Shattered
Authors: Donna Ball
SHATTERED
By Donna Ball
Copyright 2012 by Donna Ball Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the author.
Published by Blue Merle Publishing
Drawer H
Mountain City Georgia 30562
This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, organizations and places in this book are either a product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously and no effort should be made to construe them as real. Any resemblance to any actual people, events or locations is purely coincidental.
A slightly different version of this book was published under the title
Just Before Dawn
by Signet Books. This edition has been updated for modern tastes and revised to suit the author’s preferences.
Cover art by www.Bigstock.com
~
excerpt from
SHATTERED
A mother’s worst nightmare….
The sheriff swiveled his chair from the window with its deep-twilight view of the parking lot and turned to face the investigator across the desk. “So what we've got here is a genuine, no shit, smarter-than-your-average-bear serial killer. Is that what you're telling me?”
“There's no evidence that Kelly Dennison has been killed,” Long was quick to point out. “But”—and he shifted his gaze—”it looks that way, yes.”
Case nodded slowly. “I guess you know we're way out of our league.”
“The state police will have an investigator down here tomorrow.”
“Meanwhile,” said Case, leaning back in his chair, “we've got a killer wolf prowling our shores and a thousand or so sheep just waiting to be taken down.”
~
Chapter One
I
t was past midnight when the phone rang. Carol Dennison, still groggy from the muscle relaxants she had taken earlier, was jarred awake by an adrenaline surge that shattered her nerves and pounded in her chest. Two days ago she had slipped on a stepladder and aggravated an old back injury, and the sudden movement of sitting up sent a spasm of pain through her left quadrant from hip to shoulder. The numbers of her bedside clock were a blurry glow as she groped for the phone, knocking over a tissue box and a framed photograph: 12:18. Only drunks and emergencies called after midnight. It was always bad news after midnight.
She snatched the phone up in the middle of the third ring, half sitting, squinting in the dimness, trying to sound awake. "Hello?"
Silence. Carol's heart was pounding from the abrupt awakening and sheer irritation, and she started to slam the phone back into its cradle. She had the receiver an inch or so away from her ear when she thought she heard a voice on the other end. Scowling, she said again, "Hello?"
A soft breath, then a young girl's voice. "Mama?"
Carol's heart stopped beating.
The voice was high and small and shaking, as though with repressed sobs. The words came out in a rush, choked and almost indecipherable. "Mama, it's me, you've got to help me Mama, please ..."
Carol whispered, "Kelly?"
On the other end of the line there was a gasp, and silence, and a dial tone.
Carol sat there, holding the humming telephone for an unknown length of time. Only when the dial tone switched over to the raucous buzz that indicated a line left open too long did she remove the instrument from her ear. But even then, she merely placed the receiver on the bed beside her, as though the act of returning it to the cradle might in some way more permanently sever the connection that had already been broken.
She reached for the lamp, found it, and turned the switch. She picked up the photograph she had overturned and held it in her hands. It was an outdoor shot of a pretty teenage girl in a big straw hat, laughing into the camera. Long dark hair, green eyes that looked hazel in the photo, tanned skin. Kelly. Her baby.
She hugged the photograph to her chest, trying to stop the shaking, squeezing her eyes closed, pressing her lips tightly together. But it was no use. Tears seeped out, breaths turned to sobs. Carol bowed her head and wept.
One by one the lights in the upper floors of the big, multi-turreted house on the bluff switched on as Carol crossed the gallery from her bedroom, moved in front of the bank of cathedral windows that looked out over the ocean, and went down the three steps that led to another suite of rooms. The March wind hissed and grumbled in the night outside, and the roar of the surf was muted. The windows were misted with salty sea fog, and Carol could not have seen the watcher from the beach even if she had looked. And she did not look.
She turned on the final light and stepped into the tower room that had been her daughter's. Kelly had chosen it herself when they first moved in, even though it was smaller than the other room on that floor, the closet narrower, and the bathroom had only a corner shower rather than a tub. Kelly had been nine then, and she had been enchanted by the romanticism of the curving walls and bowed windows.
They had painted clouds on the ceilings and carpeted the floor in pale blue with a lavender- and-blue floral wallpaper. Her bed was canopied, and carpeted steps led up to a deep, comfortable window seat piled with cushions. Kelly used to spend hours there, reading or talking on the phone or watching for dolphins. Her father used to call her "the princess in the tower" and teased her by chanting, "Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair." When she was younger, Kelly had been delighted by that. As she grew older, her tolerance for her parents lessened in the way of teenagers everywhere, and the best she could manage in response to her father's teasing was a roll of the eyes and a disparaging look. Remembering that made Carol smile wistfully.
