Revenant (25 page)

“The fingerprints
may
be evidence,” he emphasized, “
if
we get them. The phone record would be helpful.”

I nodded. In my years of reporting, I'd learned that the worst type of investigator, be it a writer or a police officer, was the one who jumped to a conclusion and then saw only the evidence that fit the conclusion. “I'm not going to print anything.”

“I've been following your stories,” Kev said. “From what I can tell, the police have very little to work with. Whoever is killing these girls is smart and they know police procedure.”

“There are things that I haven't put in the paper.”

“Like?”

“The ring finger of each girl has been severed. On the bodies in the grave and the two recent dead girls. The police aren't sure if this is the same killer or a copycat. If it is a copycat, it would have to be someone with privileged information, like a police officer. I'm the only reporter who knows about the ring fingers.”

He took a breath. I could only imagine what he'd seen and heard in his years of law enforcement, but it was never easy to visualize the things one human could do to another.

“This Riley guy could fit the profile of a sexual killer,” he conceded. “The necklace of ears, the taking of trophies. But
could be
is a long leap to
is.
”

I nodded again.

“Carson, don't corner him.”

His words tripped the danger switch in my brain. I felt the tingle of fear. “I don't intend to. I won't write a story unless the police charge him.”

“I don't care what you write. I care about what you do. You forget that I knew the seventeen-year-old girl who snuck into Hubie Kittrell's barn to see if he was cooking mash.”

“I was right.”

“And you nearly got your head blown off by an irate bootlegger.”

“That was a long time ago.” My sudden flush of memory turned bitter. “I'm not that girl anymore.”

Kev stood up and walked over to me, lifting my chin. “Oh, yes, you are. You had the stuffing kicked out of you, but you're still there. Maybe a little older and wiser.” He smiled. “I can only hope.”

“I've gotta go, Kev. I have a story to write for tomorrow's paper.”

He nodded. “Call me if you need me for anything. I can hold 'em while you kick 'em.”

It was an old joke between us, and it touched me. “I wish—” I broke it off.

“Wish what?”

“Nothing,” I said, because my wishes were so conflicted. I wished Dorry had married Kev. I wished he'd been on the police force in Miami. I wished I had been home when the fire that killed Annabelle started. But mostly I wished I could be the strong, fearless girl that Kev remembered.

I
t was shortly after nine when I returned to Biloxi. I put in a call to a very angry Avery Boudreaux. He curtly told me that Tammy Newcomb's family had been notified. Harvey Bailey had identified her body in the morgue, and he was now being questioned.

“I thought we had an understanding, Carson,” Avery said.

“Things have changed.”

“You bet they have. Mitch can play up to you however he wishes, but you violated my trust when you went in that apartment and didn't call me.”

“I don't have to justify my actions to you.” He could play wounded and indignant all he wanted. If I found out I'd misjudged him, I'd apologize at a later date.

“You're smart enough to know I can have you arrested.”

That statement told me he wasn't going to. “Have you checked into Jimmy Riley's whereabouts the nights Tammy Newcomb and Pamela Sparks were murdered?” I asked.

There was a pause. “You really think Riley is the murderer?”

“It wouldn't be the first time a cop hid behind his badge.”

“You're wrong on this, Carson.”

“Prove it to me.”

He sighed. “This explains a few things, but it doesn't make them right.”

“Set up a meeting with Riley. Me, you and him. No one else.” This was the course of action I'd decided to take. I was going to confront Riley head-on, but with a witness.

“I'm a little busy to be scheduling tea parties.”

“I was straight with you, Avery. I held information out of the newspaper, and I told you everything I found. I gave you my leads before I wrote them. You didn't tell me jack about your interview with Riley. Is he a suspect?”

There was a pause. “I can't trust you, Carson.”

“I know the feeling. Set up the meeting.” I hung up. I had the information that I needed to write my story. The Newcomb family in Kansas had been notified that their daughter was dead. I was free to use her name in the paper, but I wouldn't harass them for a quote. That could wait until Monday.

Clive was on the desk, and he told me to go home before he even edited the story. He said he'd call if there were questions. I left, feeling ten years older than I had the day before.

