Authors: Brandilyn Collins
Dineen lifted a shoulder. There was nothing in this argument we hadn’t covered a dozen times before.
Sometimes I wished I could be more like her. More of an accepter, less of a fighter. Life would be so much easier. But I just hadn’t been wired that way.
I leaned back and pressed my hands to my temples.
“Another headache?” Dineen asked.
I nodded.
Dineen rose and walked to the cabinet by her refrigerator, where she pulled out a bottle of heavy-duty aspirin. She shook out two and handed them to me. “Here.”
“Thanks.” I swallowed them with the last gulp of water from my glass. A gust of wind pelted rain against the sliding door. It was nasty out there. February in Vonita, California, forty miles south of San Jose, was balmy compared to some parts of the country. The current temperature hovered in the low forties. But the dampness made it feel so much colder. I hated winter rain. It reminded me of death and despair. Five years ago I’d buried my husband on a day like this.
I pushed from my chair. “Better go.”
“Want a Jelly Belly hit?” Dineen gestured toward my favorite cabinet.
“Always.” I managed a smile. “Especially if you’ve got Grape Jelly or Watermelon. They’re my headache flavors.”
Dineen fetched a large glass bowl from the cabinet. “I don’t know what’s what in here. You figure it out.”
I leaned over the bowl, moving the candies around with a finger. Grape Jelly ones are dark purple. Watermelon are green. I found a few of each and popped them in my mouth one by one, relishing each bite. Nothing in this world beat Jelly Belly jelly beans. Particularly on a night like this.
In the den I leaned over the couch to brush my fingers against Jimmy’s cheek. He was recovering from a nasty bout of flu. Jimmy looked pale and tired, but he smiled at me all the same. His brown hair stuck out in all directions—a casualty of lying against all the gathered throw pillows. “G’night, Aunt Joanne.”
“Good night, favorite nephew.”
“I’m your only nephew.”
“Well, if I had a hundred, you’d still be my favorite.”
At the front door I pulled on a raincoat and picked up my umbrella. Dineen hugged me hard. “This mess will all blow over, you’ll see. Chief Eddington can’t stay mad at you forever.”
“Sure.” I slid my purse over my arm. No point in disagreeing, even though I knew better. Wayne Eddington and Baxter Jackson went way back. “Thanks for dinner, as always.”
Dineen nodded. “See ya next Saturday.”
“You bet.”
She opened the door, and the monster wind blew its clammy breath over us. I stuck my umbrella outside, hit the button on its handle, and hurried down the porch steps to my Toyota 4Runner. By the time I slid into the car my ankles were wet and chilled.
The loud battering on the roof turned up my headache. Gritting my teeth, I started the car. The digital clock read 8:33 p.m.
My house lay about five miles from Dineen’s on Stillton, a rural road at the edge of town. I drove stiff-backed, fat raindrops cascading through my headlights and bouncing off the pavement like spilled popcorn. My thoughts eddied with increasing frustration. In my own business as a skip tracer I spent my workdays hunting down people, many of them criminals. I’d built a good reputation for finding my skips. Now I had a possible double murderer in my sites, one of his victims my best friend. A friend I could have saved, if I’d only pushed harder.
And now I couldn’t do a thing about my suspicions.
I passed through the last stoplight on Elmer and turned left onto Stillton. Two miles of narrow road and curves, and I’d reach my warm, dry house. I turned up the heat in the car. Eyes narrowed, I drove slowly, frowning at the headlights of an oncoming vehicle until it swished by. My windshield wipers drummed a furious beat.
“
Why
didn’t you investigate Cherisse’s death?” I’d demanded of Chief Eddington four days ago. We stood in his office at the station, the door open. I tried to keep my voice low.
The chief’s face reddened. He planted both hands on his thick hips. “So now you’re going to rag me about
this
case for the next six years? They’re
over
, Joanne. Both Jackson cases are closed.”
“And you’re happy about that, aren’t you? Now life can just go on, and Baxter remains your favorite pal.”
The rest of our heated argument ran through my head. I’d never even seen reporter Andy Wangler in the station, much less in proximity to hear us. He must have salivated all over his notepad.
