Sweeter Than Sin (14 page)

*   *   *

It was, he mused, a bad, bad day.

He’d had to kill before, but the circumstances had been very, very different. He’d served his country, and as a soldier sometimes had to do, he’d taken lives. That wasn’t the only time he’d been forced to kill, though.

The men he’d killed here in Madison years ago, he truly believed, had been killed as an act of justice. He hadn’t planned to kill more than that, just the names the boy had given them.

It never would have happened if the cops had listened to young David, investigated as they should have. Those men should have been arrested, had their day in court. Instead he’d sent them off to face God’s justice and he’d thought he was done.

The system hadn’t protected the boy, so he’d taken the job on himself. If he had nightmares over it, he’d bear that burden. Eventually, he had been able to cut himself from that period of his life. It was, as he’d viewed it, a necessity.

Sometimes a man had to take extreme actions or others suffered. It had been one of those occasions.

So for that brief period of time, he’d let himself become somebody else, just as he’d done when he’d served his country.

The problem was that it wasn’t done.

All this time,
he thought, brooding. He’d thought it was done. He’d had their names. He’d taken care of them.

But it wasn’t isolated. It was a spreading cancer that was going to eat this town alive if he didn’t excise it. This time, they’d all go down. Either he’d catch them or the police would

A few short weeks ago, he’d had to kill again. It was harder that time but still, mostly, an act of passion and he had less time to think, more time to act. All the thinking had come after the fact.

Now, though, now … there was plenty of time to think. Time to think and worry and brood. And plan. There were plenty of plans to be made, because he knew there were more to come.

The question was … how many?

He’d gotten four names from Junior, right before he’d put him in the river. That was what he should have done the first time around, gotten names from each of them, discovered how much they knew. He’d learned from his mistakes.

A couple of those men were already under investigation. The law wouldn’t fail this time. Jensen Bell wouldn’t allow it; neither would the current chief. The wheels of justice would turn. It was a different time. People couldn’t hide behind their names as easily as they could twenty years ago, even ten years ago.

The biggest concern was uncovering all of those involved. Junior had said he didn’t know all the members, especially the older ones. Junior only knew Harlan because Harlan had been the one to help
initiate
him all those years ago, and he rarely came to the meetings these days.

More names were discovered going through the files in Harlan’s office—Harlan’s thoroughness was going to be the downfall of quite of a few. The man thought he was careful—oh, the fire had burned up quite a few pictures.

One hadn’t burned, though, and he knew from that scar that it was Harlan in that image.

Stupid, arrogant old fool.

The autopsy would confirm, if the cops were worth much of anything. Jensen was worth about ten of the cops in town, as far as he was concerned, so he suspected things would get along just fine as far as that was concerned.

Harlan’s journals and “minutes” were proving to be very useful. And very disturbing. They’d kept minutes, the sick bastards. They actually kept minutes and notes.

We discussed inducting Abel’s son, Glenn, at the next meeting and decided it would wait until summer.

Abel—Abel Blue, dead quite some now.

His boy, Glenn. Glenn Blue, who was currently in jail.

He’d been one of the victims once. Now he was an abuser, awaiting his day in court.

Perhaps he should feel bad for him, and he could pity the child Glenn had been. But now he wanted to murder the man.

Did they note down the atrocities they committed or just keep it circumspect?

If nothing else, when he started to falter or lose sight of the goal, all he would have to do was look at those notes, written in a spidery scrawl, and he’d find his strength again.

Killing Junior had been harder than what he’d done all those years ago. Last night had been the hardest yet, because he’d had to think it all through and plan. He was under no illusions that this would be easy. But he would see it through.

He’d find the others, and they’d all die.

*   *   *

Rita lived in a pretty little old house, surrounded by a white picket fence, the gleaming ribbon of the Ohio unfurling just behind the backyard.

The house had seen better years, but she’d been working to fix it up.

She’d even conned him into helping out here and there and they’d spent more than a few lazy Sundays splattered in paint or sawdust as they fixed this room up or worked on the deck or added in those bookshelves.

