Death Angel (17 page)

Glancing up at the clock, she noted the
time. It was 2:15. She’d come in at 2:00. Would another call come at 2:30?

Fear crept through her body, chilling
her. Trying to ignore it, she bent over to pick up the cans and boxes scattered
across the floor. She put away the groceries, folded up the bags, and avoided
staring at the clock.

The phone rang at 2:30 and again at
2:45.
 

Four calls fifteen minutes apart. Each
call was the same. When the answering machine picked up, the caller listened to
the message but didn’t speak or hang up until just before the final beep.
 

The first time might have been an accident,
but listening to the other calls Kate realized the disconnect was timed. The
mental picture of someone watching the clock to gauge precisely the moment to
hang up was disturbing.

Kate paced back and forth in front of
the telephone, wondering what she should do. It was exactly a week ago that she
had received the phone call from the person she thought of as the “Witness,”
who claimed to have seen the murder. It had been a frightening incident and she
was relieved that it had not been repeated. Now these hang-up calls were as
disturbing in their way as that first one had been.

The fifth call came at three o’clock.

Right or wrong, Kate picked up the
receiver. “Hello?”

“I saw him,” was the whispered reply.

Heart hammering in her ears, Kate tried
to remember what she wanted to say. “You didn’t see my husband. If you have any
information please go to the police. It will help them find Jenny’s murderer.”

“I need to talk to him.”

“He’s not here. He’s at work, but don’t
hang up. Please help us. Please go to the police.”

She squeezed the receiver tightly
against her ear. Her fingers ached from the pressure. Drawing air through her
nose in a long, steadying breath, she waited for the voice to speak again.

Silence. And then the dial tone.

She began to shiver. Gritting her teeth,
she replaced the receiver and backed away from the phone. She moved clear
across the kitchen and out into the family room. Even that didn’t seem far
enough, so she opened the patio doors and stepped out on the deck. She needed to
put distance between herself and the voice on the end of the phone line.

Was it the same person who had called
before? The whispered voice could have been either male or female. There was
nothing familiar about the voice. It sounded disembodied. No color or
personality to give it substance.

What was the purpose?

The caller had wanted to talk to Richard
specifically. The only question in Kate’s mind was whether the person had any
real information concerning Jenny’s death.
 

No matter who the caller was or what the
reason for the call, it was necessary to tell Richard about it.

Thunder rumbled in the distance. She
shivered as she stared at the darkening sky, grateful that she’d made a
decision. Back inside she dialed Richard’s direct line. His secretary answered.

“Hi, Candy, it’s Kate. Is Richard
around?”

“You just missed him. He said he was
going home early. If you want, I’ll see if I can catch him at the elevator.”

“I’d appreciate it.”

Kate drummed her nails on the countertop
as she waited. In no time, a breathless Candy was back on the line.

“Gosh, I’m sorry, Kate. He’d already
gone down in the elevator. Was it urgent?”

“No. Thanks for trying.” With a sinking
feeling, Kate hung up.

Was it just a coincidence that Richard
had decided to leave work early?

Of course it was. She either trusted
Richard or she didn’t. There couldn’t be any halfway measures. She’d go right
out of her mind if she began to second guess him. When Richard came home, she’d
tell him about the phone calls. He’d be angry that she hadn’t told him about
the first call a week earlier. Well, that couldn’t be helped. She tried to
focus on the clock, wondering if the Witness would call again at 3:15.

It rang five minutes before she expected
it.
 

“Hi, Kate, it’s Chris Mayerling. Am I catching
you at a bad time?”

“No, but Richard’s not home yet.”

“Actually I wanted to talk to you. I’m
coming out your way, and I wondered if we could meet for a drink.”

Kate frowned. Although Chris was always
welcome at the house, it was as Richard’s boss that they had any social contact
with him.
 

“Would you like to come here?” she
asked.

“No. I’d rather go someplace else.” He
chuckled. “I want to talk to you about Richard. I’m worried about him.”

First Mike, now Chris. Bowing to the
inevitable, Kate agreed. “Where would you suggest?”

“Do you know Dave’s Place? It’s on the
north side of Pickard. The corner of Cumberland and Buckeye.”

“One-story place with a deck and noisy
beer parties in the summer?”

“That’s it. Inside it’s surprisingly
respectable.”

“Okay. What time will you be there?”

“I’m just finishing up some work now.
The traffic won’t be bad, but it looks like we’re in for a storm. Is it raining
in Pickard?”

Kate pulled the curtain back to peek
outside. “Not yet. We’ve got thunder, but it’s still dry.”

“I’ll try to get there by five. Is that
okay?”

“That’s fine. I’ll see you at Dave’s
Place.”

Kate hung up the phone. There was a cold
feeling in the pit of her stomach. Despite Chris’s light tone, an edginess to
his voice warned her to prepare for some sort of bad news.

Dear God, how much worse could things
get?

Twelve

H
e stood several feet off the main path
,
motionless as the maple he leaned against. His face beneath the canopy of
leaves was in shadow, and his dark clothing blended with the surrounding
bushes. From where he stood, he had an excellent view of the circular path that
ran along the edge of the open field.

He stared down at his watch.

Four-twenty. He made a mental note of
the time, but knew it was futile. The moment he looked away, the numbers
flickered like fading stars and disappeared without a trace in his memory until
the next time he was forced to check again.

Tension had been building for the past
two days; the anticipation was intoxicating. He could feel little bubbles of
excitement rising in his chest, breaking and sending a tingle of energy along
the paths of his nerves.
 