Driving home, I thought of some of the things Kev had said. I'd been six when my friend's father disappeared from his home. We were in first grade, and it was right before Christmas. She didn't come to school one day, but I thought maybe she'd gone shopping. It was only after I got home that I heard my mother talking on the phone. She was whispering, unaware that I'd even come in the house. I stood in the small back den where she kept a television playing her afternoon shows and eavesdropped, caught by the panic and fear that threaded my mother's normally reserved voice.

“Do you really think they killed him?” she'd asked. The words were branded in my mind. There had been a pause and she'd caught her breath. “Dear God. I have to call right now. John Tierce didn't hang himself. Those men killed him.”

She'd put the phone down and turned to see me standing there. She'd shooed me out of the house and for the only time I could remember, she locked the door so I couldn't come back in. I'd sat on the back steps, wondering who would hurt my friend's daddy, a big man who never smiled but who'd taught me how to cut a whistle from bamboo cane.

It was only later, in junior high school, that June had told me the rest of the details. Some men with white masks had come and taken her father. He'd struggled, and they'd beaten him. June's mother had jumped on them and they hit and kicked her until she was unconscious. June had clung to her father's leg, but they'd pulled her off and tossed her out of the way as if she were a doll. They'd dragged John out of the house. Two days later, he was found, severely beaten, hanging in a county jail cell. His death was ruled a suicide. He'd been charged with attempted burglary of a backwoods service station.

Those were the excesses Avery was speaking about when cops became judge and jury. I understood. But there was also the other extreme, where police officers protected their own from punishment. Neither course of action was acceptable.

At last I pulled into my driveway, a haven of foliage. I parked under the portico and got out, stretching. As I started to unlock the door, I realized there was a light on in the den. My fingers held the key in the lock, but I didn't turn it. When I'd left the house, no lights had been turned on. I was positive of it. Someone had been in my home, and they were either very careless or they wanted me to know it.

Anger was my first reaction. Someone had violated my home. My gun was in my bedroom, in a drawer. I kept it cleaned and loaded, and I went to the firing range at least every six months to practice. After Annabelle was murdered, handling the gun became a passion. I was a damn good shot, and put to the test, I'd pull the trigger without hesitation. I had to be careful, though. Whoever had broken in might still be there.

I removed my key quietly and slipped around to the screened porch that led to my bedroom. Using the small penknife on my key ring, I sliced the screen, unlatched the door and entered the porch. I unlocked my bedroom door and slipped into the darkness of the house. Standing in my bedroom, I listened, but nothing seemed out of order, except the cats hadn't acknowledged my arrival.

At the thought that someone had hurt them, I felt my chest constrict. In a moment, the gun was in my hand. Moving silently through my bedroom, I slipped down the hall to the den. If someone was there, I wanted the element of surprise and the authority of a .38.

As I stepped into the doorway of the den, I saw him. He was sitting in a comfortable leather chair, the reading lamp focused over his shoulder on a sheaf of paperwork he held. I lowered the gun and drew in a long breath.

“Daniel,” I said, the relief so sweet. “You scared the bejesus out of me.” The cats looked up at me from his lap.

His expression went from startled to electric. He put his papers aside and slowly stood, the cats jumping to the floor.

“My God, Carson, you look like an avenger. If I ever doubted you can take care of yourself, I don't anymore.” He stepped toward me. “Please, put the gun down.”

I set it on a table, too keenly aware of every physical move and sensation. In the past two years, my husband hadn't seen me alive. I'd been numbed by drugs and grief and alcohol. Now I hummed with adrenaline.

We stood for a moment, staring at each other. Daniel was standing in the pool of light cast by the lamp, his face half lit, half shadowed, revealing the angles I knew so well. He was a handsome man with classic features, a rare blend of his Nicaraguan heritage on his mother's side and some combination of Nordic blood in his father's line. His brown hair was long, curling more than he liked, though I preferred it that way. He'd lost weight, accentuating his tall, lean frame. My mouth was dry and I licked my lips.

