Stay of Execution (12 page)

 

Chapter Thirty

T
HE BREEZE FROM
the open windows ruffled the light sheet. He lay in darkness, the glow from his cigarette the only light in the room. The girl had felt good, but it hadn't gone as smoothly as he'd hoped. He was out of practice; he'd made mistakes. They would find her soon. He didn't feel as satisfied as he thought he would. Or maybe the feeling hadn't lasted as long as he'd hoped. He blew smoke from his nostrils. The girl's hair came fresh to his mind; it had been soft and damp from her run. Sweat had covered her skin, dripping between her breasts. He'd inhaled her scent and allowed himself to run his hands over her body, squeezing her soft, yielding flesh.

She'd fought him, but that was to be expected. Still, he hadn't counted on the advantage of youth. She was strong, and he was older now. Although he'd stayed in shape, the task was harder than he'd expected. Next time would be better. The fighting didn't bother him. It fueled him, gave him power. But he couldn't fucking stand the crying. Why did they always do that? Sure, he wanted them to acknowledge his strength and control, but even more, he wanted them to respect it. He stared out the window into blackness. He'd never really liked death. It wasn't nearly as thrilling as what came before.

He lay back, letting the darkness seep in. He needed to think, to plan his next step. The rock would throw everyone off. He'd meant to break her neck—­like the others—­but when she opened her mouth to scream, he'd been forced to reach for the stone. Not that it would matter in the long run.

The feds would be called in and the local police marginalized, used only for mundane detective work. He was no fool. In light of the governor's role in the release, that would happen sooner rather than later. Cancini's presence would make things even more interesting. He was such a goddamn do-­gooder. No doubt, the public humiliation of making a mistake probably didn't sit too well with a know-­it-­all like him. Mike Cancini wasn't nearly as smart as he thought he was.

He imagined how the investigation might go. Would the feds try to keep the murder quiet? Some would argue they didn't need the students and the locals erupting into some kind of stupid panic, but the real reason would be far less sympathetic and a lot more strategic. When news of the girl's attack got out, suspicion around town, around the county, would be directed at the man the governor had just declared an innocent man. How was that going to play in the press or in the governor's potential run for president? He smiled.

But word would get out. It always did. Little Springs was a shit small town with a mentality to match. Most everyone knew everyone else's business. They wouldn't be able to keep it quiet once they had a second dead girl on their hands. And that would happen soon enough. Then all hell would break loose. He smiled again. It would be fucking incredible. When they discovered the next body, the press would return in force. There would be no holding back. He breathed in and out quicker, deeper. Folks would call for a lynching. The law be damned! What a laugh it would be. The feds, police, the townsfolk all running around trying to find him. He'd be long gone. They wouldn't catch him. Not this time. Not ever.

 

Chapter Thirty-­One

J
ULIA SCROLLED THROUGH
her messages and her e-­mail looking for a name that wasn't there. She knew she shouldn't care, but she couldn't turn her feelings on and off. She couldn't forgive him—­wouldn't—­but that didn't mean she didn't want him to care. She rolled over on her side and scrolled through again. There were two messages from Norm, a few from friends at home, and one from Ted thanking her for dinner.

It was nice having dinner with a friend tonight. I hadn't been up to the lodge in months. Thanks again and see you soon. Ted

Julia dropped her phone on the bed and reached for the second diary. She was grateful to Ted. He'd even introduced her to a few locals who'd been willing to speak with her, albeit only a little. They couldn't hide their reticence or their preconceived notions that they would be misrepresented, but at least they'd showed. Even if she didn't fully understand their feelings, she could try to understand their emotional reactions. Ted urged her to be patient and listen. They were quiet and reserved for the most part—­maybe a little misguided—­but not crazy. She realized after the interviews, Ted's advice was good.

Propping the pillows, she settled back to read.

My mother came to see me today. I almost cried when I saw her on the step; it was such a surprise. She hugged me and almost cried, too, but then she wouldn't come inside. “I can't stay. Your father doesn't know I'm here,” she said. “I had to see you and make sure you're okay.” I did cry then.

