Evil Never Dies (The Lizzy Gardner Series Book 6) (14 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

It was ten o’clock when Kitally tapped on Betty Ackley’s window. As she hunched down behind a bush to wait for the old lady to make it over from her bed, she noticed a yellow pill within the soil. And then a white one and a blue one. She broke off a small branch and began to dig in the dirt around the pills. There had to be at least a dozen different sizes and colors of pills, some broken, some half-dissolved in the soil.

Using the stick, she dug a hole, and then brushed all the tablets inside and smoothed the dirt over them. When she was done, she dropped the branch, looked back through the window, and tapped again.

Would Betty even remember she was coming?

In answer to her question, there was a click and then a whoosh as the window was opened from the inside.

Kitally jumped to get her upper body over the windowsill, then used her arms and legs to pull and kick the rest of the way in.

Betty shut the window and then gestured frantically, pointing under the bed and motioning without words for Kitally to get under there and make it quick.

Kitally didn’t ask questions. She got down on the ground, her body flat to the floor, and shimmied her way beneath the bed. It was a tight squeeze, but she managed.

She lay there in the dark and wondered what was going on. Betty looked downright fearful. Before Kitally could question her from her hiding place, the door opened and she heard the flick of a switch. Bright light lit up the room.

“What are you doing awake, Betty?”

“I’m having a difficult time falling asleep.”

Heels clacked against Formica tiles. Kitally heard the curtains over the window being shut tight.

“Did you take your pills?”

“Why do you ask me that every time you come in here? Of course I did.”

“No reason for you to get all worked up. Just doing my job.”

“I don’t like being treated like a child,” Betty said. “My insurance company pays a large sum of money for me to be here. I deserve to be treated with respect.”

“Of course you do. But we have rules around here. You know that. If we let every patient run around here willy-nilly, can you imagine the chaos? Nobody in this place would ever get any sleep at all. And would that be fair to your friend Cecil? Or what about poor Mrs. Potter?”

“What do you mean ‘poor’ Mrs. Potter? Did something happen to Madge?”

“Never mind.” Drawers were opened and then shut.

“What are you doing?”

“Just taking a look around.”

“Why? Stay out of my personal belongings. I’m going to report you. Do you hear me?”

The orderly marched across the room. The tension between the two women sucked the oxygen right out of the room. Kitally could see the tips of well-worn shoes beneath the bed. Then she felt the mattress press down on her back.
What the hell is going on?

“Open your mouth.”

“No.”

“Do it or I’ll be forced to call Patrick to do the honors.”

“OK. OK.”

It was quiet for a moment and then the staffer said, “Where are you hiding the pills, Betty?”

“I’ve taken every bit of medication you’ve ever given me. You’ve just given me a double dose. Here’s hoping you haven’t done any damage.”

The orderly walked to the window, yanked back the curtains, and opened the window.

If the orderly leaned too far down, she might see Kitally under the bed. And then what? What would she do? Kitally really didn’t want to think about it. The woman’s voice was deep and raspy, as if she smoked three packs of cigarettes a day. She sounded intimidating. No wonder Betty looked scared.

Once the orderly finished, she closed everything and went back to the door. Before she left she said, “I’ve ordered a clean sweep of your room to be done first thing in the morning. I don’t know what you’re doing with your pills, Betty, but I know you’re not taking them. If you were, you would be sleeping like everyone else in this place.”

“I have a very high tolerance for medication,” Betty argued. “You should know that by now.”

“We’ll see about that.” The light clicked off and the door opened and closed.

Kitally didn’t dare move. Not for another five minutes at least.

“Are you awake?” she asked as she finally crawled out of her hiding place.

“I am. Perhaps tonight isn’t the best night to do this, after all.”

Betty’s hunched shoulders and dejected expression gave Kitally chills. The old woman really did need her help. “This is bullshit, Betty,” Kitally said.

Betty looked up at her then.