Just then, he wasn’t thinking about any of that.

Worry gouged deep grooves into his mind as he threw his truck into park and climbed out. The gouges turned into canyons as he slammed a fist against the door, the sound of it echoing through Rita’s quiet house.

A chill raced down his spine. The quiet … it screamed like a banshee to him. Rita didn’t do quiet. She had music playing at all hours when she was home. During the day it was as loud as it could get without her getting in trouble, and at night it was a low, soft thrum coming from speakers he’d helped her install throughout the house.

The silence didn’t have to be a bad thing. Maybe she’d gone for a walk.

There was no reason for him to be this worried, he told himself. The healing burn running down his arm itched as he lifted his hand and banged harder, longer. “Come on,” he muttered. “Come on.…”

He knocked again.

“Damn it, Rita, open the fucking door!”

Nothing.

He looked over at the driveway. Her run-down Accord was parked there.

A breeze kicked up and he listened, eyes closed.

That quiet scared him. More than anything else. Swearing, he took a step back. From the corner of his eye he saw somebody walking up the sidewalk, but he ignored it.

His gut was a raw, bloody mess and he knew, as surely as he knew his own name, that something was wrong.

*   *   *

Gritty-eyed from lack of sleep, Caine pulled his toolbox out of the trunk and glanced over toward Rita’s house.

Last night had been an eye-opening occasion.

Not just for him, either.

Madison was one fucked-up town, a fact he’d known for a while. Others were just now cluing in to to the fact, but even he was sort of surprised at just how deep the filth ran.

Strain and exhaustion pulled at him and all he wanted to do was just go back to his place, pull the curtains to block out the brilliant sun blazing down on him and sleep. For a month, maybe. He was tired enough that he thought he could get a few hours without the nightmares, the vivid memories and screams and pleas ringing in his ears.

He had to be ready to drop before he could sleep worth shit.

After last night, he thought maybe, just maybe, he was almost ready to get some rest.

“Damn it, Rita, open the fucking door!”

Frowning, Caine turned his head and stared at Adam Brascum pounding on Rita’s front door. It wasn’t quite noon, but between his and Rita’s house there were two kids running around playing. Brascum needed to watch his mouth around kids, Caine thought.

Besides, he didn’t think Rita was going to be opening that door to Brascum.

He needed to—

Adam kicked the door in.

“Well, hell,” Caine muttered, tugging his hat down. With a sigh, he put his toolbox back into the trunk and slammed it shut before jogging down the walk toward Rita’s house.

It wasn’t hard to find Adam. Caine just followed the sounds of the shouting.

And found them both, in Rita’s bedroom.

She lay on her back, a nightshirt that usually reached her knees rucked up halfway to her thighs. Her skin was pale, unnaturally so, Caine noticed. Adam had his arm under her shoulders.

“Damn it, Rita. Come on … say something, sweetheart,” Adam said, his voice harsh and ragged. “You don’t get to do this—”

Something like a sob escaped Adam as Caine knelt beside them. He cocked his head, studying the empty prescription bottle and the gleaming glass flask that had once held Jack Daniel’s, some of Tennessee’s finest. The stink of whiskey hung in the air, mingling with the stench of death and waste.

Her eyes were fixed on the ceiling.

She was gone.

He could see it, and he knew that Adam could, too.

The difference was that Adam wasn’t ready to admit it.

“Rita, come on!” Adam shook her.

“She’s gone,” Caine said, reaching out to touch Adam’s shoulder, still looking around the room.

The phone, half ripped out of the wall.

Adam sucked in a ragged breath and then dropped his head, pressing it to Rita’s brow. “You stupid woman,” he whispered. “Why did you do this? It wasn’t your fault.”

Silent, Caine rose and moved away, studying the room, the whiskey, the phone. He shot Adam a glance, but the other man was caught in a world of his own and didn’t even notice as Caine got the phone.

