Edge of Midnight (27 page)

You're alive! She tried to find some comfort in that, but her mind pointed out that if he'd wanted her dead, he'd have killed her while she was unconscious. He had something else in mind. The smell filtered into her nose and down into her throat, making her nauseated and woozy enough that her thoughts were dreamlike instead of sharp. If she was going to survive, she had to be sharp.

He must have lowered a window, because the sound of tires was louder, thumping along on a rutted road. He'd left the main road and was somewhere in the country where there was little chance of anyone else around. It didn't much matter. She was in no position to signal anyone.

The sounds lulled her into a half dream state and she was jolted awake when she thought she might—just might—hear something being added, something in the distance. Another car? She wished she knew what time it was. The middle of the night, when any sensible person was asleep in his bed? Or still morning, when another person out driving might be likely? Hopes soared. Maybe, just maybe, someone else was out here, wherever they were. Elation fizzed through her brain drowning out a small voice somewhere in the murk at the bottom that pointed out it was too much to hope for, and how often had anything she pinned her heart on come to pass?

Suddenly, he was nervous. She could tell, because the leather seat back was swishing with his movement. The sound of another car got louder.

“Damn!”

Ah, he heard it, too. There was another car out there, another person who drove it and—so what? It wasn't as though another car could be any risk to him or help to her. She couldn't send out flares, wave a handkerchief like a damsel in distress, or even scream. She was trussed up on the floor in the backseat and couldn't even move. A whole fleet of cars could drive by and it wouldn't matter. Hope, like a punctured balloon, deflated and dwindled into despair.

But he seemed nervous, squirmed. Did that mean something? He was worried? Like there was someone out there? Someone who might help her? Hope came rushing back, then suddenly she was aware her bladder was uncomfortably full and about to humiliate her.

Jazz was playing on the radio. Mitch liked country and western, she hated it. Whenever she was in the car with him, he'd crank up the volume and she'd listen to betrayal, lovers going away, heartache, and going home to wherever home was. She never complained, otherwise when they got home he handcuffed her to the bed, turned the radio to window-rattling volume, and left her there for hours. The day she was lying there with two broken ribs she'd thought life couldn't get worse.

What a huge, cosmic joke.

This man was going to kill her and she didn't know why or who he was. If she'd known she would die today, she'd have paid notice to everything she'd done for the last time. Last cup of coffee, last shower, last mystery novel, last glass of cold orange juice. She started to cry, tears trickled down her face, her nose ran and she couldn't breathe.

“Coming around, Kelby?”

His voice sliced through her mental fog. He thought she was Kelby Oliver. Relief washed over her. He didn't want to kill her. All she had to do was convince him she was Cary Black, her husband was a cop.

“I know you're awake. I can hear you stirring around back there. Give me a sign. You know, just to let me know that you're still with me in mind and spirit. Kick your feet if you want. Anything, just so I know.”

The silence stretched. She lay still. Throat tight with fear, she didn't make a sound. He reached between the seats and backhanded her across the face. Pain flashed across her cheek like fire. Shadows on the edges of her mind threatened to pull her back to unconsciousness. A moan slipped between clenched teeth. Nausea was sticking fingers in her throat.
Don't vomit! Don't vomit!

“Why did you do it?” he said.

Do what? What was he talking about?

He reached back and yanked on the gag, pulling it down around her neck. It was slimy with saliva. Desperately, she gulped air.

“Aren't you going to say anything, Kelby?”

“I'm not Kelby. She's dead.” At least Cary assumed it was Kelby in the silo. “Go back and I'll show you.”

“Nice try.”

“What do you want?”

“I'm going to do to you what he did to my daughter.”

“Please listen. I'm not Kelby. I don't know who you are. I don't—”

“You might as well call me Joe. You can't get much more intimate than killer and victim.”

Incipient hysteria was rattling around in her brain. Call him Joe. “I don't know anything about your daughter—”

“Lily! Her name is Lily!”

Lily. Obviously something tragic happened to her, and whatever it was pushed this man Joe over the edge. “What time is it?”