My last bend before home approached. I eased off the accelerator.
A hooded figure darted into the road.
I gasped and punched the brake. The anti-lock system shuddered. The figure jerked its head half toward me, one side of a man’s face lit skeletal white. A rivulet of blood jagged down his bony cheek. The eye on the shadowed half of his face shrunk as black and deep as an empty socket.
He raised his arms.
My car slid toward him.
I whipped the steering wheel left. The figure jumped backward.
Too late.
I heard a sickening
bump
on my right fender. In peripheral vision I glimpsed the body knocked aside. My Toyota kicked into a spiral over slickened asphalt. The world dizzied as I spun, my widened eyes taking in a dancing fence on the road’s left side…the curve I’d already traveled…a gnarled oak straight ahead…a crumpled figure on the ground. My wet tires sang and sizzled, the smell of my own sweat acrid in my nostrils.
A hysterical thought flashed in my brain:
I hit the Grim Reaper.
With a final nauseating jolt my SUV carved to a stop in the middle of the dark and rain-pelted road.
Sounds hit first—the beating rain, the squall of my heart. I slumped forward, unable to move. Breath shuddered down my throat, my fingers glued hooks on the steering wheel.
An eternal moment passed…two.
The hard fist of reality punched me in the face. I’d hit a man. What if I killed him?
I lifted my head. Where was the man’s body? I could barely see the pavement, much less the field beyond it. My car hulked astride both lanes, canted toward the left side of the road.
I straightened. My shaking left hand found the door handle, wrapped around it. The door opened with a sodden click. With a grunt I shoved open the door and half fell from the car. Despite my coat, snarling rain soaked me within seconds. It dripped into my eyes, trailed corpselike fingers down the back of my shirt. I swung my pounding head right, left, seeking my bearings.
During the spin I’d glimpsed the man on the right.
Hunched over, I fought my way to the front of the car, around its hood. Squinting, I searched the road’s edge for the man. My car’s headlights, pointed in the opposite direction, were no help.
There. Not far from the oak tree. He lay on one side, his back to me, unmoving. No Grim Reaper after all. He wore not a cloak, but black jeans and sneakers, a black hooded jacket. He looked average in build and height.
I surged over to the man and sank down on one knee. With tentative hands I reached out and brushed the back of his slick jacket hood. I couldn’t see his face. Should I turn him over, check for a pulse? What if he was alive and the forced movement made his injuries worse?
I placed my fingers on the man’s shoulder. He groaned. Startled, I snatched my hand away.
Only then did I think of my cell phone. I should have called 911 before leaving my car. Time was ticking and every second may be valuable to the man’s life. Yet a voice deep within me whispered a vague warning. Something about this whole thing was off. Besides, I hadn’t been going fast at all.
“C-can you hear me?” I forced the words out, loud enough to survive the hammer of the rain.
The man rolled away from me onto his stomach.
“Sir? Let me help you.”
“No.”
The word came raw and muffled. Had I heard it at all?
“Are you hurt? Do you want me to call for help?”
“No. Just listen to me.”
“But—”
“Listen.”
Nonplused, I watched the man gather both arms close to his chest, pull his legs up. Palms flat to ground, he pushed himself to a trembling crouch and hung there, head down. Rain streamed off the tip of his hood. I could see nothing of his face.
“Please let me help you up. I can take you to the hospital. Or call 911.”
His body tensed, shoulders arching like a wounded animal rising. “I’m just shaken.” His voice growled, menacing enough to make me draw away. “I’m fine.”
“You don’t look it.”
“I’m
fine
.” Fury pulsed in his tone. He pushed up further on his haunches, face still hidden, then unfolded his body until he stood. I jumped up and took two steps back. For a moment the man wavered. He stepped one foot forward, found his balance.
The rain sizzled and bounced and pounded. I would go mad with it. “At least let me take you somewhere. Where’s your car? Where did you come fr—?”
“You want Baxter Jackson?”
My mouth snapped shut.
Slowly the hooded head turned toward me until one eye glared in my direction. The cheek below it looked waxen, the blood thick.
A mask
. He was wearing a mask.