His presence was so unexpected that I didn't know what to do. When he stepped toward me, though, I met him halfway. I was in his arms, on fire with his kisses. In the recesses of my brain, I knew that I was making a mistake. I didn't care. I'd been dead for so long, had never expected to feel alive again. Daniel was the man who knew me best, the man who held my heart.

His hands tore at my clothes. I fumbled with his belt, jerking at the button and zipper of his pants. This was all familiar now. In our marriage, our passion had never been slaked. I loved his touch. I craved the sensations he aroused in me with the tiniest kiss, the whisper of his breath on my skin. From the first time I'd made love with Daniel, we'd been totally compatible.

We made it to the bedroom, mostly naked, and I pulled him onto the bed with me. There was nothing but the need for his touch, for the joining. We had no time for whispers or the slow seduction that he was such a master of. We made love hard and fast and with a desperation that sent us both into climax. We were left panting and spent, covered in nothing but a sheen of sweat.

He put his hand on my stomach, a light touch of possession and love. “I'm glad to see you, Carson,” he whispered into my damp hair. “I gather you're glad to see me, too.”

I kissed him. I'd missed him more than I would ever tell him. In the morning, things would become complicated. This night, though, I claimed the intimacy and love of the man who would always claim a portion of my heart. He was an unexpected gift I didn't have the strength to refuse.

As if he sensed my thoughts, his hand moved lower. I turned to him and kissed him with such intensity that he groaned.

“I've missed you, Carson,” he said.

But I didn't want gentleness or declarations of love. I was too hungry. We made love until we fell asleep, exhausted and tangled in the sheets. I awoke once in the night to find Miss Vesta and Chester keeping watch over us from the safety of the chaise beside the window.

A
hazy gauze of sunlight filtered through the bedroom window, casting the features of the man asleep in my bed in soft light. Daniel's tousled hair was a soft, golden brown against the sage sheets. His bronzed skin was a shade so beautiful that I wanted simply to stroke my hand across his face. When I sat on the edge of the bed, his eyes opened. He always awoke with a smile, and it was one of the things I loved best about him.

“Good morning,” he said as he pushed up on the pillows and took the cup of coffee I'd brought him. His fingers brushed mine and the spark was totally sexual.

“We didn't get much of a chance to talk last night,” I said. I thought I might feel guilty, but I didn't. Instead, I felt alive.

“Sometimes words are a hindrance.” He sipped the coffee, but his gaze slid from mine. Though I was prepared for loss, the first stab of pain was brutal. Daniel was feeling guilty. I hadn't been prepared for that.

“We've never been less than totally honest,” I said, wishing that we could be spared this conversation for a day, or a week, or the rest of my life. But Daniel had come to tell me something. The past had climbed out of the grave and bound us together. But like all stories of the night, it disappeared in the light of the sun. “I know you've found someone. It's okay. I know that's what you came to tell me. Last night doesn't change anything.”

He looked up at me, the pain clear in his eyes. “Doesn't it?” he asked. “Doesn't it change everything? I thought you were dead to me, Carson. Last night proves otherwise. Yes, I've found someone. I care for her. I could have a marriage with her, and children. But what I feel for her is a pale imitation of last night. Last night changed everything.”

The last words were spoken with bitterness. When I didn't respond, he continued.

“When Annabelle died, you lost your daughter.” He threw back the sheet and got out of bed. He found his clothes and began to dress. “I lost Annabelle and you. Except you weren't dead. You were right there in front of me. I could touch you and talk to you, but it did no good. Each day you drifted a little further from me. And I was helpless to stop you. I lost you in degrees.”

My eyes burned with a dryness worse than tears, but I didn't interrupt him. He jerked on his shirt and turned to me.

“You let me go. I wasn't worth hanging on to. And now, you toss me my freedom again, as if it were of no consequence to you. You tell me that nothing has been changed by last night. I'm just a convenient fuck, I suppose. A novel substitute for the bottle you normally sleep with.”

“Daniel, I didn't mean that.” He was too angry to listen to anything I said, and I didn't blame him. “I only meant to give you a chance to find happiness.”

“A happiness that doesn't include you. Correct?”

I took a slow breath, trying to think. “I'm getting better. I am. I'm…stronger. But I have a long way to go. I'm not ready to offer the things I know you want.”

