Gone to Ground (5 page)

What had he done?

I lay rigid as stone, expecting the phone to ring any minute, cops to beat on our front door. But . . . nothing. Just hot, smothering silence.

The next morning when I managed to pull myself out of bed, Mike was already up. I could hear him in the kitchen. Like a robot I picked Mike's uniform off the floor to throw in the hamper. It was a one-piece jumper-like thing, and as usual he'd peeled it off half wrong side out. My eyes fell on the inside tag at the top—and my hands stopped. I stared at the tag. Pulled it closer.

It didn't look right.

This was an older uniform, with different words on the tag, in different letters. Michael had been issued three uniforms, all the same. Two to wash and one to wear. This uniform was the right size—but it wasn't the one he'd put on that morning. I'd swear to it. I'd washed those clothes so many times I knew every square inch of them.

Like the hand of fate, Mike chose that moment to walk into the bedroom. He halted just this side of the threshold, eyes moving from my face to the clothes in my hands. His fingers twitched. He tried to cover up the nervous gesture by scratching his elbow.

I held up the uniform. "This isn't yours."

"'Course it is."

"It's not the one you put on yesterday morning."

"Yes it is."

"No, it's not."

"Tully. Shut
up
."

I glared at him, the fabric hot in my hands. Where was his uniform? Why did he need to change it?

"Mike. What did you do?"

"Nothin."

"What did you
do
?"

"Tully, we ain't talkin about this. Now or ever."

"I want to
know
!"

In a split-second he covered the ground between us. Wrapped his fingers around my throat and squeezed. I dropped the uniform. Started to choke.

"You hear me good, Tully." Rage contorted his face. "I came home at the regular time last night. Just like always. You got that?"

I couldn't
breathe
. Panic staggered through me.

"Tully!" Mike dug his fingers deeper.

My throat was caving in. Black dots swarmed over my vision. I tried to beg for my life but could only gurgle.

"Do you
hear
me?"

My head managed a nod.

Michael eased off. I pried my mouth wide and dragged in air. It skidded down my throat like fire.

"What time did I get home?"

I couldn't talk.

"
What
time?"

I panted hard. "Nor. Mal. Time."

"You see anything unusual?"

"N-no."

"You sure?"

"Huhhhhh."

"Tully!" He shook me.

"Yes!"

"Don't
you forget it." Mike pushed me backward. I stumbled into the wall. "I'm goin fishin till work." He spat the words.

The world spun. I fell on the bed, chest heaving, tears hot in my eyes.

Ten minutes later I'd moved to the couch, not daring to speak. Mike stalked outside, carrying his fishing gear, but then returned. He snatched a cleaning rag from under the kitchen sink, wet it, and took it back outside.

What was he doing?

After a few minutes I heard him drive off.

My mind still shook. I touched my neck. If it bruised, how would I hide it?

The phone rang. I jumped. It had to be the police, asking about last night. I hesitated, then lifted the receiver and squeaked out a
hello.

"Tully! Thank God you're all right." My mother's voice, all thick.

A dust whirl blew in my stomach. How did she know Mike had nearly choked me to death?

"Did you hear about Erika Hollinger?" Mom started to cry. "She was murdered last night, Tully, just like the others. They found her this morning in her closet . . ."

The phone slipped from my hand.

The next couple hours glazed by. My phone rang off the hook, rumors flying about the latest murder. It had been nine months since Carla Brewster. She'd been sixty-four. Erika was so much younger than all the other victims. Who would be next—a little girl?

Later that morning I lumbered outside to get the mail. The spring sun was warm on my face, and my veins ran cold as Turtle Creek. Mail in hand I reached for the door to go back inside—and saw dark red smears on the knob. I froze.

My finger lifted to graze the smear. It was dry.

I stared at it.

They say there are moments in your life you'll remember on your deathbed. I'd thought it would be times like Michael Phillips first kissing me. Our wedding day. The birth of our son, Michael Brent II, soon to come. But not anymore. The thing I'll most remember is the horrible sight of that smeared blood.

It hit me then. This was why Mike came back for the rag.

If he'd left blood on the doorknob, he surely left it first in the truck. He'd climbed into it that morning and seen the telltale evidence. Must have been in too much of a rush to notice the front door.

My life drained out my toes as I stared at that blood. Such a little bit of red to mean so very much. Shock stole through my body till I thought I'd pass out. Somehow I made it inside the house and collapsed on the couch. The mail scattered on the floor.

This couldn't be. Everything could be explained away. Somehow. The changed uniform. Coming home late, all agitated. Making me lie for him.

The blood.

He'd told me he'd kill Erika. But who'd ever believe he
meant
it?

And now he'd almost killed me.

I leaned back against the sofa cushions, giving my crowded lungs room to breathe. What was I going to do?

I'd fallen in love with Michael so
hard
. I couldn't help it. The flowers, the way he'd listened to me. The way he'd made this nobody feel like the most special girl in the world.

Where did that man go?

Now my whole life was different. I didn't even go to church anymore. I'd gone all my childhood. Had clung to Jesus and made Him part of my life. Jesus faded when Mike came along.

"You hear me good, Tully. I came home at the regular time."

The facts stared me in the face: Mike had killed Erika. And her death was just like all the others. The sixth Closet Killing. When the last murder happened nine months ago, that night, too, he'd come home late from work. Said something held him up at the factory.

The blood on the door.

My head snapped up.

I had to get rid of it.

On someone else's legs, I pushed to my feet and tottered to the kitchen. Bent down to pull a rag from underneath the sink. My gaze fell on a pair of yellow plastic gloves beside the rags. I stared at those gloves a long time.

After an eternity I made up my mind.