What kind of man
was
this?
Intensity vibrated from his blackened stare. I tried to turn, flee, but my legs rooted to the road.
“
Do
you?”
“Who are you?”
“Joanne,
do you
want to see Baxter Jackson pay for Linda’s death?”
My eyes widened. “I—yes.”
“Find Melissa. She knows what happened.”
Melissa.
Understanding leapt into my head, dark and gleaming. My knees nearly gave way. I was
right
. I’d been right all along.
“You’re telling me Baxter killed Linda.”
“Melissa saw it.”
The words stunned me. Fierce questions crowded my tongue. “Does she have proof?”
“She knows where the body is.”
A body.
Grief singed my lungs. I’d known Linda was dead. The courts had ruled she was. But without remains, a stubborn ray of hope for life always shines.
Hooded Man seemed to swell in size. The rain and darkness beat down on me, drowning out rational thought. My mind screamed to escape this surreal and throbbing scene. I backed away—and a steely hand clamped on my arm.
“Wait.”
I froze, gaze fastened upon my still-running car, its windshield wipers in frantic swipe. The SUV sang of warmth and safety. Suddenly it seemed so far away, as if I’d fallen into a Stygian painting and looked back upon my world, eternally lost.
The fingers tightened around my arm. “
Don’t
tell the police.”
A shudder racked between my shoulder blades. “I won’t.”
“Don’t tell
anyone
.”
“Okay.”
“Jackson will kill you if he finds out. Understand?”
“Yes.”
The cold fingers fell away. “Go.”
Without a backward glance I ran to my car, around the hood. Flung open the driver’s door. I fell inside and slammed the door shut. Dry air closed in, the pounding now in stereo upon every inch of the roof. I pulled the SUV’s gearshift from Park to Drive, turned the wheel right to straighten out the car.
My headlights stabbed the road. I threw a glance toward where the man had stood.
He was gone, swallowed into darkness.
Melissa saw it.
As my foot hit the accelerator, sickening regret washed through me. I eased off, ready to brake. In that split second I saw myself jumping out of the car, yelling for the man, begging him to come back. Why hadn’t I pressed him for more information? Why had I allowed panic to overtake me?
New fear surged. How could I even think of looking for a strange man in a mask after dark? All alone out here?
I pressed on the gas. My car engine gunned. Immediately I slowed, afraid to go too fast in the downpour.
My house lay close, just around the next bend. It seemed as if I’d been gone for hours.
The inside of the 4Runner began to fog. I turned up the dashboard fan.
She knows where the body is.
Melissa Harkoff—the sixteen-year-old foster girl Linda and Baxter had taken in during that summer of Linda’s disappearance. Someone from social services had arrived at the Jackson house to pick Melissa up the day Linda’s blood-smeared car was discovered. A few weeks later Baxter announced in church that he’d heard Melissa had run away from her new foster home. He’d led us all in a special prayer for her safety.
I’d always felt sorry for Melissa. She’d arrived at the Jacksons a frightened teenager, trying with all her might to look strong, hardened. I sensed that Melissa watched every word she said, wanting to fit in, seeking Linda’s approval. I know she came to love living with the Jacksons. And she’d been so grieved at Linda’s disappearance. To think that Melissa witnessed Linda’s murder. How terrified she must have been. Baxter probably threatened
her
life if she told.
Questions in my head whirled and eddied. The Hooded Man—who was he? How did he know Melissa saw Baxter kill Linda?
When the police had questioned Melissa she gave them the same story as Baxter did. No one ever suspected she knew anything different.
I
hadn’t even suspected that. Melissa had seemed to think the world of Baxter.
I rounded the curve. The lights of my house glowed into view, a welcoming beacon. Never had my small home, its front porch with white square pillars, looked like such a haven. I turned right into my driveway, hit the garage remote, and slipped inside as soon as the door opened.
The sudden cessation of rain on my car roof rang in my ears. I turned off the engine and tried to breathe. Wet cold bit into my muscles until my whole body shook.
“Don’t tell the police.”
I should, though. Not about what the man had said, but that I’d hit him. What if he turned against me and reported a hit-and-run?