“You're not the only one who's changed.” He tucked in his shirt and slipped on his shoes. “Goodbye, Carson. I'll telephone when I've calmed down.”

“Daniel, please don't leave like this.” In the past two years I'd seen him despondent and angry, but I'd never felt the lash of his fury. Perhaps I deserved it, but maybe not. I hadn't held a gun to his head to get him into my bed.

“Do you even know what you want?” His hazel eyes sparked.

“Yes.”

My answer stalled him. “What?”

“I want you to be happy.”

It took several seconds for the anger to leave him, but when it did, he walked toward me. “Sometimes I forget who you are. Nothing is ever simple with you.”

“I don't mean to hurt you. After Annabelle died, I couldn't help it. I did what I had to do to survive. But now, last night, I didn't mean to do anything that would harm either of us.”

“Even though you knew I came here to tell you I'd found another woman?”

“I knew when I called you. She was there. With you.”

“And you didn't care?”

“That would not be an accurate statement. I care. Deeply. But I know how much you want a family. I know that you want another child. Not to replace Annabelle, but to love for who and what that child is. You've never hidden your passion for family, Daniel. And I want that for you, even if I can't give it to you.”

He came and sat down on the bed. His hand gathered mine and held it. “I don't know if you're crazy or simply the most generous woman I know. Last night tells me that you still love me.”

“I do.”

“My love…” He hesitated as he sought the right words. “My love is not so generous. The idea of you with another man is like a raw wound filled with salt. I dream about you with someone else and I wake up wanting to fight. How can you love me and want me to be with someone else? I don't understand this.”

I wondered if I understood. I had to try. “I think that I'm broken, Daniel. Last night caught me by surprise. I didn't have time to raise my defenses. But I'm afraid that if I began to love you every day, I'd wall off those feelings so I can't be hurt.”

He thought about it for a moment. “Before Annabelle, you loved me unconditionally.”

“Before Annabelle, I loved myself.”

“You still blame yourself.” It was a bleak statement of fact.

“I'm getting better, but it's a long road. I'm forty-one. There's no time to heal and have a child. You need a younger wife.”

“It's that simple for you.”

What did he want from me? “Science doesn't always dovetail with emotion.”

Daniel picked up his tie from the floor and wadded it into his pocket. “All these years I thought you were your father's daughter. Now I see you were created from the mold of your mother.”

He walked out of the bedroom and I heard the front door slam. It was only then that I wondered how he'd gotten to my house without a car. I called a taxi for him to be picked up on Washington Avenue. He'd go to the Gulfport airport and wait for a flight to Miami.

Daniel had left me numb, and I did nothing to try and awaken my senses. I was late for work, but surprisingly no one had called to dog me about it. I remembered then that Brandon was bringing the prospective buyers, in all likelihood my new bosses. I cursed a blue streak as I showered and dug through my closet for clean slacks, a blouse and a blazer to hide the wrinkles in my blouse.

On the drive I turned on the radio, focusing on the WKIS report of the coast murders. To my surprise, the newscaster credited my story in the paper as his source. I pulled into the parking lot and hurried to the office.

The newsroom was busy. Reporters typed away at their computers, focused on their work. It was a model place of employment with no dirty coffee cups or feet propped on desks and no chitchat. Standing outside Brandon's office was a short man with a huge nose and big ears. He looked like a caricature of a certain former independent candidate for the U.S. presidency. He was watching me as I came in, and he said something to Brandon, who turned around and glared at me. The two men began to approach as I ducked into my office.

“Ms. Lynch,” the short man said as he came into my office and extended his hand. “Saul Grotowitz.”

“Good to meet you,” I said, ignoring Brandon, who seemed to want to kill me with his gaze.

“Excellent story in this morning's newspaper. I remember your column from Miami. That was before you were fired.”

“Yes,” I said calmly.

“Brandon tells me that you're considering doing a column here.”

That was news to me. “I'm interested,” I said, keeping it vague. I had no idea what Brandon might have said, and though I had no inclination to save his bacon, I wasn't averse to doing another column.

“You're aware that Gannett has a policy against hiring reporters with drinking problems.”

