Head to Head (28 page)

A glimmer of hope.
Please God, don’t let it be her
. Bud was examining the shorts. “No ID.”

“He’s definitely going after your friends,” Bud said, his eyes holding mine. “That means it’s probably someone you know.”

“And Harve’s home alone.” I jerked my cell phone out and punched in the number with shaking fingers. Nobody answered. “I’ve got to see if he’s all right. He could be in trouble.”

Charlie said, “Go on; take off. We can handle things here till you get back.”

I looked around at the others, fought the idea of leaving Dottie lying there in the dirt. I’d just seen her that very morning. I thought of the way we’d laughed together on the balcony, how she’d enjoyed having breakfast with me.

“You want me to go with you?” Bud said, walking beside me as I turned and headed back down to the boat at a fast clip.

“No. Give me your keys, and I’ll drive your car back over here after I make sure Harve’s okay. I want to break the news to him when we’re alone.”

“They’re in the ignition.”

“Okay.” My voice clogged, and my sense of urgency was staggering. I started to run when I hit the lower parking lot. My phone rang about the time I reached the boat. I flipped it open as I climbed aboard and moved into the cockpit. It was Black.

“Listen, Claire, I just heard from Booker. He called that psychiatric hospital in Farmington and found out that embalmer guy your mother worked for named Herman Landers was committed for psychological evaluation years ago, when he was around twelve or thirteen. The neighbors found him wandering around naked and bloody and dragging a disemboweled dog by its tail. The records show he stayed a couple of months, then his parents came and took him home.”

“Black, I don’t have time for this, something terrible’s—”

“Claire, listen to me; this is important. Herman Landers did have a son, and his name was Thomas, just like you thought. Nobody knows what happened to him, and there’s no death certificate for anybody named Thomas Landers or any mention of him in news accounts of the fire that killed his father. Don’t you see, Claire? He could still be alive somewhere. He’s got the violent background and the connection to you…he could be the one!”

“I don’t care about all that. Dottie’s dead. We just found her at Ha Ha Tonka. Oh, God, she’s dead, Black.”

“What? When? Is it the same guy?”

“Yeah.” My voice broke, and I swallowed hard as the storm began to break up the reception. “I gotta get to Harve and tell him. Oh, God, I can’t believe she’s dead; this can’t be real.”

The static got too bad to hear him, so I shut the phone and opened throttle on the Cobalt and was heading home within minutes. This just couldn’t be happening. Not Dottie. I thought about her wide smile, the way she was always telling me to eat, worrying about my health, worrying about Harve. Now she was dead, like everyone else I’d ever let get close to me. Black was trying to blame it on some poor kid from my past who’d probably been dead for years, but I knew better. This was my fault somehow. I just didn’t know how or why.

It took me about ten minutes to reach home, and I kept thinking it had to be a mistake, but then I’d see the dead body in the tower, the lean, long muscles, the small breasts, and I knew it was her, and I’d get sick all over again. Oh, God, what’d he do with her head? He’d have it somewhere. He’d keep it in the freezer to put on his next victim. Now I knew how Black felt when I’d sprung the photograph of Sylvie on him. I felt ashamed to have been so heartless, but I couldn’t think about Black now.
Think about Harve, think of Harve.

I roared past my dock and reached Harve’s house a couple of minutes later. The Cobalt was gone and so was Dottie’s kayak. The killer must’ve gotten her when she was out on the lake or alone at the park. She loved to run on the Ha Ha Tonka trails, did it all the time, usually by herself or with her friend Suze. I forced myself to calm down as the Cobalt came into the berth too hard and hit the dock.

I tried to steady myself. I had to be in control when I told him. The old bass boat was bumping against the dock in the Cobalt’s wake when I jumped out. Harve wasn’t at his desk by the windows. I ran up the sidewalk and found the back door unlocked. There was a note taped to the glass.
Gone fishing with Dottie. Be back soon.

I stared at the note. If he’d been fishing with Dottie, the killer might have accosted them together. Harve might be dead, too. Or lying somewhere wounded or dying. Fighting a terrible sense of foreboding, I ran back to the boat and switched on the tracking system. Harve’s boat was on the screen, a green light blinking on and off in what looked like Possum Cove. Dottie’s favorite fishing hole. That’s where the killer got them.

