Now That She's Gone (8 page)

“Janie,” she said, her tone impatient, “please stop gasping over there, I'm trying to read and you are annoying the hell out of me.”

Janie, tied to the bed, winced and tried to stifle the pain that made her gasp and cry.

“Better, babe. Better little prison bitch,” Brenda said, finally finding an article—in an embarrassingly back-of-the-paper section called News Briefs. Her eyes sparked as she read aloud.

“ ‘Nevins is a narcissist,' Kitsap County sheriff's detective Kendall Stark said.

‘She craves the spotlight and, like a moth to the flame, she'll be burned by it. She's classic and while we don't know what she will end up doing—predicting human behavior can be as faulty as playing the lottery—you can bet that she'll do something stupid and get caught.' ”

She stopped reading and glared over at Janie.

“Damn you! You stupid bitch. Shut up!”

Janie looked away.

“Look at me when I'm talking to you. Don't make me burn you again. Because I swear I will. I'll dip your nose in gasoline and strike a match.”

Janie looked at her. Her eyes were pools of terror. With everything that had happened in the days since they'd left the prison, she'd grown more and more aware what Brenda Nevins was capable of. She knew that to make Brenda mad was to have a hanger shoved inside her. To have a cigarette extinguished on her cheek.

“A second one,” Brenda had said, “because even in disfigurement you need balance.”

Janie tried not to breathe. She tried to will her body in spite of the agony to stop sending her messages that she was going to die.

Brenda looked back down at the paper and seethed.

“Listen to this crap,” she said. “Are you goddamn listening to me?”

Janie nodded again.

“‘Stark and forensic pathologist Waterman got up close and personal with Nevins when investigating the case of a missing Kitsap County teen earlier this year. Dr. Waterman agreed with Stark's assessment. ‘Nevins will turn up. She's not nearly as clever as she thinks. In time, I'm confident that she'll be behind bars where she belongs and this time for good.'”

The switch flipped and Nevins started to laugh.

“Not clever? That's funny. I can think of a million things to do with a screwdriver and some wire that would make both those two-bit county gals wishing they were never born.”

Her eyes lingered on Janie. Lasered her, really. Her eyes were knives. The prison superintendent weakly nodded.

“Damn right,” Brenda said, dropping the paper and flopping on the bed next to Janie. Janie's body stiffened like a dead cat rolled over by a line of cars on the freeway and she held her breath. She wasn't sure what was coming but she knew that it wasn't going to be good. Not with Brenda. Brenda didn't know the meaning of kindness. Brenda wanted only what she could get and at the top of the list were money, fame, and revenge.

She ran her fingertips through Janie's hair. Brenda's nails used to be her trademark. They were long, lacquered, and usually the kind of brazen red that reminded men of the color of their dream Camaro. But after years in prison without the fawning ladies of the salon, only the negligible talents of a woman who went by the name Cuttlefish to do them, they were less than what she'd wanted. Less than what she deserved. She raked them through Janie's hair, this time hard enough to scratch.

Like a turtle Janie withdrew even more, but carefully so, not so much that Brenda would hurt her again.

“I thought we'd have a little fun, you and me. We'd get dressed up and go out to the casino and maybe find some jerk to roll for his winnings. But now I'm not so sure, babe. I think other things are on the horizon for us. What do you think?”

Janie couldn't speak, even if she tried.

“Are you listening to me?”

Janie's eyes, puddled with tears, indicated that she was.

“We're not going to do any of those things. We're going to make sure that those haters out there are put in their place. I'm not clever? I'm not? Do you think I'm clever? You should because you'd be home with that dope of a husband right now if I hadn't been so damn clever.”

Janie winced. It was all she could do.

Brenda nuzzled her like a kitten. A terrified, abused, sad little kitten, but nevertheless, it was better than being tortured again.

Brenda thought about Kendall Stark and Birdy Waterman. She'd met Kendall in prison for an interview about her relationship with a former guard.