The room was exactly as Kelly had left it two and a half years ago. Tattered stuffed animals lined shelves beside her bed, their winsome innocence offset by the posters of Anime characters and Justin Bieber on the opposite wall. Bookshelves sagged with a collection that ranged from Golden Books to
Watership Down
. CDs and DVDs were scattered over the shelf that held her entertainment system. Her violin case was by the door, and Carol bent to touch it lightly, as she always did when she entered this room. She never opened the case, or took out the instrument, for doing so would seem to violate some unspoken rule of privacy that even now Carol could not bring herself to ignore.
On the desk adjacent to the window was a computer system which, at that time, had been state of the art. The new system had been a gift from her father—a "guilt gift", as Carol came to call them—right after the divorce, and Carol had been furious. He had bought the system without consulting her, presumably unaware that Carol had turned down Kelly's request for just such an upgrade two weeks before. Carol felt that large purchases like that should be earned, not given, and she ended up looking like a witch while her ex-husband accepted accolades from his adoring daughter. She hated it when he did that, and she told him so over and over again. They had had a big fight about it; Kelly had overheard and spent days glaring at her mother with accusing, resentful eyes.
Carol went to the desk and gazed down, remembering that fight, remembering the others, remembering the last one and the note that had ended it, propped up in front of the computer for Carol to find when she came home from work.
The last fight had been about a concert Kelly wanted to attend. Kelly was a responsible girl, mature for her age, and trustworthy in almost every respect. But the concert was in Tallahassee on a school night, involved a teenage driver, a van, and some college kids on spring break, and as far as Carol was concerned it was out of the question.
Kelly had tried to overrule her by going to her father, who was by that time living in Tallahassee and who, in the way of newly divorced fathers everywhere, would have done anything to make himself look good in his child's eyes. And if it also involved making his ex-wife look bad, so much the better. He took Kelly's side immediately and, in fact, his arguments sounded solid. He would be there in case of trouble. He could even pick Kelly up after the concert and take her home to spend the night with him. He would drive her home the next day.
But Guy was a reporter for a television news station and he did not even give his last report until eleven p.m. The nature of his work was immediate and unpredictable, and his hours were never regular. If he should get called out on a story, Kelly would be placed far down on the list of his priorities, perhaps even forgotten. Carol refused to change her position.
Guy argued with her, but finally was forced to support her decision. Kelly had accused Carol of turning her father against her. Carol accused Kelly of trying to turn both her parents against one another for her own selfish ends. Kelly screamed that she hated her and ran from the room.
In her heart Carol knew it was not the concert Kelly was furious about as much as it was the cumulative assaults—real or imaginary—on her already turbulent adolescent psyche. The divorce had been hard on her. She was having trouble in school, and everything Carol tried to do to help only alienated her further. In retrospect, she should have seen it coming.
The note said, "I'm not a child anymore and I can't let you go on treating me like one. Don't worry about me, I can take care of myself. After all, I've been doing it most of my life."
She had taken with her a cloth backpack and, as close as Carol could tell, one or two changes of clothes. Naturally, they assumed she had gone to the concert.
But Kelly did not turn up in Tallahassee, and the friends with whom she was supposed to have gone had neither seen nor heard from her. A week passed, and another, and Carol was frantic. Then she got a letter, postmarked Tallahassee. In thin, wavery handwriting it said, "I am fine. I'm going to Hollywood so you won't hear from me for awhile. I have money. Watch for me in the movies. Love, Kelly."
That was when Carol knew her daughter was in real trouble. And she had not heard another word from her for two and a half years.
Mama, you've got to help me
....
The room still smelled faintly of Kelly, of childhood lilac and young woman musk, of crayons and makeup and computer paper and baby powder ... or perhaps Carol simply imagined it. Most likely she did, but she still liked to come here sometimes and breathe that scent, and feel close to the child she had lost. Tonight she needed that comfort more than she had in a very long time.
She went to the window seat and curled up there, still holding the photograph of her daughter. Outside the wind gusted and the surf tumbled, and the windows were opaque with the reflection of a cloud-blue room. Carol sat for a long time, hugging the framed photograph, feeling the chill of the windowpane through her nightgown, remembering.
It was close to three o'clock when the lights went out, one by one, as Carol once again crossed the gallery, moving before the big windows, and went back to her room. At last that lamp was extinguished, and the big house was in darkness.
Only then did the watcher move on.
~
Chapter Two
“
D
id you call the police?” Laura Capstone divided the last of the coffee between two mugs and brought one to Carol's desk. She cupped the other mug—the one with the #1 Realtor 2010 emblazoned on it—between her hands and sat on the edge of Carol's desk, a worried frown on her face.
The offices of Beachside Realty were located in a bright coral clapboard building at the corner of Pacific and Main. If you came to St. Theresa-by-the-Sea you saw it; it had become something of a landmark for tourists and residents alike. “Turn right at the orange-colored building” and “Go past the coral real-estate building” were common phrases in any set of directions—even those given by other realtors. Laura Capstone and Carol Dennison had been partners in Beachside Realty for almost fifteen years, and most of the dramas, mundanities, and fantasies of their lives had been played out within the walls of that bright coral building.