The pleasure boats and fishing craft had pretty well cleared off the lake, taking no chances with the weather. Far away in the distance, around Osage Beach, thunder rolled threateningly, and lightning spiked the thick gray cloud layer that blocked the sun and cooled the air. The storm was gaining momentum. All I could think about was Harve’s safety, and I headed south, praying he’d not met up with the same fate that Dottie had.

I had his boat in a fixed position about two miles ahead in Possum Cove. That was Dottie’s favorite fishing hole, and that’s where her friend Suze Eggers lived. It stood to reason they’d fish there.

The sky had dropped so low, it seemed to hang in the forested hills and bluffs along the shoreline, and I breathed a sigh of relief when I glimpsed Harve’s Cobalt tied at an old, half-submerged boat dock. Veering my craft to starboard, I headed there, growing more alarmed when I saw that the Cobalt and beach were deserted. I cut the motor, guided the bow in close beside Harve’s boat, grabbed a line, and lashed the boats together.

“Harve! Where are you?” I yelled, climbing aboard the other boat and looking up a narrow, rocky path that ascended the hill through thick vegetation. No answer, just the splashing of wind-driven waves against the shore. I went below but found nothing until I saw what looked like a spray of blood droplets on the floor. Chills played up my spine, and I pulled my weapon and held it up against my shoulder. I climbed on deck and outside found the wind growing wild and whitecaps racing across the cove perpendicular to the boats. The Cobalt’s hull rocked hard enough to make me lose my footing.

I held on to the cockpit roof and scanned the tree line above the water. Through the tossing branches I saw a black-shingled roof. Suze’s house, it had to be, with Harve’s boat docked down here. The rain began to pelt me in earnest, and I ignored the stinging drops and pulled out my cell phone to request backup. I couldn’t get a signal and remembered there were only a few communication towers in this undeveloped part of the lake, so I tried the Cobalt’s equipment, but the electrical storm was playing havoc with all means of communication. I looked up the steep hill. The cellular might be able to pick up a signal at the top. More importantly, Harve might be up there.

I kept the Glock ready, finger near the trigger, as I climbed the steep incline. The path twisted around bushes and undergrowth, and I searched the sides of the trail as I went but didn’t want to admit what I was looking for. If the killer had assaulted Dottie and Harve out here, he might’ve gotten Suze, too. Or maybe
Suze
might be the killer. I’d never trusted or liked her. She’d given me the creeps from the first day I met her. Dottie had been her best friend, and now Dottie was dead. Suze had been on duty the night Sylvie was murdered at her bungalow. She had been first at the murder scene, so she had opportunity….

I came up behind an old barn at the top of the path. It was weathered and dilapidated, and the roof had seen better days, but it was the structure I’d seen from the water. I edged along the side closest to me, glad the wind obscured any sounds I was making in the dead leaves and debris hugging the wall. I stopped when a two-storied brick farmhouse appeared in my line of vision. It was in better shape and looked occupied. The back of the house sat about thirty yards out in front of the barn and had an open porch with a swing. A dirt road curved around the house through the woods. This looked like one of the old homesteads that had been built generations ago and never sold to developers, like Harve’s land, which had been passed down in his family.

Keeping out of sight, I searched the windows of the house. There were four upstairs and two on either side of the back porch. The bottom floor had dark-colored drapes, but the top story had white sheets blocking the old-fashioned sash windows. No sign of life. I backed out of sight, leaned against the barn, and tried to get Bud on my cell again, but the phone showed no signal. The rain was beginning to pour now, drenching my white polo shirt and khaki slacks to the skin. My sense of danger was up and running about a hundred miles an hour.

When I heard a bang, I crouched and trained my weapon on the corner of the barn. It sounded again, and I took a quick peek in that direction. The front door of the barn rattled in the wind gusts. I observed the house for a few minutes, saw no movement inside, then took the barn door fast and hard in police stance, arms extended, ready to fire, my back to the wall as soon as I gained the interior.

Inside, it was dark and dead quiet, except for moaning wind invading rotten plank walls and drumming rain on the roof and splashing water where the roof had lost shingles. Daylight was fading quickly, and the heavy storm clouds filled the barn with gloom. I took a step and almost tripped over Dottie’s kayak. She would never put it in somebody’s barn. She always kept it handy near the water. I knew then that I’d stumbled upon the killer’s lair.