“Not impressive, Janie. Not at all. That detective was strictly amateur hour. The pathologist I'd imagine isn't much to write home about either. If she was a decent doctor she'd be working on people who were still alive now, wouldn't she?”

Janie blinked.

“Not clever, huh? I don't want to be narcissistic because I don't like labels, but I've got more than clever in me. I've got a touch of the devil.”

Brenda closed her eyes and thought of all the things she could do to Kendall Stark and Birdy Waterman. Some involved flames. Some sharp objects. One an explosive. But as she pondered these things and drifted off to a rage-filled slumber, she knew that the one thing she could do better than anyone was to make someone remember her.

“Night, babe,” she said.

And that was that.

C
HAPTER
N
INE

Brit Frazier's words haunted Kendall. She sat in her car in the parking lot of the architecture and design firm that bore Roger Frazier's name. She took a gulp of air and cracked the window. She felt sick, hot. It wasn't from the salsa at Puerto Vallarta, either. It was the nervousness that found a place to rest in her stomach.

Damn
, she thought.
I don't like playing clean-up. Not for a partner
,
not for a departed colleague. It's disloyal and embarrassing.

It was true that no matter how many cases she'd worked, nor how many grieving mothers she comforted, there was no way she could fully comprehend the disappearance and likely murder of a child. She didn't blame Brit for wanting something to happen with her daughter's dead-end case. The skimpiness of the file was proof enough that no matter how nice a guy Nick Mayberry was, he wasn't the dogged investigator that Katy Frazier's case required. It appeared that he interviewed all the principals, recorded all the details, and then, well, stopped. It was like he'd hit a roadblock and left the Fraziers adrift without any kind of resolution.

Roger Frazier was expecting her. He stood in the doorway to the conference room that looked out over Gig Harbor.

“If your buildings are as beautiful as your view, Mr. Frazier—and I expect they are—then you probably have designed many of the proverbial ‘dream homes' for people around here.”

He smiled. “They are and I have.” His tone didn't suggest smugness or self-satisfaction, but a kind of confidence. Much like his wife's. “Have a seat,” he said.

“Thank you for seeing me on such short notice,” she said as she slid herself into a steel-framed leather chair and rolled her lap under the glass-topped conference room table. “You have a lot going on right now.”

He sat across from her. He was in his fifties, but looked younger. His hair receded and his eyes were sharp and laser-focused on her. He wore a bright white pressed shirt with the sleeves rolled up. There was the slightest smudge of graphite on his right cuff, indicating that he probably still wielded a pencil when drawing the dreams of others on paper.

“We all have a lot going on. But for us, the world stops whenever we think of our daughter. Which is pretty much every hour of every day.”

“I'm sorry,” Kendall said.

“Sorry is what you tell a kid when you don't have enough money for a popsicle. This is well beyond sorry, Detective.”

She understood and nodded.

“Sorry,” he went on, unable to stop himself, “is the state of your office when we were so desperate for some help. Sorry is the four years of not knowing what happened, which I put on the Kitsap County sheriff and those who work for him.”

Kendall was unsure if this mini-tirade was directed at her or at the fact that his wife had dated the sheriff a few times and he was uncomfortable with everyone in Port Orchard knowing that.

“Look,” she said, “I'm here to help. I'm doing the show at the request of the sheriff and against my better judgment.”

“My wife and I appreciate that. We know that it's not the conventional route to go, but we've appealed to everyone, every goddamn TV show, magazine, and newspaper of any stature. We think that getting the word out is our only hope of finding Katy.”

“I understand,” Kendall said. “But really,
Spirit Hunters
? Do you think they will come up with anything?”

He shook his head. “Doubtful. But what I do know is that the publicity won't hurt us.”

Kendall wanted to tell him about the woman in Nova Scotia, but part of her figured none of that would matter. The Fraziers were looking for an answer, a shred of hope, and if it came from some psychic TV show it was probably good enough for them.

