I Shall Not Want (15 page)

“One,” she admitted.

“Even though you don’t know him. He could be a crazy killer guy for all you know.”

“You’re right,” she said, thinking about her own experiences with killers she had never suspected until too late.

“The harder someone begs off of you, the less you’re likely to look at them because they make you uncomfortable. It’s easier to not deal with them as a human being because then you’d have to do something about it.”

“Do something, like what?” she asked, startled at the thought.

“It depends. You might have to realize that he’s a human and hurting and you might have to open your wallet or your home or involve yourself in charity work. Or you might also realize that he’s human but that he’s crossed a line and is being an ass and you might have to push back, tell him to back off, yell, put him in his place. Most folks don’t want to do that with homeless people because it would make them feel too guilty.”

“What’s the solution?”

“To homelessness? Hell if I know. To the personal problem? See them as people, give them a buck if you feel like it, or call the cops if they’re whack jobs who are threatening and harassing you. We homeless get used to being dehumanized. People throw money at us or run from us, but they don’t treat us like humans. They don’t expect us to behave like citizens. They treat us and expect us to be no better than dogs, loud, aggressive, mean dogs oftentimes, but dogs nonetheless. You want to give the homeless man some dignity and self-worth? Look him in the eye and talk to him like you would any other human being in that situation.”

What he said shook Cindy to her core. It also had her thinking, though, about more than just Harry, about more than the homeless, but specifically about that idea of making people uncomfortable and becoming almost invisible.

Like the homeless protestor who had jumped out in front of her car. All she had really seen of him was his dreadlocks. She hadn’t wanted to look at him. She bet nobody else had wanted to, either. Maybe the reason Mark couldn’t find him was because he knew how to disappear. Maybe he wasn’t even really homeless, but someone who understood them, and how others related to them, really well.

Maybe it was a shelter worker.

Or a cop
, the thought came to her.

“Thank you, Harry,” she said, as she jumped to her feet.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“To the store. I need to sniff some Old Spice.”

“You think you know who attacked me?” Harry asked.

She tapped her nose. “I’ll know soon enough.”

Mark glanced at his watch. He had under half an hour before he had promised Traci he would be home. He hoped Joseph would just confess and make everything easier on all of them, but he couldn’t count on that happening. Something seemed off about the whole thing, anyway.

He steeled himself to head into the interrogation room and began walking in that direction.

“Mark!”

He swiveled, something cold and hard stealing over him. There was a quality in the tone of Paul’s voice that he had never heard before. It sounded like panic.

“What?”

Paul stopped before him, a stricken look on his face. “911 just received a call from a woman saying that someone kidnapped her neighbor a minute ago. Squad cars are on the way.”

“Who?”

“The woman, she was your neighbor. Mark, someone’s kidnapped your wife.”

15

M
ARK STOOD IN HIS OWN LIVING ROOM AND FELT LIKE HE WAS LIVING A
dream. Everything around him was his, but none of it looked familiar. The dining room table had papers scattered on top of and around it. He picked one of them up. Traci had been working on the bills. Her checkbook lay open on the table, her signature half signed on the cable bill. A drop of blood obscured the date.

Three of the chairs had been knocked over in the struggle; the legs on one of them had been smashed. One of the doors on the china hutch had been pulled off its hinges and lay across the room as though flung there.

Deep marks in the carpet looked as though someone had been clawing at it, trying to grab hold of something as they were dragged across the floor. More drops of blood were splattered along the path.

A wall close to the front door had been bashed in about a foot above the ground, cracks radiating out from around the impression. He crouched down to better study it. What had hit the wall with such force? There were no objects lying anywhere near. Was it a fist, a foot, a head?

He shuddered and rose to his feet. He couldn’t think of it as Traci—couldn’t think of this as having happened in his home to his wife.

“What does the neighbor woman have to say?”

“Her name is Alice,” Paul said softly.

Mark knew her name. He had more than once helped her clean her gutters in anticipation of winter or helped carry packages that were too heavy for her stooped frame. But if he thought of her as Alice, then he would know that the woman who had been taken was Traci. And he couldn’t know that, not if he was going to find her.

“What did she say?”

Paul took a step back, cleared his throat, and pulled out his notepad. “She heard a dog barking. She had fallen asleep watching television when she was awakened by the sound of a dog barking. At first she thought it was the television, but the barking continued when she turned it off. She says she knows the difference between the sound of a dog barking over a cat and a dog barking over danger, and she knew there was trouble. Next, she heard a scream. She went to her window and saw a man, tall, over six feet, with short dark hair, drag Tra— the woman who lives here out of the house and toss her into the trunk of his car. He drove off while she was trying to dial 911. She never saw his face but maintains that she could recognize him by a scar on the back of his neck, just below his hairline. He was dressed all in black.”

