Carved in Darkness (9 page)

No, no, no, no.
He dropped the cord and lunged at her. His fingers fumbled at her throat, looking for a pulse. Nothing. The blood covering her chest was cool and tacky against his hand. She wasn’t breathing. He slipped his hand under her chin and tipped it upward. Her eyes were open but empty.

She was dead.

This wasn’t happening. No fucking way was this happening. He shook her, slamming her head against the back of the chair with each thrust. What the hell happened? A heart attack? A stroke? Who the fuck knew? He didn’t really care. She was dead, and she hadn’t given him what he wanted.

“Selfish bitch, she’s
mine
. She belongs to me, and I want her back!” He gave her a final, neck-cracking shake, but it did nothing to staunch the steady flow of rage coursing through is veins.

His field of vision narrowed, all he could see was her face, all he could hear was the roar of blood pounding in his head. His knife was suddenly in his hand and he brought it down again and again, ripping into her soft flesh, tearing the papery skin that covered it. He stabbed and hacked, even though Lucy was well beyond his reach now, one motion blurring into another until his arm was tired and his vision cleared.

His rage finally spent, he stood over her, chest heaving as his breath came in deep, gasping gulps. His sweat and her blood mixed together, plastered his shirt to his chest. Looking down at the mess he made, at the lump of flesh barely recognizable as a human being, he felt no remorse. Only a need for more
.

He felt a tingle, a crackle of electricity danced along his skin. His hands and face were covered in the old woman’s blood … but it was Melissa’s blood too, wasn’t it?

He could feel it seep into his pores—currents of electricity dove deeper and deeper. No longer skin deep, they jolted his bones, moved his muscles. On impulse, he brought the broad blade of the knife to his mouth and ran it along his tongue. Heat flooded his veins and settled heavily in his groin. God, he’d missed the taste of her.

Lucy’s sightless blue eyes, so like her granddaughter’s, seemed to stare at him. Beckoned him.

More. He needed
more.

He folded his knife, slipped it into his pocket and picked up the hammer. He used the claw end to remove the nails from her feet and tossed them aside. Whistling along with Gene, he gripped the back of Lucy’s chair and dragged her to the doorway leading to the basement. The door swung shut behind them, and he was careful to lock it. He was with his Melissa again.

They were alone in the dark, and he didn’t want any interr-
uptions.

ELEVEN

I
N THE END, THE
Glenfiddich went unopened. Instead, Michael took a few aspirin and washed them down with a bottle of water. Sabrina was a machine. She and that goofy-ass dog ran eight miles every morning. No matter how little sleep she got or how bad the nightmares were, she never missed a run. Running with a hangover was never a good idea.

And her nightmares
had
gotten bad. So bad that if she wasn’t pacing the length of her room in the dark, she was thrashing around on her bed, trying to pull clear of whatever nightmare held her. She usually gave up around one or two in the morning. Sometimes she’d make her way through the house, checking and re-checking windows and doors to ensure they were locked.

Other times she’d clean her collection of firearms. Make sure they were all loaded and easily accessible. Her behavior bordered on compulsive. He’d been watching her long enough to know the shield and armor she’d fashioned herself out of lies and years of denial was starting to crack.

His watch read just before noon. She wouldn’t be home for at least another five or six hours. He tossed the binocs on the bed and hit the shower. What the aspirin couldn’t fix, he was hoping hot water would take care of. He took his time; with Sabrina at work, he had plenty to spare. He shaved away a few days’ worth of stubble before stepping into the shower stall. The spray of scalding water loosened the stress-induced knots, and he stayed in long after the water began to cool. He stepped out of the stall just in time to hear his cell issue a muted beep from the next room. He’d missed another call.

He threw a towel around his waist, left the bathroom to retrieve his phone from the dresser. The screen display showed six voicemails. Scrolling through the missed call log, he saw every one of them were from Lucy.

On speaker phone, he guided his cell through the menu until he reached the first message.