“Excuse the language, but something doesn’t smell right around here. I don’t know what’s going on, but we’re going to get to the bottom of it—do you hear me?”

Betty nodded.

This was Kitally’s chance to make a difference, and there was no way she was going to let Betty or Cecil or any of these people down. “I’ll be back. We’re going to find something to prove these people are up to no good. I’m more sure of that than ever.”

“I believe you,” Betty said with a smile. “I really do.”

Lizzy stared out the window. It was dark outside. No moon or stars as far as she could see. But she’d lived here long enough to know where the mossy rock sat beneath a crowd of gangly-limbed oaks. She didn’t need to see either to know they were there. Just as she knew Jared was always near. She wasn’t a sixth sense kind of person, didn’t believe in ghosts or reincarnation, but Jared was here with her. She could feel his presence as if he were standing next to her. She thought of him with her first waking breath and again with every breath that followed until she finally fought her way to sleep at night. She had no idea how many days had passed since she’d last kissed him or held him in her arms. Since his death, each day came and went as if nothing had changed. The world kept turning. Trees still danced in the wind. The birds squawked and chirped. Everything was exactly as it always had been.

And yet nothing would ever be the same again. And that particular fact fueled her rage.

Anger twisted and turned within her, its long crooked fingers wrapping around every muscle and tendon, squeezing, suffocating. The anger she felt started at her toes and worked its way up, heating the blood in her veins, making it hard to breathe. The moon, stars, and trees might all be the same, but her anger and resentment continued to grow like a cancerous cyst inside her.

The house was quiet. Salma was gone, and Hayley and Kitally were out doing who knew what.

Lizzy unfolded the piece of paper she’d found earlier. She had called the number half a dozen times today, but she picked up her cell and decided to try again.

“Hello?”

The voice startled her, so she spoke all in a rush. “Hi, this is Lizzy Gardner. I’m a friend of Jared Shayne’s. I found your number on a note scattered among his personal belongings.” She forced herself to slow down. “The message on the note says, ‘We must talk,’ and I was hoping you could tell me who the note might be from.”

“I don’t recognize that name,” the woman said after hesitating for too long. “And I certainly never passed on any note with my number.”

“Jared Shayne worked for the FBI. He was killed recently.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Is there anyone else at this number?” Lizzy asked.

“No. Just me.”

“And who is this I’m talking to?”

“It’s late. I must go. Good night.”

There was a click, and the call was disconnected.

Lizzy was calling bullshit.

She had already looked up everything on the woman. She grabbed her laptop, sat on the bed, and pulled up the information she’d found earlier.

Kathryn Church.

She lived approximately thirty minutes away, in Newcastle. Satellite maps revealed a country road with lots of trees and rolling hills.

Who was she really, though? And why had she wanted to talk to Jared?

Earlier in the day, she’d put the woman’s name into every database available. The basics were easy enough to find: Caucasian, thirty-six years of age, born on May 26, 1978, brunette, brown eyes. She grew up in Sacramento, went to college at UCLA, where she studied psychology, and then moved back to the area and started her own practice.

As Lizzy searched further, she found an article written by Kathryn Church two years ago. The subject matter was repressed childhood memories. Apparently, the woman believed, like other psychologists, that repressed memories could be recovered through therapy. Colleagues argued that prolonged therapy in many of these cases only served to create false memories. But Kathryn remained adamant, convinced that her own repressed memories had come back to her more than a decade after the incident. According to the article, Kathryn had been hesitant to talk about the event she’d suppressed, but once she became an advocate for others in her position, she’d come forward with details of her trauma.

Lizzy scanned the article for some mention of those details.

Proponents of the existence of repressed memories believed that these traumatic events could be recalled decades after the event, usually triggered by something as simple as a particular song or taste. Skimming over endless citations and references, Lizzy finally found what she was looking for: as an adult, Kathryn Church had been watching her best friend’s child by the pool. A rubber ball rolling into the pool set off alarms and the memories came rushing back. Without warning, Kathryn was ten years old again. Her family had just moved into a neighborhood in Sacramento.