“What do you think happened to Katy?”

Roger Frazier folded his hands on the table. “I don't know. Do I think she ran away? Absolutely not. Do I think she was abducted by a stranger? Possibly. Look, Detective, I've had four years to run every single scenario through my mind. My wife and I barely have a conversation in which Katy's whereabouts isn't mentioned.”

“I'm sure it's all-consuming,” Kendall said, hoping he wouldn't challenge her on her feelings—not as his wife had done. She moved the subject quickly toward the reason why she was there. “I'm going to do the show,” she said, “but that's not all. I'm going to look at the case and assess each bit of evidence. I'm going to reinterview all the witnesses who Nick Mayberry interviewed and we'll see what fresh eyes can turn up.”

The mention of Nick's name brought a look of contempt to Roger's face.

“Your colleague muffed this one, badly,” he said.

“He's a good investigator,” Kendall said.

“I hope you're a better one.”

“That remains to be seen,” she said. “Looking at the files, I noticed that Katy had a small circle of friends and each of them was interviewed.”

“She was popular, but yes, she valued genuine relationships over numbers. Her best friends were Alyssa Woodley and Tami Overton. She also dated Scott Hilburn, but that had cooled months before she vanished.”

“Are they in the area?”

He shook his head. “Alyssa goes to the U and Tami, I'm not sure where she is. Poor kid. She's had some trouble with drugs. I know she's been in and out of rehab a couple of times. Brit did some outreach at a treatment center three years ago and saw her there. She was a mess.”

“What about Scott?”

“He's at the U too.”

Kendall looked at her phone. The afternoon was winding down. There wasn't time to get over to Seattle and visit Alyssa and Scott at the University of Washington campus, but there was time to see if Tami Overton's parents had any information on her whereabouts.

“I'm having dinner with Juliana Robbins,” Kendall said. “I expect you've met her already.”

He nodded.

“What's your take?”

Roger pushed back his chair. “Nice girl. Just trying to make a living doing a tough job. Like the rest of us, I guess. She knows the story well and I think she'll do a good job with it.”

“You know the Internet is full of complaints about the show.”

“Have you ever checked out the Yelp comments on your favorite restaurant?”

“No,” she said.

“We'll, if you had, you'll see that not everyone has the same experience as yours. That's just the way it is. I'll bet that
Spirit Hunters
has more supporters than haters, but that's the way I live my life. I always expect the best of people. Maybe in your job, you're trained to look in the opposite direction.”

“Maybe,” Kendall said, though she hated to think that being a homicide investigator made her suspicious of everyone and everything. She sure didn't feel like that was the case.

C
HAPTER
T
EN

B
renda Nevins sat alone at the end of the bar while CNN replayed a capsule version of her story, the murders that sent her to prison, the escape, the missing prison superintendent Janie Thomas.

“Another Bloody Mary?” the bartender, a middle-aged guy named Chaz, asked.

“Sure,” she said. “But put some vodka in it this time.”

Her tone was impatient, sharp. She caught his look of annoyance and amended it with a smile. Although she craved the spotlight, she didn't want to stand out in a crowd. Not right then, anyway.

“No problem,” he said. “You visiting the area?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Traveling alone?”

A surge of adrenaline went through her body.
He wanted her.
All men did. She leaned forward so he could see more of her breasts. She watched as his blue eyes burrowed in her ample cleavage. Her breasts were magnets, she was sure. No man could resist them. When she walked, she imagined they were a pair of bouncing balls coercing men to sing along to her charms.

He wasn't young or rich. So she wasn't interested.

“With a friend,” she said.

Chaz shrugged and set down the drink. “Some story,” he said, looking up at the TV. “Police were all over this place.”

She kept her eyes on him and grabbed the celery stalk and proceeded to dip it in and out of the drink. Up and down. Up and down.

“You don't say,” she said. “What happened?”