She looked so old. Her hair is completely gray now, and she's gotten so thin. At first I was upset that Leo was taking a nap, and she didn't get to meet him. But then I was glad. When I mentioned it, she said meeting him wasn't necessary. “He can never be my grandson,” she said. I'm not surprised, but it still hurts.

Julia laid the diary in her lap. What kind of woman was Brenda's mother? Why the distance? Was it because she left college to get married? Because she got pregnant out of wedlock? The outrage seemed terribly old-­fashioned but then, times had changed. Still, what kind of grandmother doesn't want to meet her grandson? Shaking her head, Julia resumed reading.

Then she told me she was dying. Cancer. I didn't know what to say, but it didn't matter. She told me she didn't have long, but she didn't want to die without telling me she loved me. I was completely sobbing then. She let me hold her for a minute and then pushed me away. “I have to go now,” she said. I asked if there was anything I could do, and at first she said no. Then she said, “Yes, please don't come to my funeral. Your father will make a scene, and I don't think I want a scene . . .” I can't remember if I said anything, but it didn't matter. She didn't wait for my answer. “Good-­bye, Brenda. I'm sorry.” And after that she was gone. Maybe coming back here to Little Springs was a mistake after all.

 

Chapter Thirty-­Two

“S
TUPID BUS!” THE
boy yelled, kicking at dirt and pebbles. It was the third time in two weeks it hadn't shown up. His father was out of town—­driving a truck—­and wouldn't be back until Thursday. Mom had left early for the doctor because his dumb sister had strep, again. That made Mom mad 'cause she was supposed to work the breakfast shift at the Holiday Inn up on the interstate. “This day sucks,” he said.

Even at this early hour, the sun was high enough to tell it was going to be hot. “Great,” he muttered. He was gonna be late again and probably smell like he needed a shower even before gym. He kicked the dirt again. And his math test was first period. He'd have to stay after again to make up more work. It wasn't fair. He reached into his pocket, pulling out his cell phone. Maybe his buddy Jacob would pick up and could tell Ms. Hopkins about his bus. Maybe then she wouldn't point out to the class how he was late again and that maybe he should find an alternate mode of transportation when the bus ran late. It wasn't like he had a choice. It wasn't like he wanted to walk the stupid five miles to school. The girl who sat behind him, the pretty one with dark, curly hair, had tried not to giggle, but he'd heard her anyway. He didn't blame her. She tried to be nice, but Ms. Hopkins didn't make it easy. That old lady hated him. Shoot, maybe the thing to do was skip today. He could go home, hang out, and when he heard his mom bring his idiot sister home, crawl into bed and complain about his throat. She was always worried about stuff being contagious. The more he thought about it, the more it seemed like a good idea.

He turned his head from the left to the right. No one was coming in either direction. He began to run, heading for the trees, his knapsack banging against his back. He didn't need some nosy lady telling his mom she saw him. If he went through the woods, he wouldn't have to worry. He was glad now he'd been in a bad mood that morning, refusing to get out of bed.

“You care more about Ashley Lynn than me, Mom,” he'd whined, pulling the covers over his head.

“Oh, for Pete's sake, Jimmy,” she'd said, slamming his door. “I don't have time for this.” By the time he'd come down for breakfast, she and his sister were gone.

Reaching the woods, he bent at the waist, coughing, trying to catch his breath. Maybe he really was sick. It was cooler in the woods. He walked slowly toward home, keeping near the edge of the forest. When he was little, he'd been lost there once. He'd come home with scratches and cuts and nightmares. It had been a long time before he played there again. He knew better now but still didn't like it.

The boy looked up at the tall trees, their branches thick and twisted, blocking the warmth from the sun. He pulled the strings of his knapsack tight and walked faster. Feet moving quickly over the slippery ground cover, he tripped, falling forward toward the round trunk of a large oak. “Stupid root. Stupid trees.” Picking himself up, he wiped his hands on his jeans, the brown, wet moss leaving marks on the worn pants. It was only then that he noticed what had caused his fall. Not a root. A leg. He stepped closer to see a bare leg, a woman's leg, covered in dirt and leaves as though someone had tried to hide her. The boy's eyes widened, and he screamed. Turning, he ran from the woods toward the first house he could find, still screaming.

