Linger: Dying is a Wild Night (A Linger Thriller Book 1) (2 page)

With this, he picked up the remote in his lap, turned on the TV, and began flipping through the channels.

And like so many times in the past, Kate Messenger ceased to exist.

S
HE DIDN’T OFTEN VISIT CRIME
scenes so late at night, but after circling the city to cleanse her mind, Kate found herself taking the 33 into the valley, as if something was drawing her there.

She had no idea what.

The Branford house sat at the end of a narrow road in the small suburb of Oak Grove, which was nestled in the mountains just east of Santa Flora.

Thad Branford, a local custom cabinet maker, had built the house himself on an isolated piece of land that was heavily populated by oaks. The remoteness of the location had afforded the killer—or killers—enough time to be thorough, and quite savage. Examinations of the bodies had indicated that Branford’s wife Chelsea and his oldest daughter Bree had been brutally raped after their skulls were crushed with a claw hammer. Results were inconclusive on the other two daughters—twins, who where only eight-years-old.

Kate had seen brutality before, but nothing quite like this. And she knew that the images of those bodies—or what was left of them—would linger for many years to come.

Most of the detectives on her squad who were privy to the details agreed with her father’s assessment of the case. That there was a psycho killer on the loose. But, for now at least, Kate resisted the notion, thinking that this was exactly what the perpetrator wanted them to believe.

She may have been wrong. And probably was. She had nothing more than her gut telling her this. The evidence they’d gathered had been disappointing, to say the least—no unaccounted for blood or prints or semen traces. No usable DNA at all. Yet her instincts were reliable at least half the time, and she had decided to give them the benefit of the doubt and look more closely at the personal aspects of the case.

The problem was, the Branfords didn’t seem to have any enemies. Thad Branford’s employees thought he was a saint, and his friends at the local Rotary club had nothing but praise for the man. And his wife and children were well-loved in the community.

This wasn’t evidence that could easily be dismissed, and it certainly pointed to the possibility that the murders
were
a random act. But Kate wondered if one of the Branfords had been singled out and the rest had merely been collateral damage or a calculated cover-up.

Could Chelsea have had an affair, and these murders were the handiwork of a jilted lover? And what about Bree? She was barely sixteen, but could she have been seeing someone outside her usual circle of friends who wasn’t what he had seemed to be?

These were long shots—especially in light of all the interviews they’d conducted, and the telephone and computer records they’d poured over—yet neither was beyond the realm of possibility. And until Kate could eliminate them, she had no intention of turning this case over to the FBI profilers her poor excuse for a father so revered.

Despite the late hour, she wanted to take another look at the crime scene, and an even closer look at the wife’s and daughter’s personal belongings in the hope that something useful would jump out at her.

Something they had missed.

The only thing they’d found during the initial search that had raised any eyebrows was the variety of sex toys in Chelsea Branford’s nightstand drawer. But this merely indicated that either the Branfords had an adventurous love life or Mrs. Branford was one frustrated woman.

Kate knew that finding anything new was a long shot, but she had to give it a try.

∙ ∙ ∙

She had almost reached the house when she saw it: a beat-up old white Rambler station wagon parked on the side of the road not ten yards from the Branford driveway.

She slowed her SUV as she approached, and peered inside, but the Rambler was empty.

Was it abandoned?

It certainly looked that way.

On the other hand, what if it belonged to a reporter, or a couple of curiosity seekers, hoping to get a glimpse of the so-called House of Pain?

In the first couple days of the investigation, the media coverage had been relentless, and Kate had appeared on TV to request that viewers come forward with any and all information. But with the department otherwise remaining tight-lipped, and with the shock value of a celebrity death and a fresh new political scandal now dominating the airwaves, the murders had abruptly receded into the background to make room for these more important matters.

Which was just fine with Kate. It gave her a chance to move without the pressure of the press.

But there was always a straggler or two, usually the hardcore crime reporters, who weren’t seduced by petty politics or celebrity gossip. And she hoped to God this car was abandoned. She didn’t need the added headache.

She pulled her SUV into the Branford driveway, killed the engine, and scanned the area. There was no one lurking about, peering into windows—and that was a good sign, but not necessarily a definitive one.

The house itself matched its environment, looking much like an elaborate mountain cabin, an A-frame with knotted pine siding and a rustic, early pioneer vibe. But there was an attention to detail in the trim and deck rails and window treatments that revealed its owner’s skill with wood, and Kate had no doubt that he’d been a terrific cabinet maker.

She opened her door and got out, looking past the yellow crime scene tape toward the deck and large bay window that dominated the front of the house. The glass reflected the moon and it was hard to see inside, but there was no sign of movement, and she saw no flashlight beams illuminating the blood spattered walls.

So maybe she
was
alone out here.

As a precaution, however, she unsnapped the holster at her hip for easy access to her Glock.

Better safe than sorry, as her mother used to say….

With this thought, a jumble of images filled Kate’s mind—crime scene photos of her mother’s battered corpse. When she first made detective, she had hoped to reopen what was now a very cold case, but she’d never been able to get beyond those photographs, a woman she loved more than anything, beaten and strangled and left between two Dumpsters. Over the years, she kept promising herself that she’d take another look one day, but that day had yet to come.

Shaking the images from her mind, she ducked under the tape and started across the drive toward the front deck, but stopped short when she caught sight of the door.

The lockbox attached to the knob hung open—the door itself ajar.

Kate was the one who had formulated the combination for that lockbox, and only the members of her team knew it.

So how had it been breached?

Feeling her heart kick up, she glanced back at the Rambler, knowing now that her hope that it was abandoned was nothing more than that. Someone—undoubtedly a reporter—was inside poking around in her crime scene, looking for something to juice up the story. As if it needed juicing.

But then another thought entered her mind.

