After She's Gone (36 page)

Belva stopped dead in her tracks. Her heart leapt to her throat.

Her skin prickled as she strained to listen.

She heard nothing, no scratch of footprints. No slither of scales against floorboards. No movement or breathing.

Swallowing back her fear she took another step.

This time she whipped around.
What? Dear God, what was that hissing noise?
“Who’s there?” she called, then mentally corrected herself. Not who, but
what
? What creature lurked in the shadows? The skin on the back of her arms pimpled.

Did she see a pair of red eyes glowing in the corner, reflecting the fire’s dim light? Was it Lucifer himself, come to call? She started to cross herself again when, from the very corner where she knew the beast was lurking an intense light flashed, burning her eyes.

Blinded, Belva took a step backward, her calves colliding with the sharp edge of an end table, the light so intense she couldn’t see around its beam.

“You traitor,” a low voice accused and then she heard the weird hissing sound again.

“Who are you?” Belva cried and backed up further. The table with its useless lamp toppled.
Crash!
Glass shattered.

“Who do you think I am?” The voice was low and raspy as if from a demon on the prowl.

“I—I don’t know—” But a dawning realization stole the words from her throat. Cold understanding crawled through her brain. “Oh . . . oh no . . .”

The spit dried in her mouth.

A horror as dark as midnight stole through her heart. The light nearly blinding her moved from Belva’s face to illuminate the visitor’s outstretched hand. Clutched in long fingers was a shiny piece of paper . . . no, that wasn’t quite right. It wasn’t a regular sheet of paper . . . no, something was wrong with it. As her eyes began to adjust Belva realized the paper was a cutout, a mask of a horridly disfigured woman. The subject’s face seemed as if it were running off her bones, her mouth twisted open into what appeared to be a silent scream of sheer terror.

Then she recognized the subject: Jenna Hughes.

Her stomach dropped through the floor.

She nearly stumbled and saw the nurse’s uniform stretched out on the couch. Her uniform. As if she were going to don that ancient dress and cape again. Oh, God.

All of her worst fears crystallized and she knew the monster hiding in the dark was, if not the prince of darkness, his wife. “No,” she whispered as the woman hiding in the corner advanced. Belva backed up, the soles of her shoes crunching on the broken glass, her heart pounding an erratic rhythm. “Please . . . please. Have mercy.”

“Mercy,” the raw voice repeated.

She heard a soft
click.

Is that what it sounded like when a safety was snapped off, or a gun was ready to fire? She didn’t know, but didn’t wait to find out. Frantic, she whirled, propelled herself to the front door.

A gunshot blasted through the tiny cabin.

Her body jerked forward.

Pain exploded in her back.

She screamed, fear and agony twisted together as she slammed into the door.

Arms splayed, she slithered down the wood panels and heard her own heart pounding in her ears.

“Mercy?” the harsh disembodied voice hissed as if from a distance. “I don’t think so.”

As blackness pulled at the threads of her consciousness, Belva heard the distinctive
Sssss
of the plasticized mask being rattled once more. This time the mask was close enough that she felt a cool breeze as it fanned her face.

Finally, her struggle was over.

She was dying. No one could save her. Though she was aware of something being placed over her head, she felt her soul slipping away. She made one last plea to God, one last prayer as atonement, one final request of the Holy Mother.

 

N
ash pushed the speed limit.

She was pissed.

The trip to Molalla had been a bust, Nash thought as she drove up the familiar road to Mercy Hospital.

Nash and Double T had been given the same warm welcome as Sparks and Carter had earlier. They, too, had been left to stand on the front porch of a small house, a broken-down screen door between them and Sonja Watkins while she avoided questions and smoked three cigarettes. She’d been nervous as hell and hadn’t divulged where her aunt could be found, but Nash would bet her badge and a year’s salary that the woman had been lying.

Nash couldn’t help feeling she was spinning her wheels.

She had spent all day going over the autopsy reports on Holly Dennison and now, due to the rush that was put on it, Brandi Potts. She’d read the interviews of friends and family, witnesses and anyone close to the victims. She’d called with follow-up questions.

And she’d come up with a big, fat zero.

No big insurance payouts upon either woman’s death.

In Potts’s case, no other woman lay waiting in the wings for her boyfriend to become single, at least none that Nash, nor Jenkins had yet rooted out.

No enemies with deep grudges against the women had emerged. So far.

No gun-toting ex-lovers had been discovered lurking in the background.

Nothing about this case had been easy or normal.

At least so far. Sometimes the other women, monetary gain, ex-boyfriends, or psychotic enemies weren’t initially noticed, but eventually floated to the surface like the scum they were. So far, nary a ripple.

