At Risk (22 page)

When silence rose between them, Liz tried to recover the comradeship they’d shared in the morning. “Thanks for taking me out. I love your boat.”

“Just don’t care much for the captain.”

She turned to look at him. “That’s not true. It’s just that things have gotten more serious than I expected.”

“Sorry about it?”

“No, not sorry. I care for you, Jack. You know I do, but—”

“It’s all in the
but,
isn’t it? Is this the part where you tell me how you want us to be friends?”

She smacked his arm in frustration, not hard enough to hurt, but to get his attention. “Sometimes you overwhelm me,” she admitted. “I don’t know whether I’ve got solid ground under me or water. You scare me.”

“That’s the second time you’ve said that.”

“I mean it.”

He hesitated, and then said, “There are things in my life that I’m not willing to share, Liz.”

“Not with me, or not with anyone?”

“I’ve got my reasons.” He slowed to make the turn into her long drive.

“Can’t we just take it slow between us?” she said.

“If you want.”

“I’ll sleep better tonight, knowing that Wayne’s body was found.”

“I can come back later, if you want,” he offered.

“No, not tonight.”

“Saturday evening? We could drive down to the beach. Eat somewhere nice.”

“Call me Saturday morning.”

“Got a date with your neighbor?”

“What do you know about Michael?”

“It’s a small state, Lizzy. Hard to keep secrets.”

“My seeing Michael isn’t a secret,” she said, a little too defensively. “We’re friends. Among other things, he’s teaching me to shoot.”

“You?”

She nodded. “What’s wrong with that?”

He shrugged. “Wonders never cease.” He pulled up beside her car and got out to open the door for her. “I’m coming inside to check the place out, if you’ll get hold of the beast.”

“It will be all right,” she assured him. “Heidi wouldn’t let anyone in the house.”

“You going to let me in, or am I going to sit out here all night?”

“Suit yourself, but it’s not necessary.” She didn’t want him to come into the house. She wanted to be alone, to think, but Jack was Jack. Once he made up his mind, there was no stopping him.

She turned Heidi outside while Jack made a quick inspection upstairs and down. “All clear,” he said when he returned to the kitchen. “But you should be leaving that dog outside at night. If she’s a guard dog, that’s where she’ll do you the most good.”

“I know, but I hate to put her out. I’ll be fine. Now go home and paint your mother’s porch.”

“Tarzan hear woman,” he said. “Tarzan go, but he be back when moon is full. Two days.” He held up four fingers.

“Call me,” she repeated. “I’m making no promises.”

“I am. I’ll be here Saturday night.”

She called the dog back into the house and locked the kitchen door as Jack pulled out of the yard. She wasn’t certain if she’d go with him on Saturday night or not. Liz refused to think about that now. She had material to prepare for tomorrow’s classes.

Why? Why had he done it? And how had he, a master of the art of murder, exhibited such weakness? He’d never been a man ruled by base emotions; he was far too intelligent.

But he had never lied to himself, and it was impossible to deny that he had acted on impulse last night.

The Game Master swore softly as he removed the tarp-wrapped corpse from the car trunk. With only moonlight to guide him, he strode purposefully through the woods into the reeds and deposited the stiffened remains in the bottom of the boat. Last night, when the tramp sat on the car seat beside him, luring him with her pale flesh, disposing of her had seemed an adventure. A quick kill.

He could still feel the hot pulse of blood in her throat, hear her cries . . . remember the excitement of her futile struggles. But the killing was nothing more than a cheap thrill, without risk, lacking the slightest degree of finesse. Any common thug could have done the same.

Like shooting fish in a barrel.

Maybe if he’d strangled her with his bare hands instead of muffling his sense of touch with gloves . . . perhaps then he wouldn’t have such abject disgust for what should have been a memorable experience.

Now, disposing of her was a chore, with none of the rewards usually associated with his sport. Instead of spending a leisurely night watching The Professor shower or undress for bed, he was here, fending off mosquitoes and poling through salt marsh. He had to forgo the amusement of listening as sounds echoed through the old house, and the dog whined and bristled at each creak and footstep.

This pursuit of
the professor
had gone on longer than he’d planned. He’d known she would be a rare subject, but even he had not guessed how challenging the game would become. He wanted her . . . longed to taste her blood . . . to feel the grate of her bone against his teeth. What trophies she and the daughter would provide.