“Our local prison superintendent went lesbian on her husband, I guess. Fell in love with a serial killer and the two ran off together. Probably to Mexico or Canada.”

“Went lesbian?” Brenda asked.

He nodded. “Yeah. I feel sorry for her husband,” he said. “Although the prisoner is hot.”

She rolled her shoulders and he followed the bouncing balls. She put the celery stalk in her mouth, wrapped her suddenly pouty lips around it, and crunched.

“It sounds like a big to-do,” she said.

Chaz was mesmerized. “Yeah, but it's blown over. You know how things go. Front page, top story, then gone when something else happens.”

Brenda stuck her now-shortened celery stalk into her drink.

“You staying around here?” he asked.

“I told you, I was with a friend. You shouldn't hit on the customers. Your manager wouldn't like that.”

“I'm the owner,” he said.

Brenda nodded and looked around. The Grey Gull was nice. He might have some money after all. She reeled in the impulse to pick him up right then. She was sure that he'd follow her to wherever she wanted him to go. He'd beg for more. He'd tell her that she was the best he'd ever had.

They always did.

It had been a long time since she'd had a man inside her. Not since Curt Gomez, a deputy who fell between her Venus flytrap thighs when she was held at the county jail in the Tri-Cities. He was an idiot. He was weak. He didn't follow through with his promises to help her get out. He was lousy at sex too. She wanted to feel a man. She was sick of Sonicare sex. She had tired of luring some new inmate into a corner of the shower so that she could have something to hold over her so that she could get more cosmetics from the canteen. The girls who'd been set up on drug charges by manipulative boyfriends were the easiest prey. Weak. Scared. Malleable. Although she was absolutely sure that Curt would do whatever she wanted, she had let go of the opportunity. Doing everything she wanted when she wanted to do it was what stole her freedom in the first place.

Janie had been a tougher mark. She literally held the keys to the prison. Brenda saw how she looked at her. Like all the others, Janie Thomas had coveted what Brenda possessed. Janie with her silver-helmet hairdo and her sensible oxfords and unflattering attire had never experienced the thrill of the catcall. The hunger of wandering eyes. Whenever a media request was made, it was Janie who was required to tell Brenda in person.

Each time, Brenda would reveal more of herself, pulling Janie in closer and closer.

“My father pimped me out to my uncle when I was six,” Brenda had said during one of those conversations. “My uncle experimented on me like a frog pinned to a board in biology class. By the time I was ten I'd been passed around like a happy-hour appetizer at TGI Fridays.”

She held Janie's gaze and forced her tear ducts to do what biology and the human psyche meant them to do. It was something she could do on command and with remarkable precision. Just enough to show an observer that she was emotional, but not so much to appear hysterical or manipulative.

“I'm so sorry,” Janie said.

“Sorry is for losers, superintendent.”

“Maybe so, inmate.”

The tear rolled.

“Why do you hate me?” Brenda asked.

“I don't hate anyone. I hate what people do.”

“This is my home now,” Brenda said. “And you are in charge of everything that I do.”

“That's how it works, inmate.”

“See! You are doing it. You are treating me like I'm nothing. Like my father. My uncle. My husbands. You don't even give me the courtesy of calling me by name. It's dehumanizing.”

Another tear.

“Like I said, this is my job. This is the way it is.”

“Can't you call me Brenda? I've heard you call Marian Lockwood by her first name.

Brenda was right. Everyone called Marian by her first name. She was seventy-four and had been incarcerated for forty-two years. She'd come into the institution as a thirty-two-year-old with a long rap sheet, the exclamation point of which was the murder of her two little boys. She'd thrown them off a bridge and was sentenced to life without the possibility of parole. Over time, as she worked in the horticulture building, the chapel, and in the craft area, she became an example of kindness in a place that needed it. She was, in a very real sense, everyone's grandmother.

Everyone who had a grandmother who killed her children, that is.

“All right, Brenda,” Janie Thomas said. “I will call you by your first name.”

