Beneath a Buried House (Detective Elliot Mystery Book 2) (32 page)

Chapter Thirty-Nine

“I saw her, Detective. It was Elizabeth.”

Elliot moved a box aside so he could sit down. Beverly Mandel, the waitress from Donegal, had called and said she needed to see him, said it was important. It’d been a little over two weeks since Elliot had found the place for her, but she’d yet to settle in to the apartment. Nothing had been put up.

Cyndi hadn’t been thrilled about Elliot’s attending to police work outside office hours, but she said she understood. He didn’t tell her what it was about. He hadn’t been himself lately, but he knew better than to make that kind of tactical error.

Beverly was referring to her childhood acquaintance, Elizabeth Stone. Elliot’s inclination was to jump all over it, question the waitress in detail about the possible sighting of an elusive, perhaps even ethereal, suspect. But he held back. If it was fantasy, which it probably was, he didn’t want to upset her any further. “Where exactly did this happen?”

“I thought she was dead. But I saw her.”

“Have you talked to Doctor Patton about this?”

Her eyes grew angry. “I’m not making it up.”

“I didn’t say that. You’ve been under a lot of stress lately. I worry about you.”

“You should be worried, but not about me.”

The small apartment near 71st and Sheridan was a bit pricey for Beverly’s budget, but it was a busy area with plenty of restaurants where she could work. Changing the subject seemed like a good idea. “Any job offers lately?”

She sat beside Elliot on the sofa, leaning forward, her knee touching his. “I know you think I’m crazy. Lord knows I haven’t given you reason to think otherwise. But I’m not delusional, Kenny. You have to believe that.”

Elliot studied her face. She seemed sincere. “All right. I’m listening.”

She glanced away, looking at the floor. “When someone comes along who stands out as unnerving in an unnerving world, you pay attention. We were all afraid of her.”

Having said that, Beverly got up and walked out of the room. When she returned, she handed Elliot a package, a rectangular object wrapped in brown paper. She sat beside him again. “Please don’t open it. Not here.”

Elliot laid the package on the sofa.

“I was there that night.”

Elliot glanced up. “Where?”

“My friends dared me, said I would see Satan himself if I snuck up and peeked through the window.”

She turned around and raised her blouse, exposing a portion of her back. Several long, thin scars marked the skin there. She’d been beaten, probably with a leather strap. “Reverend Coronet gave a rather poignant sermon that night, telling the congregation that the Stone family was an incarnation of evil. I wanted to see for myself.” She let the fabric drop over her back again.

Evidently, the reverend had found out about her excursion. Elliot could hold back no longer. “What did you see, Beverly?”

“She was sitting at the kitchen table, humming a tune, and her parents were laid out on the floor.”

“Anything else?”

She shook her head. “I was afraid. I ran into the woods.”

“Where were you, exactly, when you recently saw her?”

Beverly Mandel got up from the sofa and went to the window.

Elliot followed.

She pointed through the window. “She was right there, sitting in a car.”

“In the parking lot?”

Again, Elliot began to wonder about the waitress’s sanity. “Do you know where she is now?”

“She’s close, much closer than you think.”

A chill ran up Elliot’s spine. “Could you take me to her?”

The waitress didn’t answer. She just stood there, shaking her head and crying. Then Elliot’s phone began to ring. Out of habit, he checked the caller, and when he saw Chief Jed Washington’s number displayed on the screen, he stared at it for a moment, then glanced back at Beverly.

“You should answer that,” she said. She went to the sofa and got the package she’d given Elliot earlier and again handed it to him as she opened the door. “Call me when you’ve had a chance to look this over.”

Beverly Mandel shoved Elliot out of the apartment. When she closed the door, he heard the deadbolt engage.

Chapter Forty

Later that night, Elliot twisted the key in the lock and pushed open the door of his house, fantasizing that Cyndi would follow him inside. She did, but he sensed that it was more out of concern for his welfare than anything else—seeing that he got safely to bed without hurting himself. The glass of wine at dinner had turned into a night on the town.

Elliot closed the door, relishing their being alone together a little more than he should have, and he pulled her close, uttering the words without hesitation. “Stay with me.”