Nash slowed for an S curve, then gunned her little car as she rounded the final corner. She felt the “usual suspects” didn’t apply in this case. She kept coming back to the only connection she could find between the two victims which was, of course,
Dead Heat,
and therefore it seemed, Allie Kramer’s disappearance.

What bothered her about it, was that it was almost too obvious. The masks. Really? It was as if the police were being given a road map.

To where?

Cassie Kramer.

Or maybe Allie?

With one hand, Nash drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. Who bore the Sisters Kramer and their mother such ill will? For a moment her mind sauntered down the jagged pathway leading to their father and his new family, but she did a quick U-turn. Robert Kramer was too self-serving. Yeah, out for himself, but not a killer.

So who was?

“That’s the question,” she said as she turned through the gates of the hospital and the white edifice flanked by lush gardens came into view. Despite the marble and brick facade and the huge columns, the hospital appeared austere and cold, almost foreboding, but then she’d had an aversion to any kind of medical buildings since losing her daughter. Refusing to let her mind wander down that painful path, she pulled into a parking space in the designated area, cut the engine, and with an eye to the gray skies, hurried toward the main entrance of Mercy Hospital. Her heels clicked loudly on the smooth floor of the grand reception area where she was met with all the warmth of an iceberg by the receptionist, who, after demanding to see Nash’s badge, finally released the packet that was supposed to hold Belva Nelson’s employment records. Nash opened the envelope in the reception area, just to make certain it was the information she needed and after confirming that copies of the records were enclosed, stuffed the packet into her case and left the hospital.

She swung by her house, grabbed a change of clothes and headed back to the office. A quick check on her dash told her it was after five.

Dean Arnette’s party for the cast and crew was scheduled for seven and though, of course, she hadn’t been sent an invitation, she thought she’d wander over to the Hotel Danvers, have a drink in the bar and see if she could find a way inside the ballroom where the event, a private party, was to be held. Of course the press had been invited. Since the manager was a friend of a friend, the department had come to the hotel’s aid on more than one occasion and Nash hoped to see some of the players in the drama that was her case. Especially the elusive and slippery Brandon McNary. For some reason
Dead Heat’s
bad-boy star seemed to be steadfastly avoiding her.

That would have to end.

Tonight.

She tugged at her collar at a red light and tried to ignore the bothersome feeling that she was missing something important, something, she sensed, that had to do with the damned film. Staring through her windshield where the steady drizzle was being slapped away by her wipers, she decided she needed to change up her game to solve this case. Aside from going through the routine motions of the investigation of the homicides, she needed to think outside of the box. The masks and the movie were the connections between the murders of Holly Dennison in LA and Brandi Potts, here, in Portland. There was no doubt in Nash’s mind that they were killed by the same person, but they were also part of a bigger plan that included Cassie Kramer, if she were to be believed about how she ended up with yet another similar bizarre mask.

Had Cassie gotten the mask as a warning? Did the killer leave them with the intended victims before actually murdering them? Had Cassie Kramer just gotten lucky and escaped California before the killer could strike? If that were the case, why not take her out up here in Portland? Why kill Brandi? And why hadn’t either of the victims reported receiving them?

She glanced in her rearview mirror and saw a row of headlights. A delivery van idled beside her in the next lane, but she barely noticed she was so caught up in her own thoughts.

How did the masks and murders fit in with the disappearance of Allie Kramer? Was Allie, too, a victim, possibly already dead, maybe even wearing one of those obscene masks and left somewhere obscure, not yet found? Or was she behind the homicides?

Really? From a rising star in Hollywood to homicidal maniac?

That didn’t pencil out.

And why put her own distorted image on her victims?

Again—it didn’t make any sense.

The light changed.

Nash punched the accelerator, cut in front of the slow-moving van and drove through the rain to the office. She parked across the street, waited impatiently for the pedestrian light to change, then feeling as if she were running out of time, hurried through the crush of people. She jogged into the building and after catching an elevator car, tapped her foot impatiently as it slowly climbed to the floor for the Homicide Division.

Once in the office again, she hung up her wet coat, then, in her cubicle, settled into her desk chair where she opened the packet from Mercy Hospital again and studied the information. It wasn’t much, but she did glean that Belva Nelson had been little more than a part-time employee over a span of five years. The hospital had been called St. Mary’s at the time, some thirty years ago, and Belva had been hired to cover shifts in neurology, surgery, recovery, and maternity.

Nash felt a little sizzle in her blood as she stared at the list. There was the neurological link. Cassie had mental issues; perhaps they’d been inherited from someone in her family. Her father? Mother? And then there was the maternity listing.

She did quick mental calculations.

As far as she knew, Jenna Hughes did not grow up in Portland, but what if she had gotten pregnant, been a girl “in trouble”? The timing would be about right if Jenna had been a teen, and though it seemed a stretch, maybe not so much. Nash’s eyes narrowed. Today’s morals weren’t the same as they had been thirty to forty years ago. Teen mothers weren’t as likely to keep their babies. Oftentimes pregnancies were hidden, girls giving up their babies after leaving school.