Brenda wiped her eyes. “Thank you. I'm going to be here for the rest of my life and I want to be another Marian, someone you can trust.”

Janie smiled.

“I'm sure you'll get there. I see it in you.”

Brenda felt a surge of satisfaction go through her body. The hook had been set. Fishing, she knew, took patience. She didn't feel like she had a lot of time. She needed other options. At first, the guard Missy Carlyle seemed a better bet, but that one turned into a disaster. They'd started a sexual relationship, but were caught by records clerk Tess Moreau, who reported everything. Missy was let go, and with her, Brenda's ticket to freedom. She thought of Kitsap County sheriff's detective Kendall Stark and forensic pathologist Birdy Waterman and the mess they'd made of her plans. She seethed with anger as Chaz approached with another Bloody Mary.

Janie was a big fish to hook.

Brenda liked big. She also liked a challenge. If she couldn't win Janie over with her sex appeal—which was almost laughable to her—she'd find another way.

“When do you get off work?” Brenda asked.

“Like I said, I'm the owner. I can get off any time I want.”

“I'll get you off,” she said, a line that made her skin crawl, but Chaz was dumb enough to enjoy the come-on. “Let me finish my drink.”

“I thought you were here with a friend,” he said.

“My friend's tied up at the moment.”

“Sounds good to me,” he said before disappearing into the office behind the bar for a moment. When he returned to her he had a smile on his face. “Told Danielle that I'm heading out for my vacation a little early. Let's get out of here.”

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“I have a place at the ocean,” he said. “No cell service, just waves and sand.”

“Sounds lovely.”

“Cold and rainy,” he said with a smile. “But that's Washington.”

 

 

Chaz Masters lived in an A-frame in the middle of the forest. Brenda Nevins parked behind his blue Acura and followed him inside. The deer-head décor suggested a man who lived alone and the clutter of the place indicated that after she was done with him there might be some treasure to be found among the bric-a-brac. Chaz caught her when Brenda slipped on the step down to the sunken living room.

“Sorry,” she said. “Feeling a little tipsy.”

He smiled.

“Too bad,” he said. “I was hoping to have a drink with you now that I'm off work.”

“Start the vacation early,” she said. “I'll join you.”

“For a bar owner, I'm in short supply of offerings. Tequila okay?”

“Love tequila.”

“You haven't told me much about yourself.”

“Not much to say. I've been away for a few years.”

“Oh yeah? Europe?”

“No, nothing so glamorous,” she answered. “Out of state.”

“For work?”

“Yeah.”

“What do you do?”

She hated all the questions, but that was part of his way of seducing her. It was silly because she'd already seduced him.

“Paramedical sales.”

He raised a brow. “I thought you'd say modeling.”

She pretended to be embarrassed. “Thank you, but no. I mean, I tried. They said I was too busty for that.”

He nodded. “They were wrong.”

“May I use your bathroom?”

He indicated the first door in the hallway.

 

 

Brenda let the toilet seat drop. She opened the medicine cabinet and put her yeoman's knowledge of drugs to the test, fishing through the prescription bottles.
Excellent!
A bottle of Percocet with ten tablets. She dumped them on the counter and ground them into a powder with the bottom of the bottle. She flushed the toilet and turned on the water. Next, she put the powder back in the bottle and turned off the water.

“Sorry it was such a mess in there,” he said when she emerged.

“I'm not picky,” Brenda said.

“Margarita?” he asked, handing one to her.

“Perfect. A bit more ice though?”

He nodded. “Sure.” He set down his drink and took hers to the kitchen. She dumped the pulverized painkillers into his drink, swirled it with one of her red talons, and stuffed the bottle into the folds of the sofa.

“Cheers,” she said. They clinked glasses.

“I'm glad we met,” he said. “You're just what I needed.”

Brenda sipped her drink. “Me too. I'm a little drunk, but I feel the same way.”