Left to admire her new bedroom on the second floor, she peered out the window, which happened to give her a bird’s-eye view of the neighbors’ backyard. They had a pool with a diving board. Excited at the possibility of new friends, Kathryn watched a little girl and an older boy, who turned out later to be the girl’s brother. The girl pointed to the red rubber ball that had fallen into the pool. They were on the far side, which gave her a clear view. The boy nodded his approval, and Kathryn’s heart raced as she watched the little girl go to retrieve the ball. After she fell in, the boy stood at the edge, watching as her little arms and legs flailed, churning the water’s surface. Finally, her head popped up out of the water, and her fingers grasped the edge of the pool.

Kathryn’s relief was short-lived. She watched in horror as the boy got down on his knees, pried the girl’s tiny fingers off the ledge, and then, with the palm of his hand flat on her head, pushed her under and held her there until her legs no longer kicked and her arms went still.

Frozen in terror, Kathryn had watched, along with the boy, as the little girl sank slowly to the bottom of the pool.

Lizzy sucked in a breath.

Had the woman truly witnessed such a horrific event?

Once again, Lizzy wondered why Kathryn Church wanted to talk to Jared.

And why was she lying about it now?

Lizzy came to her feet. She didn’t look at the clock, didn’t give a rat’s ass what time it was. She was going to pay the woman a visit.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

He stood behind his easel and canvas, paintbrush in hand, palette ready. “Open your eyes, Claire.”

Instead, she screamed at the top of her lungs, a high-pitched noise that pierced his skull.

He clenched his teeth tighter.

After drugging Claire, he’d spent most of the day yesterday setting up the room, screwing in toggle bolts and chains that could easily support a heavy load. Claire weighed approximately 110 pounds. He had to drill holes big enough to accommodate the toggles.

The chains and cuffs seemed to be working nicely. They would hold her in place while he painted. The metal cuffs might cause her some pain, but that was the effect he was going for.

She was naked. Her arms were outstretched, above her head. Same for the legs, spread downward and apart. Despite being drugged, she’d managed to fight him every step of the way. He was exhausted. “Open your eyes. This is the last time I’m going to ask nicely.”

He waited, but she didn’t move a muscle. Her head hung low, her chin resting against her collarbone.

He placed his paintbrush on the table he’d set up to his left. Then he made a tsking noise as he reached into his pocket, pulled out a small plastic bottle, and unscrewed the lid. Calmly, he walked over to her, placed the palm of his hand against her forehead, and firmly pressed her head upward, holding it none too gently against the wall.

She tried to wriggle her head. “Stop it! Let me go! What are you doing?”

“I’m going to use some of this amazing wonder glue to hold your eyelids wide-open.”

“No! No! No! Please. I’ll do what you say!”

“Too late.”

More frantic wriggling.

“If you don’t hold still, you’re going to get glue in your eyes, Claire, and then you’ll be blind. Do you want to be blind?”

“Stop. Please. I’ll do what you want. I promise.”

He growled as he let her go. He put the glue away, his every movement jerky as he pointed at her. “Next time you disobey, there will be no second chance. Understand?”

She nodded.

“I want to hear you say it, Claire. Say it loud enough that I can hear you.”

“I understand. I will not disobey. I swear.”

“Better.”

He went back to his position behind the easel. He picked up his brush, dabbed it in paint, and then set his eyes on Claire’s face. “Give me a crazed look, Claire.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“Not angry. I said crazed.”

Her eyes widened. She stuck her tongue out and frantically moved her head from side to side, her tangled hair flying in front of her eyes, her nostrils flaring.

“Wonderful,” he said. “Keep your eyes just like that, but stop thrashing about. Look at
me
, though, right here into my eyes, and don’t look away until I say so.”

She did as he said. Her eyes were steely glints of raw fear, like the fish in the painting.