Was it possible?

Did Jenna have another child?

One born before Cassie?

Nash’s heartbeat ticked up. She sensed she might be onto something. Then again, she could be wrong in many ways. Even if Jenna had given a baby up for adoption, what would that child have to do with any of this? Could he or she be involved? A killer? An accomplice?

She tapped her fingers on the edge of her desk and stared at the information a few more seconds before punching out the number for vital records. If Jenna Hughes had borne a child in Oregon, there would be some record of it. Nash just had to look.

“Seek and ye shall find,” she whispered.

For the first time in a week, Nash actually smiled.

 

“What’s this all about?” Trent asked as Cassie, behind the wheel of her Honda, turned into the lane leading to her mother’s house. They were on their way to Portland to Dean Arnette’s party, but Jenna had called and insisted that they stop by her house first.

“Don’t know,” Cassie said as she pulled up to the rambling house she’d called home for most of her teens, a home she’d once hated. She still had ambivalent feelings toward the rustic, now renovated, ranch house. “But it sounded urgent. Jenna wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer. Believe me, I tried to beg off, but, uh-uh. No dice.” Yanking her keys from the ignition, she felt more than a little trepidation. Jenna had been insistent. And there hadn’t been an iota of levity in her request, no, make that demand.

“Please, Cassie, do this,” she’d said.

“But we’re already late.”

“I don’t care.” Jenna had sighed, played the trump “Mom” card. “Look, I don’t ask for much. Do me this one favor.”

So Cassie had buckled and here she was, walking across the porch to the front door. Her breath caught as she spied her grim-faced mother peering out the window. An icy feeling of déjà vu crawled through her mind. Whitney Stone’s footage had shown Allie at that very window, peeking out, then disappearing as she headed for the front door.

Heart in her throat, Cassie was about to reach for the handle when the door flew open and Jenna, pale as death, sailed over the threshold to hug her daughter fiercely, as if she were afraid Cassie would disappear into thin air.

“Hey. Mom. Are you okay? What happened?” she asked.

Jenna was actually shaking.

“Mom?” she asked, still in her mother’s embrace. Looking over Jenna’s shoulder, Cassie caught Trent’s eye and cast him an I-don’t-get-this glance, then saw movement on the other side of the door when Carter, unshaven, his jaw set, appeared in the hallway.

“Come on in,” her stepfather said, his voice low, his face serious. As if someone had died.

Cassie’s heart sank. All her fears congealed. “Oh, God, Mom, is it Allie? Is she all right?”

“Oh, honey, I don’t know.” Jenna’s voice broke.

Cassie yanked herself free and held her mother at arm’s length so she could stare into Jenna’s tortured eyes. “What is it? What happened?”

“I . . . we haven’t heard anything about Allie,” Jenna said, tears forming as a gust of wind raced across the porch.

“Then what? Are you okay?”

Her mother and stepfather exchanged glances. “Come inside,” Jenna said, blinking and managing a frail smile. “I need to talk to you.”

Another time, Cassie would have protested. Jenna knew that they were late, they’d talked about it on the phone, so, the fact that Jenna was so insistent coupled with Jenna’s emotional state warned Cassie that something major was up. Something not good. Apprehension propelled her into the house and she felt Trent’s hand on her elbow as she followed Jenna and Shane into the kitchen with Trent one step behind. Like most of the other rooms in the house, the kitchen had been updated since she lived there—new tile floors, appliances, and countertops—but the layout much the same. She stood at the island and wondered what in the world was going on.

Her mother had always been theatrical, but this? It was over the top, even for Jenna Hughes.

“Can I . . .” Jenna started, seeming to have composed herself a bit. She swiped almost angrily at the unwanted tears. “Can I get you coffee or a drink or—?”

“No! Just tell me what’s going on!” Cassie interrupted. “You look like someone died.”

Jenna stiffened, then said to Shane, “Well, I need something. Strong.”

“You got it.” Her husband was already reaching into a cupboard for a bottle of some kind of whiskey. He poured two short glasses, added ice from the freezer, then raising his eyebrows in a silent question, looked at Trent.

Cassie’s husband’s face was as somber as Carter’s, his jaw set in granite. He gave a quick shake of his head. “Another time.”

“So what is it?” Cassie demanded. She’d rarely witnessed Jenna drink more than a glass of wine, maybe two, but tonight she took a long swallow, then cradled the small glass of amber liquid in both hands as if it were nectar from the gods. Leaning a hip against the counter, as if for support, she drew in a steadying breath. “There is something I never told you girls . . . well, anyone, for that matter. Not Shane, either, nor your father, no one.”