“Michael, it’s Lucy. Call me, please … ”
Delete.

“Michael, this is Lucy. I need to talk to you … ”
Delete.

“Michael, I know you’re avoiding … ”
Delete.

“Boy, if you have the sense God gave a turnip … ”
Delete.

“Michael—who did you tell?”

He almost deleted the message before he fully comprehended what was said. He hit the playback option instead and listened to it again.

“Michael—who did you tell?” Lucy said, her voice hushed, like she didn’t want to be overheard. In the background, he heard someone call out. What was said was indistinguishable. The voice was too low and faint to make out the words. Apprehension tightened the skin on the back of his neck.

She hadn’t been alone when she left that last message.

He saved the message to his archives and played the next one, hoping it would offer a clue to what was wrong. No one spoke. On the other end, all he heard was a deep well of silence.

His gut screamed at him. Something was wrong. Lucy was in trouble.

Problem was, he’d told no one about Sabrina or even where he was going when he left Jessup. What little family he had left were long used to him tossing what few possessions he owned in his duffle and leaving as abruptly as he came. Only one person knew where he was, but he trusted Lark with his life. No way would he betray him. He glanced at his watch. The call came through an hour and forty minutes ago.

He hung up and dialed Lucy. The phone rang and rang. No answer.

Calm down. Panic is the enemy.
He took a cleansing breath and dialed a different number. This time the call was answered on the fourth ring.

“Wander-Inn, this is Tom.”

“Tom, it’s Michael. I need a favor.”

TWELVE

W
HEN HE WAS FINISHED,
he gathered his clothes and put them back on. The blood and gore, dried stiff, abraded his skin, but he didn’t mind. He dragged Lucy to a corner of the basement and laid her out. Finding an open bottle of bleach above the washer, he washed her thoroughly.

Once she was clean, he wrapped her in the freshly-laundered sheets he found in her dryer and concealed her beneath a pile of old boxes. She’d eventually be found, but by then the bleach would have done its job. Any DNA he might have left on her would be long gone.

The muffled sound of Gene, still singing in the rain, drifted down the basement steps, and he sang along while he worked. He brought the chair and Lucy’s house dress back upstairs and rummaged under the sink. He found more bleach, a bottle of ammonia and a bottle of lighter fluid. He rolled up the makeshift tarp he’d laid out on the kitchen floor and placed it in a trash bag along with the dress. He poured the undiluted ammonia onto the kitchen floor and chair. While ammonia didn’t destroy DNA, any evidence gathered there would be corrupted by the chemical and rendered useless. The ammonia was strong-smelling, so he opened a few windows for ventilation. The early afternoon breeze made the chore of cleaning up his mess almost pleasant.

Castoff was a problem, and he silently chided himself for losing control while he wiped down the walls. His actions would do nothing to eliminate the blood evidence but it didn’t concern him. He knew Lucy’s home would eventually become a crime scene but the longer things appeared normal, the better.

Finished cleaning, he took the other bottle of bleach and the trash bag into the bathroom with him. In the shower, he washed himself with the lavender soap he’d smelled on Lucy’s skin and it made him smile. After his shower, he used the bleach to clean the tub and dumped the remainder down the drain. He added his clothing and the soap he’d used to the bag and pulled on a fresh pair of gloves.

Wandering down the hall in a towel, he found the room he knew O’Shea slept in when he was in town. The room was sparse. The only thing that made it Michael’s was a framed photo of Frankie and his parents.

He opened a dresser drawer and found what he was looking for. The jeans were a little long, but they’d do for what he needed. In the closet he found an old sweatshirt and pulled it on before tossing the towel he used into the bag of clothing. Down the hall, the kitchen phone began to ring. Even without the benefit of caller ID, he knew who it was.

Michael O’Shea to the rescue.

The idea of O’Shea as anyone’s savior made him laugh. He ignored the phone but understood what it meant. If O’Shea was worried, he’d find a way to check on her. There was no way of really knowing what Lucy had told him.