He turned up the music as loud as it would go. A full orchestra began to play, starting with the silky keys of a piano, then gradually adding in strings, climbing unhurriedly, and then
boom
, hitting the emotions with throbbing oboes and powerful brass drums.

The girl was beyond terrified, her soul aching, her every emotion rooted by fear. With each stroke of the brush, he felt as if he were transferring her inner being to the canvas. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so alive.

Kathryn Church’s house in Newcastle was set on a quiet road—a one-story on a good-sized lot.

Lizzy knocked on the door and then looked around. Had Jared come to see this woman? Had he walked this same path?

After a while, she knocked again, harder this time.

The porch light came on. “Who is it?”

“You know damn well who it is. I don’t like being hung up on.”

There was no response.

Lizzy calmed herself and said, “It’s Lizzy Gardner. I called you earlier. It’s very important that I talk to you.”

“It’s late. Go away, or I’ll be forced to call the police.”

“People are dying, Ms. Church, and there might be something you can do to stop it.”

No response.

“Jared Shayne was my fiancé,” Lizzy went on. “You talked to him, didn’t you? He was close to identifying a serial killer, a killer who has begun to strike much more often. We need to stop him.”

The door opened. “Come inside,” the woman said, “before you scare the neighbors.”

After Lizzy stepped inside, the woman quickly shut the door behind her, making sure to lock it.

The pictures Lizzy had seen of Kathryn Church on the Internet didn’t do her justice. Even barefoot, she appeared elegant and graceful. Tall and long-limbed, she possessed a heart-shaped face, long neck, and well-defined cheekbones. Her black silky curls brushed against the top of her shoulders.

“I hope I didn’t interrupt anything important,” Lizzy said.

Kathryn’s smirk told Lizzy she wasn’t buying it.

And she was right. Lizzy really didn’t care. She glanced around the house, taking it all in: a baby grand in the living area, antique dining table and chairs, a crystal chandelier. She strained to listen, wondering if anyone else was in the house.

Kathryn gestured for her to follow her into the living area. “Why don’t we have a seat in here?”

Lizzy’s gaze settled on the woman’s blouse and pencil skirt. “Were you going out?”

Kathryn waved the comment away with a hand. “I haven’t bothered to change. Once I get started working in my office, I can’t stop. I do my best work at night, right here at home.”

“You’re a psychologist—is that right?”

She gestured for Lizzy to have a seat across from her. “Yes, that’s correct. I have my own practice. I also teach at the local college. Insomniacs like to keep busy.”

Deciding to cut to the chase, Lizzy looked the woman in the eyes and held her gaze. “You talked to Jared, didn’t you?”

She hesitated but not for long. “Yes. We were to meet first thing Monday after your wedding.”

“Why did you lie?”

“Why do you think? Because I am afraid.”

“Of what?”

“Of what might happen if he ever found out that I spoke to you.”

“If who finds out?”

The woman fidgeted in the high-back chair, clearly out of sorts.

“Are you talking about your next-door neighbor?” Lizzy asked. “The boy you saw kill his little sister?”

Kathryn closed her eyes and gave a subtle nod. “I thought I had managed to get rid of any trace of the paper I wrote.”

“Is that why you wanted to talk to Jared? Because you thought your neighbor might’ve grown into the killer the police have been looking for?”

“Yes. My plan at the time was to tell Mr. Shayne what I had seen.” She swallowed and cast her eyes around the room, as though the killer might be hiding behind the couch or the heavy living room curtains.

Lizzy fought to hide her disappointment. “But now you’re having doubts about what you saw?”

“Not doubts, exactly. It just all began to seem so farfetched. The incident by the pool happened a long time ago. I was going with my instincts. I guess I was hoping that Jared, with his training . . .” She faded off.

“He could work wonders,” Lizzy said. “But yes. Something more tangible would be helpful.”

“Something tangible.” Kathryn sighed, then straightened in her seat. “I have something. It’s not much, but it is, at least, that.”