 

Chapter Thirty-­Three

J
ULIA TRUDGED INTO
the library, her heavy bag hanging from her shoulder. The overhead fluorescent lights weren't enough to brighten the dark and somber interior or her sour mood. The detective's warning still nagged her. What gave him the right to judge her actions or assume he knew what she was thinking? Irritated, she dropped Brenda Spradlin's diary on the table with a bang. She could feel the librarian watching her. That was another thing. Spradlin had only laughed when she'd asked about his conversation with the woman. “Why don't you ask her yourself?” he'd said.

Flopping down onto the hard chair, heat rose from her chest to her cheeks. Not only had she wasted her one question, she'd looked stupid and immature. The librarian wasn't important. What was important was how Spradlin had gotten in trouble in the first place, the life he'd lost, and how he'd survived. She would not make that mistake a second time.

While she waited for Spradlin, Julia wrote a new list of questions, which she set in the middle of the table.

He stood in front of her, one hand lightly holding the top of the chair, feet spread apart. He glanced at her page of questions. “Did you talk to Shelly?”

“Who?”

“Shelly.” She followed his gaze to the librarian. The woman's head was bent over a book, a sweater around her shoulders.

“Oh. No, I didn't.” She couldn't meet his eyes.

“My high school girlfriend—­at least I guess you could say that. We went to stuff together. She was nice to me then. Still is.” Julia waited. It was the most he'd ever said, and she didn't want him to stop. “Not many folks around here are, you know. Not that I blame them.”

“Maybe you should.” Her voice was soft. “You didn't do anything wrong.”

“Depends on how you look at it.”

“No, it doesn't. It—­”

He waved his hand. “Enough about that. Did you learn anything more about my mother?”

She bit back her words. He should be angry, but now wasn't the time to press the issue. Instead, she touched the diary. “I did. First of all, it wasn't easy for your mother when she came back to Little Springs after your father died. Your dad's parents washed their hands of her, and her own parents disowned her.”

“True.”

“What I don't understand is why.” She hesitated. How much of this bothered him? How much did it hurt to read about how little your family wanted you? But she needed to know. The diaries were only a backdrop. Brenda Spradlin was not prone to spilling her emotions. The majority of her entries were factual and brief.

“You can figure it out, Julia. You're a smart lady.”

“That's not what I meant. I realize the pregnancy, your existence, was the source of the problem. I don't think I'm wrong in assuming the Spradlins thought your mother was trash, that she had tricked their son into marriage by getting pregnant. They accepted her while your father was living, but when he was gone . . .”

She watched his face when she spoke but saw nothing, no sign of emotion at all. “Your mother's parents seemed to think the same thing. They thought their daughter had behaved like, um, a slut, and they couldn't or wouldn't forgive her. They believed she had turned her back on God.” She paused. Everything she'd said made sense to her and fit with the entries she'd read, but it was still only a guess. “Right so far?”

“More or less.”

She tapped the top of the diary with her fingernail. “What happened after your father died? Why did your mother accept such a small settlement? Even if your grandparents hated her, you were their grandson, an extension of the son they had lost.”

He stood frozen while she talked, his face placid. He held another package in his right hand, his left still holding the chair.

“And her parents . . . how could they have treated their own daughter that way?”

He shrugged. “I wouldn't know. I never met them, any of them.”

“What?”

“I have to go,” he said, dropping the package on the table. He was gone as quickly as he'd come, leaving her with a page of unanswered questions and her mouth gaping.

 

Chapter Thirty-­Four

“W
HAT'S THE CAUSE
of death?” Cancini asked, trailing the redheaded man in a navy suit. A dozen Little Springs police cars were parked on the dirt road along with two nondescript ones Cancini figured were FBI. Yellow tape marked a large section of the dense trees with a small opening for the forensic team. Several police and other folks stood near a small one-­story house a few hundred yards from the edge of the woods.

The man stopped, whirling around to face the detective. “How did you find out about this so fast, Mike? Don't you have a job in D.C.?”

“I had some vacation time I needed to use.”

Talbot snickered. “Are you kidding?” The detective shrugged but remained silent. “Good God. You're not. I thought you said you would leave after the press conference.”

“I changed my mind.”