The feedback from his senses was
heightened. The colors in the woods were sharp, tinged a yellowish green,
throbbing with vitality in the late afternoon light. The sky was darkening and
thunder growled in the distance. The loamy smell of decay rose to his nostrils
and he breathed in the air, heavy with the imminence of rain. Sound was
magnified. The first drops hit the leaves in a crisp staccato rhythm.

It had rained the last time his father
had beaten him.

He was sixteen. Not a man yet, but
taller than his father. It was summer, a weekend. He’d been out with his
friends and he’d come home late, hoping the sound of the rain would cover his
arrival.
 

No lights in the house. The old man
would be passed out, his drunken snores a familiar rumble, muffled only
slightly by the closed bedroom door.

The silence should have warned him.

His sneakers were wet and squeaked on
the linoleum as he crossed the kitchen floor to the refrigerator. The old man
always stocked it with beer on Friday. Swiping a few had gone unnoticed for
several months. He knew stealing from the bastard was risky but despite the
danger, or maybe because of it, each icy sip was ambrosia.

His heart pounded in his ears as he
opened the door of the refrigerator. Careful not to hit the other bottles, he
eased one out. With infinite care he closed the door. Plunged into darkness, he
stood still, waiting for his eyes to become accustomed to the darkness. With
one hand he twisted off the bottle cap and with the other he raised the bottle
to his lips.

His father’s cane crashed down on the
bottle, shattering it. Pieces of glass cut into his skin and blood mingled with
the beer as it rolled down his face.

Stunned by the attack, he shook his head
to clear it. Another blow cracked him across the shoulders and despite the
pain, he spun around to face the shadowy figure, cane raised to strike
again.
 

Instinctively he lashed out. His fist
struck bone. The physical sensation brought him to his senses and the chilling
knowledge that for this latest sin the old man would beat him senseless. The
thought was only a second in time, but in that instant he resigned himself to
death. He cringed, bracing himself for the shattering blows of the cane.
 

In slow motion, his father doubled over,
sprawling on the floor at his feet.

He held his breath waiting for the
bastard to rise. When his vision blurred, he opened his mouth and the air burst
out between his lips. In a daze, he reached for the light switch, squinting at
the sudden glare flooding the room.

The old man lay in the puddle of beer
and glass, his arm outstretched for the cane, which had fallen out of his hand.
Curious to see if the man were dead, he prodded him with the toe of his shoe. A
moan was the only response. He nudged him again. He kicked him but the softness
of the sneaker deadened the sensation. Reaching down he picked up the cane.

He raised it over his head. His father’s
eyes were open, staring up at him.

Power surged through him at the terror
on his father’s face, and in the man’s expression he read the lesson that would
be his guiding principal through life. Domination was a matter of physical
strength, nothing more.
 

He struck the crumpled figure with the
cane. It wasn’t a hard blow but the sound of wood against flesh was satisfying.
He struck again. Straddling the drunken sot, he aimed carefully, hitting the
old man so that every inch of his body would bear the mark of the beating.
After this, his father would never dare to touch him again. When he finished,
he broke the cane in half, throwing one piece down beside the sniveling figure.
The other piece he placed on his bedside table, the last thing he saw at night
and the first thing in the morning.

He had become a man, and the piece of
wood was the outward sign of his rite of passage.
 

It was the first token he’d kept over
the years to mark momentous events. It was only proper that he use the cane on
this occasion. The short piece of wood was easy to carry and fit comfortably in
his hand. He tightened his fingers. The wood was worn smooth from his handling
it. He was not normally superstitious, but he believed that objects stored
psychic energy that could be tapped when he needed a recharge. Standing in the
misting rain beside the jogging path, he touched the pocket of his pants,
drawing strength from the gold links of the bracelet.

The talisman.

From the first moment he had found it
caught in the material of his jacket, he had sensed its power. Rubbing the
bracelet brought instant arousal. Pressing the angel charm with his thumb
caused an orgasm of cosmic proportion. Afraid of diminishing the potency, he’d
rationed the number of times he’d tapped the source. Lately he had begun
carrying it in his pocket, and wondered if the sense of danger would renew the
power of the bracelet.

Danger. He would have to be careful. The
COP was checking everything.

This time he wasn’t acting on impulse.
He’d planned it down to the smallest detail. The key was to think enough moves
ahead so that he’d be safe. He was a better game player than the COP.

A shiver of pleasure slithered through
his body.

The excitement was heightened because of
the importance of this experiment. The subject had been chosen with particular
care. No passion would be involved to cloud the issue. He would deal with
nothing but the sensory input of the moment, and then he’d know the answer that
had plagued him for almost two weeks.

Sex or death? Which would bring him most
power?

Soon. He tightened his fingers on the
piece of cane and looked at his watch.
 

Four-thirty. Would he come? The rain was
still only a light mist. Not enough to be a deterrent; refreshing for a
dedicated runner.
 

He caught his breath as a jogger
appeared along the path on the far side of the field. Right on schedule. The
air was heavy with moisture and the man seemed to appear out of a cloud, the
noise of his approach muffled by the rain-dampened trail in the open area.
 

His secret knowledge added a certain piquancy
to watching the jogger’s movements.

He looked to see if there was anyone
else around, then stepped out of the shadows, running in place for a moment
before moving along the trail toward the jogger. He paced himself carefully so
that he would intersect the man at the precise spot where the trail cut back
into the woods.