Head Games (17 page)
Authors: Eileen Dreyer
“A cannibal? No. But then, when I knew him he was a vegetarian. I can't guarantee he didn't give that up with agnosticism. But I do think he's much too busy with the big picture to be this attentive to me.”
“Is there any way I can find out about your work history?”
Molly nodded, still focused on her flowers. “I have an extra résumé upstairs. Call away. In the meantime I'll try and remember anybody I worked with who might be angry enoughâand crazy enoughâto do this. I'll tell you right now, though, with sixteen or so jobs, it's going to be a stretch to remember anybody.”
“You'd think somebody like this would be memorable.”
Molly thought about that a moment, and then admitted her own misconception. “Just the opposite, actually. People like this don't want the folks around them to recognize them. After all, if they're caught, they have to give up the fantasy.”
Rhett frowned. “The fantasy.”
Molly nodded, thinking about the dark ruminations she'd been caught in during the predawn hours. “Fantasy, Rhett. This is too meticulous, too complex to be a simple act of frustration. The standing theory is a guy like this is actually acting out of a fantasy he's been perfecting since he was about six years old.”
Rhett almost choked on his tea. “Six?”
Molly nodded, thinking of all those interviews, all those things only hinted at by other monsters. “The pros think that the signature of ⦠this kind of crime, what makes it belong to one particular killer, is the reflection not only of early childhood experiences, but of what his fantasy has been his whole life, from the time he could first put it into pictures.”
Rhett actually looked pale. “Oh. And this guy's fantasy is against you?”
Molly turned away. “How the heck do I know? Was Ted Bundy really so angry specifically at those girls he killed, or were they the substitute for whatever he saw in his head when he was a kid? Or maybe the woman who caused the precipitating event that incited him to act out his fantasy the first time?”
“So you think this guy isn't really targeting you because he's mad at you.”
Molly stroked her violets again, wishing the petals were bigger, older. Wishing her garden were in full bloom beneath a soft late-spring night so she could lie on the dark earth and smell the life there. So she could be restored.
Now, though, she had to settle for tiny wisps of life, because outside her plants were dormant and the earth was hard.
“I don't know,” she finally admitted in a small voice.
“I mean, it's not like you live a high-risk kind of life for this sort of thing,” he said softly, almost to himself. “Everybody at work says you're more likely to go out with the moms for hamburgers at Steak n Shake than the swinging singles for slamming at the Toe Tag. You don't date much, do you?”
“I think âat all' is the more appropriate term.”
“You work two responsible jobs, keep a pretty regular schedule, and associate with an old man and a teenage nephew. You don't live the kind of life that should make you show up on a serial killer's radar screen.”
Molly scowled. “You're right, Rhett. I don't. I'm appalled to say that I have safely passed through that stage of my life and found it less than enchanting.”
“When did you do that?”
Molly rubbed at her forehead and felt the grit of soil on her fingers. “Oh, jobs four through ten, I guess. And then, maybe a relapse around job thirteen.”
Rhett scribbled hard. “You're going to be an interesting investigation, Molly.”
Molly's smile was wry.
“About your nephew ⦔
“Son of the undersecretary. Here because of parental problems, currently making a living wage bussing tables at Via Venito over on Maryland.”
“Not a suspect.”
Molly turned on him. “What?”
Rhett's smile reminded her of a Boy Scout getting granny across the street. “That wasn't a question, Molly. When that last ⦠uh, flower box came in. Do you remember the last time you saw your dog before you got home to let him out?”
“Sure. I let him out just before I left for work.”
“And you're pretty sure he didn't have the box then.”
“If he had, he would never have ever come back in.”
“And your nephew?”
“Had already gone. Why?”
“Because I checked with the restaurant. Patrick was there until you saw him climbing over the fence. They remember because not only were they busy and had a truck to unload after dinner, but Patrick evidently ⦠well, uh ⦔
“Spit it out. I doubt it's going to be more upsetting than the possibility that he's been chopping up young women.”
“He's been on probation because of attitude. Evidently he has trouble following orders from a boss only a year older than he is.”
Molly sighed, at once frustrated and relieved. Not that she'd really thought Patrick capable of this, but it was nice to have him safely out of the suspect pool. On the other hand, she'd have to have a Come-to-Jesus meeting with him about responsibility and trust.
“You're sure,” she said.
Rhett raised an eyebrow again. “You were worried?”
“Of course not. I just want to keep my problems on their separate plates. It would be exhausting to confuse the mad killer stuff with the petulant, abandoned teenager stuff. Ya know?”
She wasn't sure he did, but he nodded anyway. “From the condition of the flower box, Dr. Harrison is pretty sure your dog was working on it from the minute he went outside when you got home. And Patrick wasn't around then to toss it.”
Molly threw off a quick nod. “Good. Maybe he'll be easier to deal with now.”
“I still have to see if Mr. Patterson had an alibi.”
Leave it to Frank to know the nanosecond to show up. “An alibi for what?” he asked from the top of the steps.
Rhett damn near fell off his stool. Molly scowled.
“You've come to tell me that your message about Donna Kirkland was another tasteless joke, haven't you?” she demanded without moving.
Neither did Frank. “My jokes are never tasteless, Molly. Above your comprehension, maybe.”
Rhett was about to say something, but Molly forestalled him. “Explain, then.”
She could hear the amused smile in his voice. “Your nephew is impressed with his aunt's notoriety. You might want to make sure he isn't so impressed he finds himself wanting to share it.”