“What does it matter?”

Could she figure it out? It had been about six when she made a pot of coffee, then she'd searched through the barn, checked the chicken shed, and walked to the silo. It took time to push the panel up. She found the body. Joe arrived. He chased her down and tied her up and threw her in the car How long would that have taken? Two hours? Three?

She didn't know how long she'd been out, but didn't think it was very long. Fifteen minutes maybe? Twenty? Okay, add on the time they'd been driving. At least an hour, maybe more. Her mind was having difficulty keeping track and adding, but eventually she came up with eleven o'clock. Maybe eleven-thirty or as late as noon. When she didn't turn up for work, Stephanie would worry—well, probably not worry, but be irritated—and she could have started somebody looking for her.

He sped up and made turns. Pain battered her everywhere until they jounced onto an unpaved road and he slowed down. “You ever go camping?”

Cary's mind scurried around trying to determine what that question meant.

“Camping,” he repeated. “You ever go?”

“Not much.” Her voice sounded precise, like a drunk who didn't want anyone to know he was drunk.

“We used to go all the time. Back when I had a family.”

“Camping isn't really something I like to do.” Mitch liked to go fishing and sometimes he'd make her go along.

“I've rented a cabin for us. A shack, really. But isolated. Nobody will bother us. Or hear you scream. Just like nobody heard Lily scream.”

“Kelby is dead.”

Joe's voice dripped sarcasm. “Right.”

“She's in a building back at her house. I can show you where she is.”

“I've watched you going around leading your comfortable life. Buying food, taking care of the sick lady, going to the library.”

Nausea sat just at the back of her throat, her head hurt, and she had trouble following a thought. “I'm not Kelby.” He was going to kill her because he believed she was Kelby. Maybe that was a fitting fate for having taken over Kelby's life. With her life came her problems. Wherever they were going, when they reached the destination, he was going to hurt her, make her scream and cry and beg him to stop. Then he was going to kill her.

Her full bladder would empty, her bowels would empty. She would be a disgusting heap of rotting flesh when somebody found her. If somebody found her. Would he bury her? Or just leave her for the flies and rats? In a few days, she would end up smelling just like Kelby.

Her head pounded, her hands were numb, she was nauseated and stiff, the carpet on the car floor scratched her face, and she was blind as a bat. The only sensible thing to do was give up and let herself slide down into the waiting cave of unconsciousness. But she fought against it for the same reason she wouldn't cry or beg when Mitch was beating her. Either stupidity or determination.

“Not long now,” Joe said.

 

34

“I just want to borrow him.” Ida braced herself as the German shepherd barreled toward her. Even so, she staggered back when he reared up and rested his front paws on her shoulders.

“Down, Fergus.” Fergus belonged to her friend Bert. The dog lapped at her face, dropped to the floor, raced to the dining room, and snatched a loaf of bread left unprotected on the table.

“No, Fergus,” Bert said. “Drop it.” The dog shook the bread, tore the wrapper, scattered slices across the floor, and started gobbling.

“Sit.” Shoving at the dog, Bert scrambled to gather bread before the dog got it. With all food stashed in the trash, Fergus flopped down and rolled on his back with his feet waving in the air.

“He's not a cadaver dog.” Bert rubbed the dog's stomach. “He's not even trained.”

“No kidding,” Ida said. She explained what she wanted to do.

Bert handed her a leash, then had to be persuaded not to come along. She wrapped the leash around her wrist as Fergus dug in his claws and dragged her toward her car.

“Just calm down!” Maybe this was not a good idea. Another one of those thoughts that seemed brilliant at first, but, past the point of no return, started looking like a mistake.

Fergus, excited about going for a ride, but nervous that he might end up at the vet, panted and drooled on her seat covers, occasionally on her arm as she drove out to Kelby Oliver's house. Something was dead out there, probably in the cornfield, and she wanted to find it. Even though his pedigree was dubious, he had a German shepherd's nose, and she thought he could take her to the source of the smell. He stuck that nose she was counting on out the window and panted. As she rolled into Kelby's graveled driveway, the dog crouched on the seat and flattened his ears. Ida climbed out and opened the rear door. Fergus looked up at her with mournful eyes.

