huffs, and walks out of the room. I can’t help but smile.
Grace’s voice echoes through the house. “Erma, fetch your brother for the detective. And make it quick. I’ve grown tired of her presence already.”
“Yes, Grace,” says another woman.
I stand and stretch my legs. My migraine is on the cusp of returning and the floaters have already begun swimming across my blurred vision. I walk over to the marble mantle and pick up a picture. Grace. I set it down and look at several others. They’re all of Grace. How can someone be so full of themselves?
“Ah, Detective. Bergman is it?”
My hand moves to my gun as I turn to face the approaching man.
“Hold on, cowgirl. No need for that.” He raises his hands in the air in submission. “I’ll go with you willingly if it’ll get me away from the wife for a night.” He winks at me. His brown eyes are warm, and they smile even though his mouth doesn’t.
Dammit. It’s not him.
I move my hand away from my gun and offer my hand to him when he reaches me. He takes my fingers, turns my hand over, and kisses the top of it.
“I’m George Hallard, and you’re the hottest homicide detective I’ve ever met.”
My cheeks burn, but I roll with it. “Guess you don’t get out much. You should see my partner.”
He laughs heartily. “Truth be told, you’re the first one I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting. If I’d known they came in models like you I might’ve killed the wife long ago just to get you over here.”
“You keep it up and I might have to arrest you for conspiracy to commit murder.”
“I like you, Detective Bergman.” He points at me, winks, and clicks his tongue. “I know you’re in a rush, so let’s cut to the chase. The old ball-and-chain said you have some questions about a storage unit?”
Ball-and-chain. No love lost for his wife. “Dunharrow Storage. Know of it?”
He doesn’t flinch or hesitate. “N
ope. Should I?”
I pull out the folded lease form that Bill lent me from my left back pocket, unfold it, and hand it to George. “Look familiar?”
George pulls out a pair of reading glasses from his shirt pocket and puts them on. “Well I’ll be boondoggled. That sure is my name and address, but it’s not my signature.” He hands the paper back to me. “Seeing as how you’re a homicide detective I suppose you found a body there?”
I look back at all the pictures of Grace on the mantle. “I can’t discuss the details of my case but suffice it to say I’m hunting a man who has no regard for life.”
George nods knowingly. “I can understand that. Marry a woman like my wife and you’ll begin to wonder if you’ve got some sort of death wish.”
I frown. “So why do you stay with her if you’re so miserable?”
His eyes brighten. “My daughter. Well, technically Grace’s daughter. Grace adopted her when she was only a week old. She’s the light of my life and the bane of Grace’s existence. I’d travel to hell and back for that little girl.”
I smile. “It’s always about the kids, isn’t it?”
“Well, that and my sister Erma. Without her, Priscilla would probably be in some sort of boarding school for the blind.”
Priscilla? My skin prickles and I shudder.
George cocks his head. “You all right, Detective? Your complexion has gone from rosy-red to sterile-white. How about you take a seat?”
I close my eyes for a moment and wave my hand at him. “I’m okay. I’ve had little sleep in the past few days and it’s catching up to me.”
He removes his readers and puts them back in his shirt pocket. “With your line of work I imagine there are many sleepless nights. The darkness brings about all kinds of evil.”
“No joke there. So I’m following you correctly, Priscilla’s the name of your daughter?”
“Yes ma’am.” He shakes his head and smiles. “Fourteen and a prodigy on the piano. Can’t even imagine trying to learn to play the piano with sight. How she does it blind is beyond me. She’s going to be the next Stevie Wonder or something.”
I move close and take his forearm. “Can I meet her? Is she here?”
George pulls his arm back and steps backward. “Kind of an odd thing to ask, don’t you think? She’s just a girl. Why are you really here?”
“I can’t explain it, but I think your daughter’s in danger.”
George’s eyebrows rise. “Danger? From what? She never leaves the house. Grace won’t allow it.”
My mind is reeling. What can I say to make him understand the gravity of the situation? I have no choice but to tell him the truth. At least part of it.
“The man I’m chasing likes to kill young blind girls. I came here tonight thinking I’d finally found him, but now I’m certain he’s led me to your daughter. I think she’s in danger.”
George’s eyebrows dip over the bridge of his nose and he nods slowly. “I heard something on the news about a blind girl being killed. It’s tragic for certain but what does that have to do with my Priscilla? How would this guy even know about her?”
I shrug and put my hands on my hips. “I don’t know how he finds his victims, but what do you think led me here? A storage unit he leases under your name. That’s what. Would you chalk that up as a coincidence? I certainly wouldn’t. Are you willing to risk the life of your daughter on it?”
George groans. “I hear what you’re saying, and you’ve certainly raised my hackles with alarm, but you must see it from my point of view. I have a daughter who literally never leaves the house and you’re telling me that some killer is out there waiting for the right moment to invade my home and take her from me? How could he possibly know she exists?”
His argument is sound, and I have no proof to the contrary, but the past two days have led me here. How can I convince him of something I don’t understand myself? “I don’t know, but I’m certain he’s coming for her.”
George thrusts his arms in the air and his voice raises several octaves. “Do you understand how insane you sound, Detective?”