This was a milestone, a level of sport that few would ever know. When he was old and past his prime, he could revel in the memories of this hunt, sucking every drop of joy from these days of high adventure.

But he was human, not a god or an immortal.

A thinking man, even a genius, learned from his mistakes. He had acted rashly in taking the tramp, out of season, as it were. And he must pay the price, forgoing his fun for the night to “mop things up.”

The Game Master reached the cedar pilings and snugged the bow of his boat against the corner of the thick plank platform. It was low tide; in high tide, water covered the surface, washing away the residue. The boards were slippery, but he was used to keeping his balance when he butchered.

His actions became routine. First he stripped himself naked, removing every stitch, even his boots and socks. He deposited his clothing in a plastic garbage bag to keep them dry and clean, before lifting the carcass onto the five-by-six raised area. Next he unwrapped two filleting knives and a whet stone. If he struck bone, his knives lost their edge, and it was important to keep them sharp.

Dividing the remains into small enough sections to fit into crab traps was surprisingly simple. He was strong, experienced, and eager to dispose of the evidence. His strokes were quick and sure, dividing flesh and bone into neat sections. Even the buzzing mosquitoes didn’t bother him particularly. They rarely bit him. Perhaps his blood was too rich for the insects’ liking. Once he’d returned the baited traps to the boat, he used a bucket and sponge to wash down the platform, cleaned his knives, and put them back in the oilcloth case.

The Game Master dressed quickly. All that was left to do was to place the traps in the best spots. Actually, he could have caught a bushel of prime crabs here, but it seemed unsporting. No, his tried-and-true methods were best. He glanced up at the moon. If he hurried, there was still time to get his traps out, return home, and get a few hours’ sleep before dawn.

He removed a small nubbin of flesh and bone from between his lips, rolled it in plastic, and dropped it into his jeans pocket. The crabs wouldn’t miss one pinky toe with a tiny, polished nail, not with the feast he had for them tonight. And wouldn’t it add to his collection nicely?

Friday morning dawned bright without a cloud in the sky. Two of her classes met this morning, the first a freshman-level American History, and the second, her Heroines of the American Revolution, reserved for history majors.

To her relief, nothing unpleasant waited on her porch, in her back yard, or at her dock. She fed and walked Heidi, turned the dog loose in the house, and left for Somerville with a lighter heart than she’d had in weeks. She parked in her usual space in the lot, passed Cameron in the hall without speaking to him, and arrived fifteen minutes early for her first class.

Ava Johnson, a grad student who usually worked with one of the senior history professors, came in to assist. Since Liz had planned a slide show and presentation, the period was over in what seemed record time. H.A.R. was a favorite of Liz’s. Most of the students were interested in the material and well prepared. She wished them all well on their finals and was about to join Sydney for lunch when a tall, olive-skinned girl who worked in the office approached her in the hall.

“Professor Clarke? I have a message for you. Mrs. Ryder didn’t call because she was afraid of interrupting your lecture.”

“Thank you, LaShondra.” Liz opened the note. There was a number, a man’s name, and the word
insurance
.
Insurance
was underlined twice.

“Mrs. Ryder said that it sounded important and that Mr. Klinger would be at his desk all afternoon,” LaShondra said. “Just give his receptionist your name. She’s expecting your call.”

Liz returned to the empty auditorium and took her cell out of her briefcase. In less than a minute, Philip Klinger was apologizing for disturbing her at the college.

“Ordinarily, I would have called you at home, Ms. Clarke. I’ve sent out a letter, but I wanted your verbal okay on this policy.”

“What policy?” Liz asked. “And it’s Dr. Clarke.”

“Yes, of course. Dr. Clarke. Something came across my desk that . . .” He went on to explain that the policy was written by one of his junior employees, an eager young man who’d recently received his license to sell life insurance. Apparently, that agent, whose name Mr. Klinger omitted, had recently sold a substantial life policy to a Mr. Russell Montgomery.

“I don’t understand what this has to do with me,” Liz said. “Russell and I have been divorced for years.”

“Yes, but—”

“There’s a current Mrs. Montgomery, Danielle. She’s probably who you want to speak to.”