“Come on, dog. Out.” She tugged on the leash. Fergus slunk from the car, belly hugging the ground. This wasn't going as planned. Ida thought the dog would smell the odor and take her to the source, but he dropped and wouldn't move.

“What's the matter with you? Don't you want to find the funny smell?” She tugged on the leash and managed to get the dog into a sitting position.

“That's better. Now, let's go, find it.”

The dog threw back his head and howled. The mournful sound sent shivers along the back of her neck. With words of encouragement, coaxing, and disgusting baby talk, she urged him toward the cornfield. He wanted to go off to the right, toward the outbuildings. “Not that way, you dumb dog. This way.”

She tugged. Fergus would have none of it, and kept scrabbling toward the barn. “No, this way. Come on. Don't you want to see what it is?”

Apparently not. The dog kept straining the other way. She gave up and followed. They went toward the barn. Fergus stopped, put his muzzle in the air and sniffed, then took off like a shot. She had to sprint to keep up with him. He ran around behind the barn, stopped to sniff the air, and galloped along a stone path, choking himself against the collar.

“Slow down!”

He dragged her to an old wooden silo at least forty feet high. She heard a buzzing sound. At a small panel door, he snuffled along the crack at the bottom where grain dribbled out, then threw back his head and howled again. She squatted and tried to see inside. Flies. Oh God. Millions of flies. She kept shoving the dog aside, he kept scrambling back. She could make out the back pocket of blue denim.

Whoever was buried in the grain had obviously been dead a long time. Ida jerked on the leash to take Fergus back to the car. Now he didn't want to leave, and she had to drag him, toes digging in, all the way back and hoist him in. She went to the house, up on the porch, and banged on the door. “Ms. Oliver? Kelby?” Nothing. She banged again. No response.

Should she go in and see if the woman was okay? Would that compromise the crime scene? What if Kelby were hurt? Lying on the floor bleeding, and speed was necessary. She started in, then stopped and called it in.

*   *   *

Reaching for the phone when it rang, Susan knocked over a mug of coffee. “Damn it!” Receiver tucked between ear and shoulder, she snatched tissues and blotted furiously before papers got swamped by the spreading puddle. “Yes, Hazel.” She tossed soggy tissues in the trash.

“Ida just called in to report a dead body.”

“Oh, Lord, did she get somebody killed?”

“Apparently, this one's been dead for some time.”

“Who is it?”

“Unknown.”

Susan got location and directions. “Where's Parkhurst?”

“In his office.”

She picked him up on her way out.

*   *   *

He pulled the Bronco into the gravel drive and parked behind a Jeep with a huge German shepherd inside, head out the window, barking furiously. Ida, standing beside the car, had a hand on the dog's collar trying to shut him up. And, by God, if that wasn't a guilty look on her face. What had she done now?

“Your dog?” Susan said.

“Belongs to a friend.” She explained she'd borrowed him to find the reason the crows were circling. “The body's back this way.”

Susan, Parkhurst at her heels, followed Ida past the barn and along a path to a hugely tall structure—crumbling wood with a perilous-looking ladder going up one side. The air was thick with the odor of decay. The loud buzz meant swarms of flies.

Osey, squatting near a small opening by the ground, stood when they approached. “Been dead a while.” A wooden panel had been removed in pieces and grain had spilled out. Gunner, their Emerson student who moonlighted taking crime scene photos for the PD, snapped away.

Parkhurst grunted. “In this heat, decomposition wouldn't take long.”

When Osey stepped aside, Susan took his place and tried to make out details. She couldn't see much. Buttocks, clad in blue denim. Female, apparently. Completely buried in grain, millions of maggots wriggling away at their work. Killed first and the body shoved in here? Pushed in and the grain released to kill her? Susan hoped that wasn't the case. If she was buried alive, she suffered an agonizing slow death.

Susan turned to Osey. “Who is she?”