“You didn't call Donna Kirkland?” Rhett asked, obviously out of patience with subtlety.
Frank's laugh echoed around the basement like cannon fire. “Sorry to disappoint you, Detective.”
Molly was perfectly content to continue this way, with Frank perched as close as he could to her basement and her comfortably settled on her stool, until she heard the staccato of Mary Jane shoes on her kitchen floor upstairs.
She was off that stool as if she'd been spring-loaded.
“Did you bring that pack of wild animals with you?” she demanded of Frank with barely suppressed delight.
“She wants to know if you're wild animals,” he said to someone else.
“Yes, Daddy,” a tiny voice piped up.
“I'm sorry, Molly,” he apologized, his voice echoing faintly down her steps. “I did bring wild animals into your house.”
“Well, give them some cookies or something before they chew up my drapes,” she insisted, grinning like a kid as she grabbed a towel and wiped her hands. She'd been given a break. Hell, she'd been given a reward.
Molly didn't wait for Frank to come down into her basement, because he wouldn't. She led Rhett upstairs to meet them all.
“How'd you get in my house, Frank?”
“You left the back door open for us, Molly,” he said with a sparkling grin, “just like I knew you would. Your kitchen's a mess, by the way.”
Molly scowled. “My kitchen has suffered at the hands of a teenager, Frank. Make sure you teach your wild animals the proper respect for a kitchen before it's too late.”
He already had. Frank had three children, six-year-old twins and four-year-old Abigail. The twins, a boy and a girl named Tim and Theresa, were intense, active blonds Molly had been told looked like their mother. Abigail, a dead ringer for Frank, was solemn and sweet. Considering what a wild card their father was, Molly was forever amazed that his children were so ⦠well, normal.
“Cookies?” Abigail asked, raising her arms to Molly. Without another thought, Molly scooped her up and spent a moment reveling in the uncomplicated pleasure of a tiny, sturdy life in her arms.
Abigail was at the pinafore and hair-bow stage, all glossy dark hair and huge eyes and amazement, and Molly couldn't get enough of her. The twins, Frank's athletes, were both in jeans and polo shirts under their bright down jackets, which was unusual for them. They both preferred the sports uniform of the day.
“No soccer?” she asked as she headed for the cookie jar her neighbor Sam had supplied her with since Frank had begun to bring the kids by. Sam might have had Winnie the Pooh, but Molly had Harry Potter.
Tim proffered a face of long suffering. “Church,” he moaned.
Molly did her best not to laugh. “Church, Frank?” she asked. “And the ceiling didn't fall in on you?”
Frank settled himself into a kitchen chair and wrapped an arm around each twin. “Not so much as a rumble from the skies, St. Molly. But I had my protectors with me, didn't I, kids?”
“Daddy says God can't possibly get mad at him if we're there,” Abigail announced.
“Using your children as celestial shields, Frank,” Molly admonished, pillaging Harry Potter's head for Oreos. “A new low.”
“I go to church every Sunday, Mol. Don't you?”
“You
need
church every Sunday, Frank. In fact, you could probably use it every day. Possibly every hour on the hour.”
need
church every Sunday, Frank. In fact, you could probably use it every day. Possibly every hour on the hour.”
His smile was brash and bright and happy. Molly handed off cookies and got ready thanks from the kids. Abigail munched hers like a queen at tea, one arm around Molly's neck, and for the first time in days, Molly felt better.
“Why do you have ashes on your forehead?” Theresa asked, head tilted to the side. “We don't.”
Molly wasn't quite sure what to say. So Frank said it for her. Laughing. “She's repenting for her many sins of slander against me, honey,” he said as he walked over to scoop the dishrag from the sink and approach Molly.
Molly took an instinctive step back, but Frank caught her arm and swiped at her forehead. Which was when Molly understood.
“Those aren't ashes,” she said with a grin for the kids. “I was playing in the dirt.”
“Of course they're ashes,” Frank disagreed, throwing the rag back into the clutter of half-empty cups and scraped plates. “Molly considers every day Lent and all her actions penance.”
“Don't play over your audience's head,” Molly suggested drily.
“Doesn't he get a cookie?” Theresa asked, eyes on Rhett, who was standing by the basement door watching all the action with a cop's quiet eye.
“He doesn't deserve a cookie,” Frank said. “He's been asking questions about your daddy.”
All three little heads looked his way. “Why, Dad?” Tim asked. “Is he a lawyer, too?”
Molly damn near choked on her cookie. “No, honey,” she said. “He has a real job. Rhett is a policeman.”
All three sets of eyes widened noticeably.
“What did you do this time?” Tim asked with perfect innocence.
Molly laughed and tossed Rhett a cookie, which he caught one-handed.
“I didn't do anything,” Frank assured his son with a nuggie to the top of his head just like he gave Magnum. “I never do anything but what is right and beneficial to my family. But the rest of the world simply doesn't appreciate my special nature.”
All three kids rolled their eyes. “Uh-huh.”
“I would like to talk to you,” Rhett told Frank diffidently.
Frank nodded pleasantly. “Of course. Come see me at my high-priced office tomorrow, so I can intimidate you.”
Molly just shook her head. “I thought you guys were going to teach your daddy to play well with others,” she mourned to Abigail.
Abigail sighed, as if she were faced with the biggest challenge in the world. “He doesn't listen.”
For that she got grabbed right out of Molly's arms and tickled within an inch of her life. Molly fed herself on the delighted giggles that ricocheted throughout her kitchen.
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