Cyndi allowed him a soft but subtle kiss, then gently pushed him away. She switched on the light. “I’m seeing you to bed, then I’m going home.”

When they walked deeper into the house, a familiar raucous baying outside broke the silence. Elliot rolled his eyes. “Joey’s dog. Scourge of the neighborhood. Everyone hates me for it. Except Joey.”

Cyndi peered through the glass of the patio door, then drew the blinds.

He’d brought in the package Beverly Mandel had given him, but whatever it was could wait until tomorrow. He dropped it into the rack by the couch and went through the bedroom and on into the bath, wishing Cyndi would stay. But who was he trying to kid? She was merely echoing his own values. All the more reason to love her. He brushed his teeth then fumbled into his pajamas. Just the bottoms. He could never tolerate the tops.

When he came out of the bath, Cyndi pulled the covers back and fluffed the pillow. He came to her, but she pushed him onto the bed and gently removed his hand from her arm. “You need to sleep.”

For once, Joey’s dog seemed to have taken a break from his incessant barking.

Elliot crawled under the covers, trying to flood his head with good intentions, but when Cyndi’s smoky gray eyes found his, desire strangled his logic. Her eyes betrayed a secret: she fought a similar battle, wanting him, perhaps as much as he wanted her. The flush in her cheeks and the quickness of her breath gave her away further.

Her throat flexed as she swallowed. “We should wait.”

The warmth of her touch radiated through Elliot as she ran her hand across his chest. He summoned what willpower he had left to agree with her. “I know.”

She pulled the covers over him and switched off the light. The words
good night
escaped from his lips as he heard her footsteps softly padding across the carpet as she left the room.

Moments later, though, he realized he’d been mistaken. The bed dipped softly, and as Cyndi slipped beneath the covers and pressed what seemed the entirety of her being against him, Elliot’s fantasies crumbled and paled in the wake of that which was real. Upon their first meeting, she had awakened something inside of him, an animal hunger that he had managed to control. He no longer could. He pulled her close and brought his lips to hers, and while the heat of her soft breasts shot through him, he gave in and he loved her, loved her like there was no other, no beginning and no end, just the two of them, born of the same fire and now reuniting all of which had come before.

Chapter Forty-One

A shaking sensation dragged Elliot out of his sleep, and when he felt Cyndi’s hand upon his shoulder he immediately realized why. Thudding echoed through the house. Someone was at the door. He glanced at the clock. Six a.m.

Cyndi rolled over to get out of bed, but Elliot stopped her. “I have a lot of friends, but I’ve made some enemies, too.”

He jumped out of bed and struggled into the pair of denims he’d left on the floor. Sleepiness and alcohol dulled his senses, but he stumbled to the nightstand and found the .38 he kept there, checked it, then slid the weapon into his back pocket.

He made his way through the living room in darkness, but when he reached the front door he paused, then flipped on the outside light and peered through the peephole. Again it malfunctioned, coming on only for an instant, but in that microburst of time Elliot saw a man, dirt clinging to his clothes, as it would after he’d clawed his way from the grave.

The light flashed on, then off, and even though Elliot knew it was impossible, there was little doubt in his heart that he’d again looked into the pleading eyes of Justin Stone. The man he’d killed was on his doorstep.

Elliot slammed his hand against the wall to jar the faulty light switch, then threw open the door, and when he reached out he touched not a ghost but the substance of reality. When the light made another attempt, he saw that he indeed gripped the shoulder of someone in the flesh, but it was not Justin Stone.

Standing on the porch, his face twisted in pain, his mouth gaping open, from which escaped a sound like the guttural groan of a wounded soldier, was Joey Anderson.

Tears streamed from Joey’s eyes, and he cradled an animal that drooped from his hands in a crude arc, its head and legs dangling lifelessly across his arms.

“He’s dead, Mr. Elliot. My dog is dead.”

As was usually the case, Joey was not alone for long. Like a drowning victim coming up for air, his mother came out of the darkness. “Joey . . .”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I tried to stop him.”

Elliot’s eyes were fastened on the dog, but Joey’s misfortune dominated his senses. Joey had been dealt a bad enough hand in life. He didn’t deserve this.

A buzzing sound filled Elliot’s ears, and numbness ran through his limbs, as if he, too, had tasted fate and remained standing only because he’d joined the ranks of the living dead. “What the hell happened?”