What if it wasn’t a reporter at all? Or even a curiosity seeker? What if it was the killer himself, doing what few perpetrators actually did: returning to the scene of the crime?

Was there something inside he wanted?

Something he hadn’t found five nights ago?

A trophy?

Some evidence they’d missed?

Kate unholstered her Glock and hoped she hadn’t been spotted, although the sound of her engine had been a pretty good indication that someone was outside.

Whoever was in there could be watching her right now, waiting for her to make a move. And common sense dictated that she turn around, get back in her car and call for help.

Stupid cops were often dead cops.

And Kate wasn’t stupid.

She was about to start back to her SUV when something in the bay window caught her eye. She was at a different angle now, and the glare of the moon was less pronounced, shining light
inside
instead of back at her.

She thought for a moment that she must be seeing things, that her mind was mistaking shadow and light—and maybe a piece of furniture—for something other than it was.

But no.

A boy stood in the Branford’s living room.

A boy in a hooded sweatshirt.

Crouching low, Kate pointed her Glock toward the door, then moved closer to the window, and peered inside.

The boy was small, maybe eleven or twelve. He stood square in the middle of the room, on a carpet stained with dried blood, an evidence marker at his feet—the spot where Alicia, one of the twins, had been found. He was rocking back and forth, staring straight up at the ceiling as if he were studying a crack or some water damage.

And his eyes. Even in the pale light, there was something unearthly about them. Dark corneas covered by a fine milky film.

Was he… blind?

Kate quickly scanned the rest of the room and saw nothing but furniture and shadows. The boy couldn’t be the driver of the Rambler, so who was with him and where were they?

Knowing she should go straight back to her car, she decided that maybe she was stupid after all, because something about this boy compelled her to move forward.

Something… unexplainable.

And then it happened.

She heard a voice inside her head—a child’s voice—like a distant, nebulous radio transmission from some other planet:

… Etak, olleh …

The sound stopped her cold. What the hell?

She glanced around, saw no one else in the vicinity.

… Etak, olleh … Diarfa eb t’nod …

Tightening her grip on the Glock, she turned, looked at the boy again, then closed her eyes and shook her head.

She knew she’d been working too hard, but this was insane. This voice… this… whatever it was… had to be a product of stress and sleep deprivation and she needed to pull herself together.

Keeping the Glock raised, she opened her eyes again and waited, afraid for a moment that whatever she thought she’d just heard might return. Then she stepped past the window, put her back against the wall and sidled up to the door, nudging it with her toe.

As it swung inward, she shifted her weight and pivoted, quickly taking in her surroundings as she eased into the living room.

The place was empty and quiet, except for the boy standing in a pool of moonlight, still rocking back and forth, those unearthly eyes staring at the ceiling, his quiet breaths barely audible in the stillness.

Hyper alert, Kate studied him, wondering if she was hallucinating. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

The boy said nothing. Showed no indication that he even knew she existed.

Was he deaf, too?

“Are you alone in here, or is there someone here with—”

“He won’t respond to you when he’s like that,” a voice said.

Startled, Kate whipped around, training her Glock on a dark doorway to her right. The shadowy figure of a man stood facing her, and her skin prickled with surprise and sudden fear.

“Police,” she told him as a spike of adrenalin shot through her body. “Don’t you move. Don’t you fucking move.”

“I
’M NOT ARMED,” THE MAN
said. “I don’t even own a gun.”

A vague hint of the South tinged his voice, a barely-there Appalachia that reminded Kate of an attorney she’d met years ago in one of her criminology classes.

Heart pounding, she unclipped the mini-mag from her belt and shone it at him.

Early to mid forties. Graying. A rugged, lived-in face. Hands tucked into the pockets of a faded Burr jacket. He squinted slightly against the light, but she noted a haunted quality to his dark eyes, and sensed they’d seen many of the same horrors hers had.

“Hands,” she said tersely, gesturing with the Glock. “Show me your hands. Slowly.”

He didn’t resist, taking them out to show her they were empty.

“Now lift the jacket and turn around.”

He lifted his jacket and spun slowly around, revealing no signs of a weapon. A pencil and a spiral bound notepad protruded a good four inches from his back pocket and Kate now thought she knew what she was dealing with.

She glanced at the boy, who was still rocking quietly and staring at the ceiling. Grabbing the back of the man’s jacket, she shoved him up against the nearest wall, held the flashlight with her mouth, and gave him a quick pat down.

When she was done, she said, “Who are you? Are you a reporter?”

The man laughed softly. “No.”

“Then what’s with the notepad?”

“I always carry it with me.”

That wasn’t an answer, but she let it go. “What’s your name?”

No response.

“I didn’t find a wallet. Don’t you carry one of those too?”

“I left it in the car.”

“Of course you did.”

She knew she should slap some cuffs on this guy and call for assistance, but something compelled her not to. She felt off her game and slightly disoriented and couldn’t explain it.

Instead she released him and stepped back, keeping the flashlight and Glock trained on him as he turned around. “Move to the center of the room. Get next to the boy.”

The man did as he was told as the boy continued to rock and stare at nothing.

Was he autistic? In some kind of trance?

He was really starting to creep her out.

They both were.

She gestured. “What’s wrong with him?”

“Nothing. He’s doing what he always does.”

“Which is what?”

The man hesitated. “Gathering.”

Kate had no earthly idea what that was supposed to mean. “What the hell are you talking about? What kind of fruitcakes are you two?”

She heard her father in that remark and didn’t much like it.

“We don’t want to cause trouble. We didn’t expect anyone to be here.”

“So you see the place is empty and decide to break in? Did you know the Branfords? Are you a friend of theirs? Family?”

The man shook his head. “I’ve already said too much.”

“You haven’t said a goddamn thing. Just tell me what you’re doing here.”