There was a vehicle covered by a dark green tarp. I looked around, then went down on one knee and pulled up the edge of the canvas. The Porsche Black had reported stolen. The killer must’ve stolen it when racing away from Sylvie’s crime scene. I took a deep breath to steady my nerves. Okay. I had to go on. The killer liked to spend time with his victims, torture them, and arrange the bodies according to his fantasies. Harve might be inside the house, hurt or dying.

My heart hammered inside my chest when I stood up, adrenaline pumping through me. Still no sound, no movement, except for the sporadic thudding of the barn door. I inched around the back of the Porsche and found a beat-up green Ford station wagon. There was an old-fashioned, bullet-shaped silver travel trailer behind it, in the back of the barn.

Keeping low and alert, I checked out the interior of the station wagon. Lots of trash on the dashboard and in the backseat—McDonald’s wrappers and sandwich boxes, donut sacks, soda cans—but no Harve, no Suze, no dead bodies, thank God. The travel trailer was ancient, about a thirty-footer, with plenty of dings and dents on the aluminum shell. One metal step led to the door. It was locked. I tried to see in the windows, but frilly blue gingham curtains covered them. I looked around for Suze’s red Ford Taurus but didn’t see it. Either she wasn’t home or the car was parked out front.

The rain was coming down in sheets now, loud and hard and with the fresh, pleasant smell of summer electrical storms. I moved to the door and observed the back of the house for a minute. I tried to call for backup again but couldn’t get through and knew I wouldn’t be able to until the storm abated. I considered whether to go in alone and look for Harve or take the Cobalt back for help. But there was no real choice because I knew Harve might be inside. And he might not make it out alive if I took off and wasted time getting reinforcements.

As soon as I made the decision to act, I took a deep breath and ran across the backyard. The dirt was beginning to turn into mud, which sucked at my tennis shoes, but I hardly felt the cold rain. I bounded up the back steps, flattened my back against the wall, and listened for sounds from inside. The porch swing creaked back and forth on its rusted chains, and the wind had blown a dead philodendron plant off the banister and scattered dirt on the floor. I heaved in a breath and wiped the rain out of my eyes, then reached around with my left hand and tried the doorknob. It turned easily.

My nerves were dancing around like crazy, and I wet my lips and got my act together for a second or two. Chances were that Dottie’s killer was inside this house waiting for me, and I could get him if I kept my cool and used my training. Chances were, too, that he had no idea that I was anywhere around. Unless he’d heard my boat, but I figured the wind and rain had probably drowned that out.

I pushed open the door a little, then entered the house quickly. I stopped just inside and let my eyes grow accustomed to the dusky light. Everything appeared neat and orderly. A living room on the left. A dining room on the right. Both were fully furnished with funky, modern stuff that didn’t really go with the old house but looked like the kind of decor that Suze Eggers would choose.

No lights on. Silence. A steep wood staircase led up-stairs right in front of me, and I could see the kitchen down the narrow hall behind it. I waited a few seconds, fully expecting somebody to jump out and charge me like in horror movies, but nothing happened. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe Suze Eggers didn’t live here. Maybe it was just a harmless lake home owned by people from St. Louis or Kansas City or somewhere, and I’d scare the hell out of them when I jumped out and held a gun on them. But I knew better, and fear climbed up my spine and tapped me on the shoulder.

I moved cautiously down the hall, past an empty bathroom with an old-fashioned claw-footed tub, and stopped in front of a closed door beside the kitchen. I sucked air, then shoved it open. White sheets covered the windows, making it hard to see. When my eyes grew accustomed to the filtered light, I saw Suze Eggers’s Cedar Bend uniform thrown across the end of the bed, along with lots of other clothes. The room was empty.

Relieved, I retraced my steps to the bottom of the staircase and listened. The storm was beating the hell out of the windowpanes. If somebody was upstairs, they’d never hear me coming. That was a good thing. I started up the steps, both hands gripping the gun out in front of me.

Upstairs, it was shadowy, but enough light came through the covered windows for me to see where I was going. A long upstairs hall ran toward the back of the house, with three closed doors. I hesitated again, listened for killers creeping up on me. Nothing but the weather. Thunder cracked not far away, and I jumped a foot, then moved quickly to the first door. I was wasting too much time; Harve could be in bad trouble somewhere.