I pace in front of the fireplace. “You’re right, Mr. Hallard. I do sound insane, even to myself, and I don’t know what I can say to make it sound any more plausible. But I wouldn’t still be here if I didn’t think that it was a viable threat. For all we know he could work somewhere where he has access to information about blind people like a hospital or care facility. Please, for the sake of your daughter, trust what I’m telling you. Don’t leave her alone until we catch this bastard.”
“She’s not lying, Daddy.”
George and I turn around simultaneously. Priscilla stands by the couch in her jammies, a matching set of white shorts and t-shirt with purple, yellow, pink, and red flowers on them. A brown braid rests on each of her shoulders and hangs to her midsection.
George moves between her and me. “What are you doing down here? You’re supposed to be in bed.”
“And I was in bed until she came inside the house. I knew she was here, and I had to meet her.”
George walks over to Priscilla and drops to one knee. “What are you talking about, darling?”
My hands are shaking, and I can’t stop staring at the beautiful young girl. She reminds me of myself. So young and innocent. How could anyone think of hurting her?
Priscilla reaches out and touches George’s face. “She’s my guardian angel. I saw her in my room earlier today.”
“She what?” George turns and glares at me. His cheeks are as red as the Devil’s. “Get the hell out of my house before I call the police!”
I stand there like a statue, unwilling to move. I must understand how Priscilla sensed my presence. It could be the missing link to finding the Braille Killer.
“Daddy—”
George raises his hand. “Enough, Priscilla! Go to your room now.”
Grace walks back into the room. “You heard your father, Priscilla. Obey him or you’ll be punished.” She points a long, skinny finger at me. “You. Out. Now.”
I dig in my heels. “I’m not leaving here until I’m certain you understand the threat against your daughter.”
Grace crosses the room in a few strides and gets right in my face. “Oh, I’m well aware of the threat to our daughter. I’m looking right at it. Either you show yourself the door or I will.”
I know I should walk away, but there’s too much at stake. “I’d like to see you try.”
Grace looks back at George. “Take her upstairs, George. I’ll handle this.”
George nods, grabs Priscilla’s arm, and escorts her out of the room.
Grace returns her cold, dead gaze to me. “You come near this house again and I’ll have you arrested.”
My fist itches to clock her smug face. “You’re a heartless woman. If I have to come back here to collect your daughter’s body, it’s you I’ll be coming after. Her blood will be on your hands.”
Grace slaps me right across the face. Her talon nails cut like razorblades. “How dare you come into my house and threaten my family. I’ll have your job for this. Do you hear me?”
I wipe my cheek and look at my hand. There’s no blood, but it feels like there should be. “I could arrest you right now for assaulting a police officer, and you’re threatening me? Keep pushing it and I’ll take you to the station right now. Is that what you want?”
Grace’s nose wrinkles and her jaw quivers, but she keeps her mouth shut. I wish she hadn’t. I storm toward the front door and knock a picture of Grace off an end table when I walk by. It crashes to the floor and the glass shatters, but I keep moving.
I yank the front door open and shove the storm door out of my way. “You haven’t seen the last of me.”
I’m halfway down the walkway when the front door slams behind me. Rage shakes me to my core. How can they be so indifferent toward their child’s safety? I turn around and look up at the windows on the second floor. One is lit, and a pi
ece of paper is pressed against it. Circles within rectangular patterns. Braille.
I hold my breath and the entire world seems to come to a halt around me. The breeze in the trees falters, dogs cease to bark, crickets stop chirping, and the beat of my heart fades into nothing.
I am as still as stone. A gargoyle perched on the walkway. Nothing exists but me and the five words written on that piece of paper. They repeat in my mind like the static at the end of a record. A young girl’s plea for help.
Five words that I understand better than anyone else: “Don’t let him take me.”
CHAPTER TEN
Rain drizzles from the sky like a faucet that won’t turn off, adding to the weight I already carry. Priscilla lay in my arms, rigid, cold, dead. My feet march up the sloped road, my legs pumping like those of a machine, without feeling and unrelenting.
People line the street on both sides, cloaked in red robes and chanting in a tongue I don’t recognize. Some spit at us and others throw bottles, rocks, and other debris, but it doesn’t slow me down. I am on a mission, my gaze locked onto an old, marble structure in the distance.
Up ahead is a massive expanse of grass, headstones, and crosses, fenced and gated in black iron. The large gates are spread wide like arms of love, welcoming the dead into damnation.
I stride through them and they bang closed behind me, but I do not flinch. I keep moving forward up the hill until I reach the crypt. I lay Priscilla on the ground and glare at the black-and-gray marble doors.
Each door is half his face, scarred and leathery cheeks and demon eyes that glow with fire. I step over Priscilla’s body and pull the doors apart. A heat more intense than any I’ve ever known blasts me with its full force, but I do not waver. The smell of sulfur burns my eyes and nostrils, but I do not blink.
Flames flicker from the depths of the pit concealed within the crypt. Hell’s fire for the Devil himself. Through the flames I see a number smeared in blood on the back wall: 56.
I turn, pick up Priscilla’s body, and then toss her into the fiery pit. The flames awaken her soul, and she screams like a wraith. The number on the back wall changes to 57.
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