“I'm aware that every newspaper has such a policy.” I needed a job, but I wasn't going to beg for it.

He stared at me. “Are you in a treatment program?”

“No, and I don't intend to be. I'm not a twelve-step kind of person.”

“You have to make some effort, Ms. Lynch. I'm trying to meet you halfway.”

“Carson has done a story a day for the past two weeks,” Brandon said. “She's on top of every lead and she follows up. If she's drinking, it doesn't show. Except for the fact that she can't seem to make it to work on time.”

“I worked Saturday and Sunday,” I said calmly. “I'm not a child and I won't be treated like one. I do my job when it takes sixty hours a week and I won't be kept on a leash like some pet.”

Saul Grotowitz turned away to hide his smile. When he faced me again, he was serious. “I'm not sure you'll fit into the structure of our system,” he said.

“I'm not sure I want to.” I could see this was coming to a bad end. As much as I'd begun to care about this job, I couldn't conform. I wasn't strong enough or certain enough of myself to let someone box me in.

“You're a talented writer, Ms. Lynch. I wish you the best of luck,” Saul Grotowitz said as he indicated to Brandon that he was ready to move on.

Brandon cast one surprised look over his shoulder as they exited and he closed my office door.

I sat down at my desk. In the space of two hours I'd lost my ex-husband and my job. I was batting a thousand.

The telephone rang and, figuring it would be Avery, I readied myself for the third ream job of the day. Might as well get it over with.

“Lynch,” I said.

“Carson, it's Avery. Can you meet me for lunch?”

“Sure,” I said, a little confused by his abrupt change in attitude. “Where and when?”

“Bucky's Bistro, at noon. I'll reserve a table.”

“I'll be there.” Now I only had to occupy myself for another two hours before lunch. I picked up the phone to check on Jack at the hospital.

He was actually able to talk, but what I had to tell him called for a personal visit. Since I'd already ruined my chances with the big cheese from Gannett, I left the office and drove to the hospital.

Jack looked amazingly chipper for a man who'd been beaten to a bloody pulp. He'd been moved from intensive care to a private room, and a policeman sat in a chair outside his door reading the newspaper. He ignored me as I tapped on the door and entered at Jack's request.

“I've decided to take up smoking again as soon as I get out of here.”

Jack's first words made me smile. “Good plan. Now that you know how it feels not to be able to breathe, you should go for that sensation on a permanent basis.”

“Carson, I would have died if you hadn't come along.” He was suddenly serious.

“But you didn't. Jack, do you know who did this to you?”

“He was a professional. He knew exactly how to work it.” He winced. “The maximum pain for the least amount of effort.”

“Do you owe someone money?”

“Yeah, a lot. I'm in way over my head. They got tired of my excuses.”

I sat in the Naugahyde chair beside the bed. “Are you sure it was about your debt?”

“These guys take their loans seriously.”

He was embarrassed, and now wasn't the time to push an offer of help on him. “Tell me what you know about Jimmy Riley.”

Jack's face was still swollen, his words a little slurred by the gauze wadded in his mouth. “What's Riley got to do with anything?”

“That's what I intend to find out.” I told him the facts I had.

“Carson, I've known this guy for years. He's not a good cop, but I don't think he's a serial killer. And he wasn't involved with this beating. This is only about my gambling and my debt.”

“He's an asshole.” I told him about the threat with the matches.

“Can you prove he did it?”

“Who else? No one else knew I was meeting him, and he called and set the place we were to meet.”

“Something isn't right here. That's too obvious, don't you think?”

I respected Jack's opinion, but I also had to respect my gut instinct. “I'm just saying we should follow the lead, play it out, see where it goes. I've asked for a meeting with him and Avery Boudreaux.”

“Riley is going to resent the hell out of your suspicions. He's touchy to begin with. I doubt he'll ever forgive you.”

“I don't give a damn about his forgiveness. I want the truth.”

“Just be careful. Riley may not be a killer but he can certainly hold a grudge. He could make your life miserable if he chose to.”

“And I can do it right back.” I didn't mention that I probably would be unemployed within the next month. If that was the case, I'd be moving on anyway.

“I wish I could be with you,” Jack said.