Trust Me (15 page)

He doubted there were many people, in San Quentin, anyway, who'd be able to crack it. Jane had certainly never managed to figure it out. And, just in case, he was careful to use initials and never full names when referring to people who had the dubious honor of being mentioned. People such as Detective Willis, Mrs. Grady, the teacher who was giving Jane so much trouble over Kate's recent behavior and, at the front of the book, Miranda Dodge. He'd never properly thanked her for the rejection that still ate at him.

But that was because he'd been so undecided about her. What punishment would be best? He still wanted to be with her. If she'd give him half a chance, he'd show her what a good friend and passionate lover he could be. He'd always felt they were meant to be together, since that first day when she'd walked into his fifth-grade class with her auburn hair pulled back in those pretty purple barrettes.

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He could definitely forgive Miranda. If she'd let him.

But not Skye. He hated Skye more than anyone, because no one had wronged him as badly as she had. She'd gone to the police, testified against him and cried in happiness and relief when they led him off to prison. The way she kept appearing in public, talking about what he'd done, was an embarrassment, and he doubted it'd end anytime soon. She was making a calling out of their little skirmish.

At least she'd given him plenty to think about in prison. Closing his eyes, he eagerly relived the heart-pounding excitement of peering in her windows and watching as she moved from room to room.... Pictured her talking on the phone, laughing, lifting her long hair off her neck. Imagined getting the key he'd seen her use, silently opening the door and stepping inside.

Scarcely able to breathe, he slipped his hand into his shorts, feeling the tension, fear and excitement coalesce until his nerves vibrated with power and exhilaration. He had to have Skye; he had to hurt her.

He smiled as he imagined using his knife to hold her still while he touched her. The whites of her eyes showed clearly in the dark room and her lips moved, begging him to stop. Her helplessness was the best part. It fed some need he couldn't understand or deny. He wanted to punish her, pinch her, claw her, even bite her.

Skye...Skye...Skye, his mind chanted. But it wasn't until he heard her cry out in pain and anguish, completely broken, that his body finally shuddered in release.

"Your wife doesn't care?" his cellmate asked when it was all over.

Oliver had been so caught up in his memories of Skye he hadn't realized T.J. hadn't gone back to sleep. Lying perfectly still, he tried to recover while wondering how to respond.

"Every guy has his fantasies," he said at last.

"Yours is a freakin' obsession. You pant the name Skye almost every night."

"No, I don't." But the knowledge that he'd soon be able to even the score had made tonight's fantasy more visceral than ever. "We have unfinished business."

T.J. chuckled low in his throat. "You attack her again, you'll get a life sentence."

They wouldn't catch him. He'd see to that. If not for those damn scissors, they wouldn't have caught him the last time. Willis suspected him of killing those other women--young women who wouldn't have had to die if only they'd been decent to him. Oliver felt bad about Meredith. But the 95

detective hadn't been able to do a damn thing about it because he hadn't left any evidence. "I'm not going to touch her."

"Sure you won't."

Oliver didn't respond. He wanted T.J. to go back to sleep and leave him alone. But that didn't happen. T.J.'s bedding rustled as he rolled onto his back, and his tone grew friendlier.

"Hey, Oliver."

"What?" he said, hating T.J. almost as much as Vic.

"All that moanin' turned me on, man. Why don't you help me take care of the problem? We could call it a going-away present."

Oliver found his pen. He knew what "taking care of the problem"

entailed. As TJ.'s "bitch," he'd had to perform sexual favors for him before.

It was the only way he could ensure he had a protector. And he needed T.J.

more than ever now.

But it enraged him to feel so powerless, so cornered. "Caused me to perform in prison," he wrote next to T.J.'s name. It wasn't the first time he'd recorded this offense, but writing it down siphoned off some of the rage. He liked keeping count. Then, when he settled the score, he'd be able to cross off each entry, which would make his victory even more meaningful.

"Come on," T.J. snapped.