As he started to dial 911, he looked back behind him and saw that Adam had put Rita on the floor, flat. The dispatcher came on the phone just as Adam started to blow into Rita’s mouth.

It was too late for that.

But Caine supposed Adam had to try.

Caine left the man to the sad, grim task and spoke softly to the woman on the other end of the line. He had a cell phone for work, but he’d never gotten in the habit of keeping it with him all the time, never did understand why anybody would want to be in contact with people all the damn time.

“Did you say Rita Troyer is dead?” the lady on the other end of the line said.

“Yes,” he said levelly, still watching as Adam moved to pump on her chest. “It looks like she took pills and drank some whiskey. I think she’s been gone awhile.”

“I’m calling the police; please stay on the line—”

“Just get them out to her house. I’ll wait here,” he said, cutting her off. Then he moved back into the bedroom and stood watch as Adam tried to revive Rita.

You knew it wasn’t your fault
, Caine thought, studying the lifeless woman.

But there was no answer.

CHAPTER TEN

Betrayal wrenched at her heart.

It’s best if you don’t come back.

That low voice. The promise that it was over and done, it was all that had kept her sane—or close to it—for so long. It was why she’d given everything up, why she’d made herself accept the truths he’d told her, how she’d lived with what she’d done. What had happened.

Is that fair to him? Hasn’t he been through enough?

Swearing under her breath, she tried not to think about the selfish, bitter thoughts that had eaten at her over the years.
What about me? What about what
I
went through?

It did no good.

She’d come back to make things right, like she should have done years ago. Maybe they wouldn’t want to have believed her
then
. But she’d make them believe her now. Considering how many of the mighty were falling in Madison, was it going to be a surprise that she had more names to add to their list? Yeah, the people
she
knew about were dead, but she knew things about the Sutter family.

She could do
something
.

That urgency thrummed inside her mind, but her thoughts stumbled to a halt as a familiar form cut across her line of sight.

Adam—

She’d left his house earlier, her hair flatironed, hanging straight to frame her face, the blunt bangs and the retro-style glasses a basic—and effective—disguise. She hadn’t worn makeup since the day she’d left Madison and her skin seemed paler with the dark hair, the dark lenses. She’d already learned that people saw what they expected to see.

Nobody expected to see Lana here anymore.

So nobody did.

Maybe that was why it was so easy to spot Adam. She kept expecting to see
him
everywhere lately. And there he was, moving across the street with his head bent, his hands jammed in his pockets. Everything about him screamed,
Leave me alone.

He ducked inside the restaurant and her heart wrenched at the sight of him.

She’d heard the news, sitting there in the middle of the coffee shop, surrounded by familiar voices and unfamiliar ones. Listening to the gossip and the chatter, she’d heard one woman’s horrified voice as she talked about the tragedy that had befallen the Troyer family. The father and daughter, both dead. One murdered, one lost to suicide.

Go to him.
… a little voice in the back of Lana’s head whispered.

Go to him.
She hunched in her seat, bent over the paper she’d picked up after the previous customer had left it at a nearby table.
Go to him and do what? Say what? I’m sorry you’re trapped in Hellsville, USA?

No. She had to do better than that, and if she was going to talk to him, it wasn’t going to be just because she felt the insane urge to offer him comfort. Comfort or whatever else he wanted.

She really had to get her mind out of the gutter.

Forcing her mind back to the here and now, she studied the people around her from under her lashes. Maybe she’d be lucky. A clear sign, telling her
what
she should do,
how
she should do it and
when,
would fall right out of the sky. Although hope was something she’d given up on, she shot a peek outside. The sky was clear and blue—nothing falling. No rain and definitely no signs.

She’d come home because it felt right. Now that she was here, though, she felt lost. She needed proof, somebody to go to, somebody to talk to. The only
proof
was David. Or the disc they’d made.

She had no idea where to find him, or the disc.

But she did know who to talk to, she realized. If she hadn’t been so shaken by the very prospect of being here, she would have already figured it out, too. Biting her lip, she shot another glance around the coffee shop, hoped nothing she felt showed on her face.