Time to finish up and leave.

He swiped the lighter fluid off the counter and emptied it into the bag. He carried the bag into the living room, and set it next to the small, brick fireplace.

He thought of the girl he’d picked out for today. She was a plump little waitress from some backwoods town in Oklahoma. He’d been priming the pump for weeks now, chatting her up, flirting with her. He had her panting after him—one smile was all it’d take to get her to follow him anywhere. Just the thought of her made him sick to his stomach.

She was nothing. Less than nothing, compared to his Melissa. She wouldn’t do … no one else would ever do again. Not now that he knew she was out there.

Finding her wasn’t going to be easy.

He stood at the bookshelf and scanned its contents. He was looking for something …
there.
It was tucked away, safe, on a high shelf. He picked it up, marveling at how light and delicate it felt in his hand. He’d been there when Lucy gave it to Melissa. A birthday gift—he remembered it like it was yesterday. It was the first day he’d ever seen her up close. The first time he’d ever looked into her eyes and realized she belonged to him. He palmed the treasure and slipped it into the pocket of his borrowed jeans for safekeeping.

Back at the fireplace, he crouched down and removed the screen. There was ash and cold cinder in the hearth. The smell of a recent fire drifted up to his nose. He used the small shovel to clean out some of the ash to make room for the bag. Reaching back, he scraped the shovel toward the front of the fireplace and pulled out what looked like a piece of charred paper. He almost dismissed it as nothing more than kindling, but when he pulled it from the ash, he felt it was a heavier stock than newspaper. It took him a few seconds to realize what he was holding. An envelope. Or at least part of one. Lucy had thrown an envelope into the fire.

He turned it over, eyes darting here and there, looking for anything that would tell him where, or who, it came from. He carried it into the kitchen and found the letter where he’d left it on the counter. He spread it out and laid the charred scrap next to it. The return address was burned away, as was most of Lucy’s, but there was enough to make a comparison.

The handwriting was the same.

He could feel Melissa’s blood pounding away inside him. Guiding him, showing him the way. The scrap was badly burned, but the corner that held the postage stamp was still intact. He rubbed away some of the char and soot, revealing the postmark faintly visible beneath.

San Francisco, California.

He felt a smile spread across his face. He’d found her.

THIRTEEN

T
HE ARREST WARRANT FOR
Adam Tillman came in while Sabrina and Strickland were eating Chinese takeout at their desks. The minute the paper hit his desk, Strickland jumped up—ready to go. She tossed her carton of Kung Pao in the trash but didn’t move from her seat. As wrong as it was, she’d been hoping their investigation would hit a snag. They’d have their suspect in custody by the end of the day, and she’d have no excuse to use as leverage to squeeze another day’s reprieve out of Richards. This time tomorrow, she’d be on
vacation
. Just the thought depressed her.

She looked at her watch. It was noon, straight up. Almost five hours since she talked to Nickels, and she hadn’t heard from him since. She debated on whether she should call but decided against it. Hounding him about O’Shea’s records was the wrong thing to do. If Michael was nothing more than a potential blind date, she wouldn’t be so eager to delve into his background.

She was beginning to think he couldn’t help her … or maybe he just didn’t want to. Helping sniff out a potential date for the woman you had the hots for didn’t usually rank high on a guy’s to-do list. As much as she hated it, she had no choice but to wait it out. Calling Nickels only added a layer of complication she didn’t need.

“What’s the matter with you, Vaughn? A warrant comes in, you usually hit the ground running, dragging me behind you.” She looked up at Strickland. He was standing next to her desk, staring at her like she’d just told him she had a contagious disease. What was the matter with her? The list went on and on. “What? Did the extra chili paste in your Kung Pao fry your brain? Warrant. Arrest. Tillman. Now.” He waved the piece of paper in her face. She shot him a dirty look and stood up.