"Will you keep Vic and his friends away from me till I get out of here?" Oliver asked, knowing he had little choice regardless.

"Make it the best I've ever had and Vic won't touch you."

Setting his precious book aside, Oliver got up and cleaned himself with a few pieces of the cheap thin toilet paper provided by the state. Then he glanced through the bars at the upper gun rail opposite the bank of cages.

The guards stationed there were supposed to watch for any sexual activity.

Theoretically, they were also supposed to stop it. But enforcing that rule wasn't very practical. If they watched too closely, just about every guy in the place would end up being sent to solitary, and they didn't have the facilities.

Unless someone cried rape, they mostly turned a blind eye.

But it didn't always require brute force to rape a person.

The guard on duty didn't seem to notice that Oliver was out of bed. Or he didn't care. As he paced the length of the gun rail, he paused to adjust his machine gun. Then he pivoted and started walking in the other direction.

Confident there'd be no intervention, Oliver knelt by T.J.'s bed.

What got him from one minute to the next in here didn't matter. The wait was almost over....

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An e-mail from Miranda Dodge came Thursday morning. David had just climbed out of bed, grabbed a quick cup of coffee and a piece of toast and fired up his in-home computer when he received it. It was later on the East Coast, so she'd probably been up for at least three hours.

Of course I remember Oliver Burke. When we were in high school,
the little weasel would call me incessantly and beg me to go out with him.

The moment I refused, he'd hang up on me. But then he'd call back and
apologize. It was weird. He did other stuff, too. One time, I caught him
outside my bedroom window spying on me. I told my parents, and my father
called his father, but his father shrugged it off, saying any red-blooded
American boy would like to see a girl undress. That made my father really
mad. He said it was almost as if Mr. Burke applauded the behavior.

Anyway, it's early in Sacramento. I'll call you later. I'm not sure I
know anything that can help with your investigation, but when I heard
Oliver went to prison for rape, I was probably the only person on the planet
who wasn't surprised.

Miranda Dodge

David drummed his fingers on the desk. Was this where it had all started? With Miranda? He'd spoken to Burke's hygienist yesterday. She still claimed she'd never worked for a finer man. But she was a member of Burke's church. It was entirely possible that he treated her differently because of the connection, or that loyalty caused her to look more kindly on his indiscretions. It was also possible that she wasn't attractive enough to warrant Burke's attention. With a triple chin and straggly blond hair, she hardly fit the profile of his other victims.

The phone rang, interrupting his thoughts. "Hello?"

"Will you meet me for lunch today?"

Lynnette. "You're up already?"

"I have to go to work early. Anyway, I couldn't sleep."

"Why not? Did you have a setback?" She was on medication intended 97

to slow, if not arrest, the progress of the disease, but it didn't seem to be doing much. Her MS manifested itself in weakness and fatigue. Her balance had been affected, and she was losing some of the dexterity in her hands, which was a constant worry, considering the kind of work she did.

"It wasn't that. I've been thinking."

"About..."

"I'd rather discuss it over lunch. Can you make it?"

"You can leave the lab?" She got off midafternoon, so she generally
took
a sack lunch and clocked out for less than thirty minutes, just long enough to sit outside on the grass and eat.

"I'm off at one today. That's why I'm going in early."

David wasn't excited about the prospect of another emotional encounter, especially in the middle of his workday. As much as he wanted Lynnette to be happy, he couldn't seem to stop being the cause of her unhappiness. And with Burke's imminent release, it was difficult to concentrate on anything else.

But now he felt guilty about his reaction last night and the fact that he didn't really want to see her. Maybe making her more of a priority in his life would be a good thing. Maybe it would help him keep his head on straight when it came to Skye. "Where?"

"Pyramid House."

They'd gone there to celebrate the last time they'd officially reunited.

Was that significant? Or was it simply a restaurant she liked and they were both familiar with? "Sure."

"I'll see you there right after I get off work," she said and hung up.