The FBI man pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his brow. “I may regret asking this, but you haven't been stalking Spradlin, have you? He's innocent. There's no reason for you to hang around this town.” Cancini shrugged again, his expression stoic. Talbot groaned. “I knew it. Look, you got the wrong guy. It happens. Even to the best of us.”

“I keep hearing that,” he said. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw what appeared to be a young boy, maybe thirteen or fourteen, wearing a blue T-­shirt, jeans, and a knapsack. The boy was being led inside the house, flanked by two local officers. He looked sideways at Talbot. “Spradlin put on quite a show at the press conference. Talked about forgiveness and a bunch of other crap. The media lapped it up. The folks here were more shell-­shocked than anything.”

“So? I know all that. Hardly seems worth the trip if you ask me.”

“And he lied.”

Cancini's words landed like an invisible line in the sand. Talbot wiped his brow a second time. “I know that, too. I saw the report. Believe it or not, the FBI does investigative work, too.”

“And?”

“Lying about how many times your mom came to visit you isn't a crime.”

“He hasn't changed.”

“Maybe not,” Talbot said. “But as much as you and I don't like it, he's an innocent man. He may be a liar and a manipulator, but he's not the Coed Killer.”

“Got it.”

Talbot's lips drew into a hard, thin line. “Good. Either way, that press conference is long over. I'll ask you again. What are you still doing here?”

Cancini forced a half smile that didn't reach his eyes. “Like I told you, I'm on vacation.”

“Bullshit.”

“Maybe.” Cancini turned his attention toward the woods, to the place where the boy had found the dead college girl. A handful of officers moved between the trees, visible behind the tape, an indication the body was found not far from the edge of the woods. The campus police had allowed him to wait outside the girl's classroom the morning she'd gone missing. When she hadn't shown at eleven, he'd known. “Maybe not.”

Talbot sighed. “What do you want from me, Mike?”

“I want to be a part of it.” The detective waited, knowing Talbot was a stickler like him. He would do everything by the book, an FBI man through and through. Even more, he would want to catch whoever had done this. “I need to know if it's the same, how she died, if anything's the same as before.”

“Jesus, Mike. Are you sure you're still right? Even after the evidence says you're not? Is this about Spradlin?”

“No, I don't think it is.” He paused, unable to put the prickly sensation on the back of his neck and the growing nausea in his belly into words. “It's about the girls. I owe them, all of them.” The two men stood for a moment, both quiet and sweating under the blazing sun. “I need to know. I need to see the body.”

Talbot's face turned toward the woods and the yellow crime scene tape. “I'm getting too old for this.” Cancini waited.

“Okay, but I want you to understand something. You're here only as a favor to me. That's all. No one else is going to think you need to be here. Even I don't know why I'm letting you tag along.”

“Because you need me,” Cancini said. He wasn't smiling.

“No, Mike, I don't. This is a favor. That's all. You got it?”

“Got it.” Cancini couldn't read the man's eyes behind his dark glasses, but he knew Talbot was dead serious. It would be an FBI investigation only. The local police and campus security would be pushed out—­if they hadn't been already. They would serve on the periphery at best. That alone made Cancini suspicious. Normally, one dead girl wouldn't get the FBI's attention. But the death of a college girl in Little Springs, Virginia, this particular week, was different.

The governor had declared a convicted man innocent and had pushed him back out into the world. Then a dead girl turns up in the same town where the original crimes had occurred, in the same town where the so-­called innocent man is living. Now the governor has asked the FBI to look into it, not to prove Spradlin's guilt but to defend his innocence. Leo Spradlin's name would not be uttered in this investigation if at all possible. They needed to protect their position, their political capital. The detective was convinced they didn't know what they were doing or whom they were dealing with. The governor had better hope he was right, or he'd flushed his political career right down the drain. “Can we see the body now?”

“I must be out of my mind,” Talbot said, shaking his head. “Let's go.”

The two men walked across the grass field toward the woods. Their steps slowed as they got closer, the smell of dirt and death rising from the ground. The hot sun baked Cancini's skin and beads of sweat dripped from his temple. Spradlin had lied. The FBI knew he'd lied. Knots tightened in the back of his neck. Now they had a body, a dead college girl. He squinted up at the blazing sky and shivered, cold fingers of dread deep in his bones.