I opened the door and peered around the door facing. It was even darker inside, but I could see a shape lying on the bed across from me. I held the Glock steady on it while I fumbled around on the wall inside for a light switch. I found it and flipped it on, and when the light flared, I saw Harve lying on his side on the bed. Relief hit me, but I didn’t run to him. I kept my eye on the closet door and moved slowly across the floor, gun swiveling from closet door to bedroom door.

I turned him over and found him breathing. I couldn’t see any injuries except for a shallow cut above his left eyebrow. I whispered his name, still watching the bedroom door, but I couldn’t get him to wake up. He’d been drugged, but he was alive and unhurt, and I had to get him out of here. But first, I had to make sure the killer wasn’t lying in wait for us somewhere in the house.

Fairly certain I was alone, I made my way quietly down the hallway to the second bedroom. It was empty. Two down, one to go. I opened the third door at the very rear of the house and found the window undraped, so I could see. Somebody moved on the bed, and I almost pulled the trigger. When they didn’t move again, I crept to the bed with my gun trained on them.

“Don’t move a muscle,” I warned, but when I saw who was in the bed, I faltered and nearly dropped the gun. I couldn’t believe my eyes at first, but it was Dottie, drugged, too, but still alive, still breathing. Joy filled me, and I grabbed her and shook her. She screamed and came awake fighting, so I clamped my hand over her mouth and said, “Shhh, Dottie, I’m here to get you out. Where’s Suze?”

Her eyes were wide and terrified, but when I took my hand away, she murmured in a slurred, frightened voice, “She put something in our coffee, and I can’t keep my eyes open. My muscles won’t move right.”

I looked at the door. “It’s Suze, Dottie; she’s the killer. We gotta get you and Harve outta here now before she comes back.”

Dottie kept trying to focus her eyes on my face, and I said softly, “Oh, God, Dottie, I’m so glad you’re all right. We thought you were dead. We found another body and then we found your clothes and we all thought it was you. I’m so glad you’re all right.”

“Harve…Harve…” Dottie said weakly, struggling to sit up.

I kept my voice low. “Harve’s okay, Dottie. Try to listen to me. Do you know where Suze went? Is she coming back here tonight?”

Dottie didn’t answer, and I gave her a hard shake to wake her. “Dottie, c’mon, I’ve gotta get you and Harve out of here before she gets back.”

Her eyes popped open, and she blinked hard. “She sleeps in the cellar. Don’t go down there alone, don’t…”

Then she slipped out of consciousness again, and I couldn’t wake her.

I hadn’t seen a cellar door, but I had to check it out, so I left them sleeping, descended the stairs, and went looking for it. If she was in the cellar, she could probably hear my footsteps on the creaky old floor, so I tested each footfall before I put down weight. I left the lights off and kept against the wall. I found the cellar door under the staircase, hidden behind a drapery.

I opened it and looked down the narrow, enclosed steps. There was a light on, and I could see a naked lightbulb hanging from a chain near the bottom of the stairs. I started down the steps and immediately felt colder air, which made me shiver in my soaked clothes.

At the bottom of the steps, I looked around the unfinished concrete cellar. There was a picnic table and several lawn chairs in the middle of the room, and a small chest freezer against the far wall. My eyes became riveted on a narrow cot near a slanted concrete coal chute. Suze was asleep under a red-and-white quilt, lying on her side, facing the wall, but I’d know her spiked hair anywhere. I had the advantage of surprise, so I moved quickly across the room and stood over the bed.

“Suze! Don’t try anything or I’ll shoot you. I swear to God, I will.”

Suze didn’t move, and she didn’t wake up. I frowned and held the gun on her as I jerked the covers off with my left hand. A scream tore out of me when Suze’s decapitated head flew off the bed along with the quilt and bounced with a spray of blood onto my shoes. I jumped back in horror, knocking into the lightbulb and sending shadows careening crazily around the cellar walls in disorienting patterns of black and white. There was no body on the bed, just rolled-up blankets, and Suze Eggers’s head came to a rest on her left cheekbone and stared at me out of wide, frightened eyes.