“No, Dr. Clarke, it’s definitely you.”

“What is the value of this policy?”

“One million dollars, with a double indemnity for accidental death.”

“Three million if the insured is killed by a stray asteroid or a rampaging elephant?”

“Yes.”

“I still don’t see what this has to do with me,” Liz said. “The policy is on Russell, isn’t it?”

“No, actually, it isn’t, Dr. Clarke.”

“Then who? Our daughter, Katie?”

“On you.”

“Me? A million dollars? Without my consent? Is that legal?”

“I’m looking at a signature on the policy. Am I to assume that you didn’t sign this?”

“Who is the beneficiary?”

“Russell Montgomery.”

“Son of a bitch!” Anger flared within her.

“Excuse me?”

“Cancel it,” Liz said. “Immediately.”

“It would be better if you could examine the signature, make certain that you didn’t—”

“I think I’d know if I’d given my irresponsible ex-husband consent to take out a million-dollar insurance policy on my life.”

“You definitely believe that this is a mistake?” Klinger asked.

“A mistake? Not likely.” Was Russell hoping to profit from her death? Liz sank onto a bench by the door. How far would he go to get his hands on that kind of money? “My ex-husband is a gambler,” she said as calmly as she could. “I have reason to think he may be in debt to some unsavory characters.”

“Oh, I see.” Philip Klinger cleared his throat. “Naturally, we’ll cancel this immediately.”

“See that you do,” she said. “And I’d like a copy of the cancellation letter.” She gave him her home address and was concluding the conversation when Sydney opened the door to the corridor.

“Liz? Oh, sorry, I didn’t know you were on the phone,” Sydney said.

“No, I’m finished.” Liz thanked Philip Klinger for contacting her and closed her cell. “I would have come looking for you,” she said to Sydney. “I can’t meet you for lunch.”

“Why not?”

“I have a date with my ex,” Liz replied. “And it’s not going to be pretty.”

Russell’s receptionist reluctantly ended her personal phone conversation and wiggled the fingers on her left hand in the air in an attempt to dry her nail polish. “Let me check to see if he’s in the office, Dr. Clarke,” she said in a patronizing tone.

Liz had dealt with Lorraine before and wasn’t impressed with her office skills. Russell claimed she was an excellent employee, and from past experience with her ex-husband’s secretaries and receptionists, Liz supposed that the young woman must have other attributes that only a man could appreciate.

Lorraine’s flowing mane of hair was dyed a garish plum, but her perky 38D breasts, tiny waist, and long legs were stunning, nearly as impressive as the silver tongue stud that garbled her South Philadelphia accent. “On second thought, I think you just missed him. Mr. Montgomery had an important lunch meeting,” which—due to the wad of chewing gum or the stud—came out as
“Un sekka tat, eye tinka youse yust mist’m. Litha Montgummy hatta porta heet’n.”

“Oh, Russell’s in. I saw his car parked in the side lot.” Years of being the first Mrs. Montgomery had taught Liz a few of Russell’s tricks. No doubt, the silver Mercedes convertible was leased in the current Mrs. Montgomery’s name. But if Liz knew Russell, he was at least two months’ payments behind, thus the necessity of keeping the car’s location less than obvious.

The receptionist rose and attempted to block Liz’s path. The young woman was quick, but her four-inch open-toed sandals slowed her just enough for Liz to brush by.

“Mr. Montgomery might be on the phone.”

Liz flung open her ex-husband’s door. “Hi, Russell.”

The small, windowless room smelled of Chinese take-out and mountain pine air freshener. Liz glanced around, taking in the peeling paint on the walls and the cheap, rented furniture showing signs of wear. Two cardboard containers marked
Jade Palace
stood on the desk amid a folded newspaper, crumpled napkins, a racing schedule, and piles of manila folders.

“I tried to stop her,” Lorraine said. “She—”

“It’s all right.” Russell rose so quickly that he knocked over a nearly empty cup of latte. “Liz, it’s good to see you again.” He stabbed plastic chopsticks into an open carton of rice and mopped the coffee spill with a napkin.

“Better me than the police,” she answered. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” When his face paled and he began to stammer, she raised her hand. “No, you be quiet and listen to me.”