“I don’t know,” Kelly said. “We found him lying near the back door.”

The loss in Joey’s face spoke of his failure to comprehend why such a thing should happen. Elliot extended his arms and offered to take Colorado’s body, to relieve Joey of the burden of touching the carcass.

Joey backed away. “We bury him. You help me.”

It was closer to a demand than a request, the alternate, more worldly version of Joey that Elliot had glimpsed earlier when he’d held the gun. He put his hand on Joey’s shoulder. “All right. Just give me a minute to get dressed.”

Elliot strode into the bedroom and threw on a sweater, then headed for the garage to get the digging tools. When he reached the door leading to the garage, Cyndi came out, holding a long-handled shovel. The one with the good, sharp blade. The one he would have chosen.

She held it out. “Thought you might need this.” Moisture shone in her eyes. “Poor Joey.”

Elliot took the shovel, feeling wetness on the handle. Cyndi had been crying. “Yeah,” he said. “It’s got to be tough for him.” He started toward the front door. “I won’t be long.”

Just before Elliot left the house, he heard water running in the sink. Cyndi, washing her face. Their first night together had been stained by an act of cruelty. Young, healthy dogs like Colorado didn’t just fall over dead by themselves.

With the shovel in his hand, he stepped outside and closed the door behind him. Kelly Anderson and Joey stood on the lawn next to the garden where dormant rose bushes poked through the soil. When Elliot drew near, Kelly gently urged her son toward the sidewalk, and while Elliot followed she led them along the darkened walkway. They crossed Kelly and Joey’s front yard, then went through the gate of a stockade fence to the back of the house.

A floodlight cut a bright swath across the yard. Elliot shook his head then went to the southwest corner of the lot. Placing his foot on the blade, he drove the shovel into the ground.

When he’d dug deep enough, Elliot turned to Joey and nodded.

He seemed to understand. He walked over and lowered his arms, letting Colorado’s body slide from his grip and fall into the grave. The carcass hit the soft earth with a dull thud.

Elliot covered the hole, then leaned the shovel against the fence and went to Joey. He hugged him, feeling the boy in a man’s body quiver with tears. “I’m sorry, Joey. I’m sorry.”

Then Elliot squeezed Joey’s shoulder, turned away, and walked back to his house.

Chapter Forty-Two

Elliot went back inside his house and closed the door behind him. After entering the bedroom, he stripped off his clothes, soiled from burying the dog, then wearily stumbled into the shower.

When he climbed back into bed, Cyndi rolled toward him, and he wrapped his arms around her, lying in silence, listening to her rhythmic breathing. The lamp on the side table was on, but it didn’t seem to matter. She fell asleep in spite of it.

Elliot held her as she slept, afraid to do the same for fear that she might disappear and not be there when he awoke. Thoughts of their wedding conjured in his head, but the happy thoughts were tainted. He saw Cyndi’s dress and it was not white. He was to blame. He shouldn’t have drank so much, shouldn’t have asked her to sleep with him.

At some point, Elliot drifted off.

Somewhere between consciousness and sleep, the face of a young prostitute invaded his senses.

He glanced at Cyndi, then toward the clock. It was 7:30 a.m. Just a bad dream.

When he again closed his eyes, however, he saw not the lingering image of Cyndi, but the colorless dead face of Brighid McAlister. His eyes flew open, and he ran his gaze, over and over, across the features of the lovely woman sleeping next to him. How could he have missed it? Had the heavy makeup, the bushy black hair, the lifelessness of Brighid’s corpse skin blinded him, clouded his senses? Whatever the reason, those barriers no longer existed. With their removal, the likeness jumped out at him. Jim Llewellyn’s prostitute bore a strong resemblance to Cyndi Bannister.

The death words of Justin Stone formed in Elliot’s mind. “Brighid.”

Elliot rolled over and got out of bed. The covers slipped down, and Cyndi’s smooth abdomen was revealed. A hint of a shadow stained her skin there, like the remnant of a temporary tattoo. Nausea crawled through him.

As he left the bedroom, he recalled what Snub the bartender had said. “I don’t know who it was in the bar that night, but it wasn’t Brighid McAlister.”