David frowned as he set the handset back in its cradle. He didn't know what lunch was all about, but he was almost afraid to find out.

Skye smiled brightly when a completely bald man in his late fifties or early sixties opened the door. "Mr. Markum?"

"Yes?" Wearing a jogging suit, he had several expensive-looking rings on his fingers and a medallion at his neck, reminding Skye of a Hollywood producer.

"My name is Skye Kellerman. I'm with The Last Stand."

"The Last What?"

"The Last Stand. We're a victims' assistance charity."

He pointed to a little sign next to the doorbell that said No Soliciting.

"This is a gated community. How'd you get in here?"

"I waited until someone else came through and followed him in. And I'm not soliciting funds. I'm here to talk to you about Oliver Burke."

The expression on his face changed from annoyance to interest.

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"Burke went to prison for attempting to rape some woman."

Skye shoved the strap of her purse higher on her shoulder and took a deep breath. "I'm that woman."

His eyes widened. "No kidding? You stabbed him, right? With a pair of scissors?"

She tried not to wince, but mention of the incident always evoked a visceral response. "It was the only thing I could do."

"How'd you happen to have a pair handy?"

"They were on my nightstand. I'd been doing some cross-stitch before bed."

"Good for you! You're a survivor!" Grinning widely, he reached out to shake her hand.

"How well did you know Oliver?" she asked.

A small dog, some kind of spaniel, kept trying to escape between his legs. Using one foot to hold back his pet, he stepped onto the porch and shut the door. "Why?"

"He's being released tomorrow."

The dog barked from behind the door, but he ignored it. "That didn't take long." He whistled. "What's it been... two, three years? Must make you sick, eh?"

Worse than sick... "I'm concerned because I think he's still dangerous."

"He is dangerous. To animals as well as humans. That bastard killed one of my dogs."

Skye didn't want to reveal that she already knew about the lawsuit.

Many people didn't realize how public most records were, and it made them uncomfortable to learn that someone had been snooping around. So she remained vague. "How do you know it was him?"

"It happened a few days after we had a run-in. My daughter and sonin-law had parked their RV out on the street. He didn't like that it blocked the curbside view of his house from a certain angle. I guess he figured people on this street had nothing better to do than admire his home. I told him I wasn't about to have them move it. It was fine where it was. They were leaving to go home in another week."

"He didn't like that response?"

"You would've thought I'd done something really terrible. His face turned red and he stomped out of here. But that was it--until two days later.

We left the dogs in the backyard while we went out for the day. We were showing the kids around, hoping they'd consider moving closer to us, you know, but they like it where they are. Anyway, when we returned, we let 99

Bonnie and Clyde into the house and about an hour later, Bonnie started shaking and heaving. I couldn't figure out what was wrong with her, but I knew it was serious. So my wife and I rushed her over to the vet clinic, where she died later that night." Furrows formed between his eyebrows--

evidence that losing his pet had been painful for him. "The vet eventually concluded that someone had fed her a piece of poisoned meat."

"Someone?"

"Oliver Burke. It had to be him. I didn't have another enemy in the whole neighborhood. Still don't."

"You don't have proof that it was him, do you?"

"No, but the neighbors on this side over here--" he pointed to the left

"--can verify he was at home that day, which wasn't all that common. He was usually at his dental office."

"Nothing happened to Clyde?"

"He got sick, too, but Bonnie got the worst of it. That's Clyde in there." Markum tapped the door and the dog barked again.

"I'm sorry to hear about Bonnie. It must've been horrible."

"It was. I called the police, but they said there wasn't enough proof to do anything about it. They suggested I file a civil suit, that I might have a better chance of winning. But it was a bust. Burke put on such a good act, the judge fell for it."

"Yeah, he's good at playing the martyr."

"No kidding. It was pretty damn frustrating. I told the detective who came by here just after they charged him with attacking you, too, hoping it might help establish a history of violence, but..."

"He probably told you the same thing."

"He did. Without proof, it didn't mean much."