Lizzy followed her across plush carpet, past the kitchen, and down a long hallway that led them through open French doors into a massive study. The room was dimly lit. A desk, front and center, was covered with papers.

As Kathryn opened the top drawer, Lizzy noticed the oil painting hanging on the wall behind the desk. The female in the picture was done in a Picasso fashion with an arm where the leg should be and three eyes instead of two. The hair appeared to be stalks of wheat. Earrings decorated enlarged ears, and a melted clock dripped through the woman’s fingers.

Kathryn handed Lizzy a piece of paper.

After reading the note, which appeared to be nothing more than instructions on how to take care of some pets while the person was away, along with quite skillful sketches of a cat, a dog, and a bird in the margins, Lizzy said, “What is this?”

“It’s from the same boy who drowned his sister.”

“What’s his name?”

“Zachary Tucker.”

The name didn’t mean anything to Lizzy. “Why would you save this?”

“Because of the drawings, I think. And because Zachary did them.”

Lizzy lifted her eyebrows, telling her to go on.

“As you know, we were neighbors. When my mother offered to drive Zachary to school every morning, I was afraid of him at first.”

“Did you tell anyone what you had witnessed?”

“No. I was young, I was scared, and at first I thought he would kill me, too.”

“And then?”

“And then I met him face-to-face, and I decided he was just a normal boy. He was funny and cute, and little by little I convinced myself that my eyes had merely played tricks on me the day his sister drowned.”

Lizzy stared at the note. “I still don’t understand why you would save this.”

“I did what most girls do when they have a mad crush on a boy. I saved every little thing he gave me.”

“You had a crush,” Lizzy said, “on the boy you might’ve seen drown his sister.”

“Like I said, I had put that memory away by then.” She drew in a deep breath and then let it out. “I wasn’t very popular at school, but Zachary always made me feel special. I kept every note and letter in a shoe box I decorated with wrapping paper. As the years passed, I all but forgot about the box.”

However Kathryn might explain it, Lizzy was surprised the woman could feel anything for the boy after what she’d seen—or even suspected she
might
have seen. But just as she’d said, she’d been a child at the time, so Lizzy kept her thoughts to herself.

“I was an adult by the time the memories came back to me so vividly,” Kathryn continued. “It wasn’t until I attended a fund-raiser for families of murder victims that I saw Jared Shayne being interviewed about a killer in Sacramento and felt compelled to talk to him.”

“Why?”

“I felt a tremendous need to tell someone what I had seen.” She rubbed her temple. “There were other things, too, little things that Zachary would say and do.”

“For instance?”

“A few years after the death of his sister, dogs and cats were being slaughtered in our neighborhood. For months, people kept their pets inside. When I talked to Zachary about it one day, he had a smirk on his face that I’ll never forget. His reaction was nothing more than a shrug. And that’s not all. Once he had his driver’s license, he would drive me to school. I was looking for a pen in his glove compartment, and I saw a newspaper clipping about the murder of a little girl at a rest stop.”

“Did you question him?”

“No.” She sighed. “I didn’t begin to connect the dots until I heard Jared Shayne talking about the rash of killings in Sacramento. That’s when I began to wonder if there could be a connection to Zachary. I felt a sudden need to talk with Mr. Shayne. I wanted to do what I could to find out if Zachary could possibly be the killer.”

“So you gave Jared your number?”

She nodded. “That night I slipped Mr. Shayne a piece of paper letting him know I needed to talk with him. We talked once, but I didn’t feel comfortable giving him Zachary’s name over the phone.”

“You grant this Zachary a great deal of power, don’t you think? Worrying that he might somehow hear you whisper his name into the phone?”

Kathryn didn’t blink at this. “Zachary’s never needed me or anyone to grant him any power,” she said, her voice low and charged. “You forget. I’ve seen what he can do.” She licked her parched lips. “And he was just a little boy then.”