Paul turned the notepad toward him where there was a rough sketch of a gently waving line with a sharp downward turn at the end—the scar. Something about it seemed familiar, like he had seen it somewhere before. He racked his brain wishing he could remember where he had seen it. Had it been on one of the people he had interviewed in the last few days? A criminal he had captured in the past?

Think!

He heard someone shout something, and he saw Paul turn and walk quickly outside. They might have found something; he needed to follow him. Before Mark could move, Paul returned, his face ashen.

Please, let them not have found a body.
In that moment Mark wished he and God were on speaking terms, that he might pray and He would answer.

And then someone else walked into the room, a tall African American man with a cool demeanor and an expensive suit, and an icy hand wrapped itself around Mark’s heart. He couldn’t deal with what had happened in this room, but he knew the man talking with Paul would make him.

“Mr. Walters?”

“Detective,” he corrected.

“
Mr.
Walters, I am Percy Grayhorn. I am the one they call in when there’s been a kidnapping. I’m in charge of this investigation, and I need to speak with you for a few minutes.”

“No, I’m in charge of this investigation,” Mark corrected. “I believe it is tied to an ongoing murder investigation.”

“That will be for my team to decide,” Percy said in a tone that broached no argument.

He grabbed Mark by the elbow and moved him toward the kitchen, which seemed to have been untouched. He pulled out stools for both of them, and Mark sat after a moment.

Percy folded his hands on the counter and looked him in the eyes. “Now, generally, in a kidnapping situation, we can expect a ransom call fairly quickly. Do you or your wife, Traci, have any substantial assets or means of getting them?”

“No,” Mark whispered, shaking his head.

Why does he say her name like that? He has no right to say her name, none at all. He has no right to be here.
Mark squeezed his
eyes shut. They had nothing, there would be no ransom call, he was sure of it. What would someone have to gain?

“I understand that Traci was kidnapped less than an hour ago.”

Traci. Traci was kidnapped. His Traci. Mark dropped his head into his hands.
I’m not this man, I’m not the hapless husband, the victim waiting, I’m not, I’m not, I’m not. I’m the one in charge. I’m the one who gives bad news, not the one who gets it. I’m not the one whose wife, whose Traci, has been kidnapped.

“I’m not this man,” he groaned.

“Well, Mr. Walters, today you are.”

“Excuse me,” Paul interrupted, and Mark was grateful for his partner’s presence. It would be all right, not because of well-dressed Percy and his team, but because of
his
team, the homicide team.

“I just need to ask Mark a quick question.”

Please, ask me a million, just get me away from this guy
, Mark wanted to beg.

Percy nodded, and Paul put a hand on Mark’s shoulder, shaking him slightly as though to wake him up, or remind him of who he was.

“Is there anything missing?” Paul asked.

Missing? Mark glanced around and then back at Paul. Paul already knew the answer; he just needed Mark to confirm it. He tried to read his partner’s eyes. What was missing? He thought of Alice’s description of what she had seen and then it struck him. Mark cleared his throat. “Yes. Buster is missing.”

“What?”

“Our dog, Buster.”

And from somewhere inside him he found a calm he didn’t know he had. He stood to his feet. “I am not this man,” he said, slowly and emphatically to Percy. “Not today, not ever. I am Detective Mark Walters and this is another crime scene
related to my ongoing investigation. You do whatever you have to do, but I’ll thank you to stay out of my team’s way.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that. You’re too close.”

“You’re absolutely right I’m too close. I’m too close to catching this killer, and I’m not going to let this stop me. I catch the killer; I find my wife. Now, you can either be part of the solution or part of the problem. There’s a lot we could do working together. But if you want to report me, feel free to do so. Meanwhile I’m going to do my job.”

He turned on his heel. Forensics had moved in and was sweeping the place. They wouldn’t find much, if the other crime scenes were any indicators. Then again, the guy had had to hurry with this one, so there was always a chance. Best to get out of their way and let them do what they did best while he did what he did best.

“Come on, Paul, I have a hunch,” Mark said, heading for the front door. He had Buster to thank for that.

After Jeremiah got home, he fell asleep in front of the television, something he almost never did. When he awoke, night had fallen. He turned off the television and stood up, ready to head off to bed. He coughed hard enough that he nearly fell over.

He finally stopped and in the silence that ensued he heard something, a high-pitched whining sound. It took him a moment to realize it was coming from outside. He pulled back the curtains on the front window just an inch so he could see outside.