Heart still on hold, I reached for the items I needed.

A few minutes later on the porch, I cleaned the blood off the doorknob. I threw the soiled cloth in the washing machine, then hurried to get Mike's dirty uniform. I checked it all over—and found a few dark smears.

Blood? Or just dirt?

I threw the uniform into the washing machine and turned the water to hot.

There. I'd done my wifely duty.

In a fog I returned to the couch to lie down.

I pictured Erika's pulled-up shirt, the bump of her belly, and squinched my eyes shut. When I opened them I'd found myself staring at the Coke stain on the carpet. Same stain I was now staring at a day later while Mike was under the carport, tinkering on his boat. We'd hardly talked since yesterday morning. What was there to say?

The best I could hope for Erika was that she died quickly. My own death was playing out every minute, painful and slow.

It had happened two days ago on Tuesday.

Bang, bang, bang.

The hard knocks on my front door at midnight near made me jump out of my shoes. I'd just watched the first half hour of Letterman, and was nearly asleep.

Bang, bang.

I yanked the drawer of my end table open. Snatched up my loaded Chief's Special—one of my two weapons. I kept a second gun just like it in the nightstand beside my bed.

"Deena!" Stevie's voice muffled from my tiny front porch. He sounded scared, like a little boy. "Open up!"

My heart lurched. I threw my gun back in the drawer—didn't want Stevie to know I had weapons around. Then ran to undo my various locks.

The minute the door cracked open Stevie heaved through it, pushin me backwards. I did an awkward two-step and caught myself before I fell. Stevie shoved the door closed and relocked it. He turned to face me, chest all aheave and cheeks pink. His green eyes looked wild, his hair was askew, and his hands waved in the air, nowhere to land. From waist up his blue work uniform looked wet. Worse, blood smeared the fabric. The whole front was red. And on the sleeves, especially the right one—more blood.

I reared back, a hand at my mouth. "What
happened
to you?"

Stevie paced, fingers in his hair. "I can't tell."

"What do you mean you can't tell?"

"I can't
tell
."

"Stevie!" I caught him by the wrist. "Are you hurt?"

He looked down the front of himself, face twistin. "No."

"Where'd this blood come from?"

"I don't know."

I forced calmness into my voice. "It's on your uniform. You have to know."

"I can't tell you nothin. I didn't do nothin!"

"Where did this happen? When did you first see the blood?"

"I didn't see it. It was never there." His voice rose. I knew the tone of his lies, had heard it often when Stevie was in a desperate state. He strode away two steps, palms pressed to his temples.

I turned him around. "But it is there. We're both lookin at it."

"It's
not
there."

I surveyed him. "You're wet. Did you try to wash it off?"

"No. I didn't go in Turtle Creek."

Turtle Creek. That would be some chilly water in the spring. The biggest part of the creek ran through the back of the cemetery—just a block from my house—and down the hill near the large stone steps.

What had Stevie been doin in the cemetery? And whose blood was this?

My brother's teeth started to chatter.

"Stevie, come on in the den and sit down. You can tell me what happened." I pulled him by the arm, laughter rollin out from the TV. The sound grated my nerves.

"Nothin happened. I didn't do it." Stevie allowed himself to be led.

"Didn't do what?"

No answer.

I nudged him onto the couch and turned off the television. Took a seat in our mom's old rockin chair. "Listen now." I leaned forward. "It's Deena, your sister. You know you can tell me."

"No I can't!" Stevie flipped his hands up and down.

"Were you with someone who got hurt?"

"No."

"You didn't see anybody get hurt."

"No!"

"And it's not your blood?"

"I'm not bleeding." He squeezed his eyes shut. "Just my brain."

"Then whose blood is it?"

"I was so
mad
."

Oh, no.
"Who were you mad at?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"You
have
to talk about it."

"No, I don't!" Spittle shot from his mouth. "No, no, no!"

"Okay, okay." I held up my hands, palms out.

Stevie looked down at himself. "Get this
off
me!"

"You want to take off your uniform? Go ahead. I'll give you a robe to put on." And I'd throw those clothes in the washing machine fast, before anyone else saw them. Whatever Steve had gotten himself into, it couldn't be good.

Just like that, Stevie's expression switched to angry. His chin came down and his mouth tightened. His eyes lined into that mad-as-a-bull look I'd seen far too many times, and his voice thickened. "She made me do it."

Cold crept over my arms. "Who made you do what?"

He glared at me. "It's
her
fault."

"Sure. Sure it is."

"She's so mean to me."

Who? Lots of people had been mean to my brother.

"But she won't do it again."

"Why won't she do it again, Stevie?"

He leveled an evil grin at me, and my stomach dropped out. "Because I fixed her."

I licked my lips. Tried to keep my voice quiet, even as my heart hammered. "How did you fix her?"

He passed his tongue between his lips—and smiled.

My body went numb. Unbidden, those awful questions rose to the surface—about my brother's whereabouts at the time of the Amaryllis murders. He always claimed he'd been home alone. But who could prove it? My brother had been agitated the day after every one of those murders—and he'd never told me why. And every victim had hired him at some point to do work around their property. The police questioned Stevie after the second murder. He'd been rakin leaves in Sara Fulgerson's yard the day she was killed. But they couldn't pin anything on him, much as they wanted to. At the time I'd convinced myself the cops just wanted the murders "solved" to save their own shaky reputations. And what a way for my ex to get back at me for divorcin him and takin back my maiden name—lock up my brother. I'd fought John Cotter's suspicions—and the Chief's—at every turn. No way would I ever admit I had a few of my own, based on a gut feelin I'd carried around for years—that my unpredictable brother would grow up one day and do somethin really bad.