Across the lawn, in the same spot that he had found the body, was another dark lump. This one moved slightly, and he realized whatever it was, it was very much alive.

He grabbed the butcher knife from the kitchen, secured it in the back of his waistband, and walked onto the porch. He walked quietly across the lawn, straining to see what it was that was moving in the corner. When he had closed the distance by half, he finally recognized it as a dog.

He held out his hand and whistled low, wondering if the animal was hurt and knowing better than to approach too close if he was.

The animal whined again and then stood up slowly and took a step toward him, then stopped.

It was the German shepherd he had seen in the park. Somehow the dog had managed to follow the trail left by its dead master and was lying in the spot where the man had died.

Jeremiah squatted down and said softly, “He’s not there anymore, boy. I’m sorry. Come here, though, and I can get you some food and we can figure out what to do together.”

Slowly, one step at a time, the dog came to him. Jeremiah scratched behind his ears before carefully standing up and taking a step toward the house, patting his leg so the dog would follow him. The dog began to move, flinching occasionally, and Jeremiah could tell he was in pain. He wondered what the extent of his injuries were.

They made it on to the porch, and Jeremiah opened the door into the house. The dog whimpered and then turned to look over his shoulder, clearly trying to decide what to do.

Jeremiah stood for a moment before walking inside. “Come on in, boy. I have turkey.”

The dog turned back and walked inside. Jeremiah closed the door behind him and moved toward the kitchen. The dog didn’t follow but instead stood rigid by the door. He began to scratch at it.

Jeremiah pulled one of the plates of leftovers out of the refrigerator and put some of the turkey meat on a smaller plate. He set it on the floor in full view of the dog.

The dog’s nose twitched once, twice, and then he limped over to the plate and began to wolf down the turkey.

In the light of the kitchen Jeremiah was able to look him over. The dog was filthy, and dried blood covered both front feet, as if he had torn them up scratching his way through something.

Jeremiah got a bowl of water and set it down on the floor, as well. The dog turned, saw it, and then drank half the bowl before returning to his food.

“Just as thirsty as you are hungry, huh, boy? So what exactly happened to you out there? Your master, was he killed because of something he was involved in or because someone wanted to get to you?”

When the dog had finished the turkey, he turned again to the water, draining the bowl. Jeremiah refilled it, and the dog had one more quick drink before lying down on the kitchen floor with a weary groan.

Jeremiah took silent stock of the dog as he tried to decide what to do. A hacking cough racked his body, a painful reminder that he had been on his way to bed before discovering the animal.

He should call the police, feign ignorance again, and let them figure out where the dog had been and why he had tracked down his former owner a couple days later. They’d be able to get the dog the medical attention he needed and check him thoroughly for any evidence.

That was what worried him. If the murder wasn’t connected, then the last thing Jeremiah wanted was the police figuring that out and asking a bunch of questions he wasn’t prepared to answer.

No, he had to examine the dog himself first. He coughed again, so hard he had to lean against the counter for support. He was clearly in no shape to do it at the moment, though.

He didn’t want to go to bed, though, until he had at least figured out if the dog was injured and needed his paws bandaged.

He filled a large pan with lukewarm water, grabbed a couple of dish towels, and sat down gingerly on the floor next to the dog.

He looked the dog in the eyes. “I’m not trying to hurt you; I only want to help. I realize that I don’t know you and you don’t know me, but you need to trust me.”

He picked up the dog’s left front paw. The dog winced but didn’t growl. Carefully, Jeremiah lowered it into the bowl of water and held it there, letting the water loosen the dirt and blood that were matted onto it.

After a minute the dog relaxed slightly and then sneezed on him.

“Well, aren’t we a pair? It looks like we’re both sick as dogs,” Jeremiah said with a smile.

He forced himself to be calm while he worked, to not feel fear or anger or any of the other negative emotions that had been plaguing him. Animals could sense emotions and would respond accordingly. So he worked hard to transmit a feeling of peace to the dog next to him. After a minute the dog began to close his eyes, and his head dropped to the floor.

“It’s okay,” Jeremiah soothed. “I think you need the sleep even more than I do.”

After about ten minutes he was able to remove most of the dirt and blood from the paw. He took it out of the water and looked closely. There were scabs on the pads of his foot that seemed to be healing over.

After getting fresh water in the pan, Jeremiah repeated the process with the other front foot. When he finally examined that one, he discovered a bit of glass wedged in between two of the dog’s toes. He got some tweezers and peroxide and carefully removed and sterilized the injured area.

The dog yelped once and started to lurch to his feet, but Jeremiah was ready for the movement and pressed him steadily back to the floor. Once the glass had been removed, the dog relaxed again.