Kneading to Die (22 page)

She didn't realize tears were brimming until her vision blurred and she almost missed her street. Her phone rang again, but she didn't even bother to pick it up. She'd left Lou enough information on his voice mail. They could figure it out and arrest Vincent, or not. She didn't much care at this point. Maybe she should put her house back on the market. Sell it and try California. Her dad had loved it out there. Plus, the weather was nicer. Or maybe she could rent her house out and leave tomorrow.

By the time she pulled into her driveway, she'd almost made up her mind. Her resolve strengthened even more when she got to her front door and saw the
Frog Ledge Holler
—another special edition—on her porch. Cyril Pierce really needed a vacation.

The headline, of course, was the “rash” of animal poisonings in the area. Now the tally had reached three dogs who had allegedly become ill, and the common ground among all three was Stan, as the article so objectively pointed out. Duncan had been on her porch when he'd been found ill, and the other two dogs had eaten her treats at the farmers' market this weekend. Luckily, the animals only reportedly had stomach problems. Nothing more serious than that, with the exception of Duncan, who had been hospitalized.

Stan ripped the paper in half, then tore it in half again. She didn't even want to bring it into her house to throw it away. Instead, she left it in a pile on her porch. No wonder Sheldon had reneged on his offer. He'd heard about this. Or maybe Cyril Pierce had called him for a comment, if word had gotten out about his offer. If he had been serious about wanting her, he probably had her name plugged into his Google search and got updates daily. And that was the end of that.

Time to accept her life for what it was. A failure. All the hard work she'd put into everything had been destroyed in a mere week. She'd even lost a dog who didn't belong to her. She'd better do something quick before Nutty jumped ship, too.

Her phone rang again. It was a number she didn't recognize. She let it go to voice mail before she picked it up to listen.

“Stan Connor. This is Diane. The ACO. Your dog is here. I picked her up earlier today. Please come get her before seven.”

Thank goodness! She immediately started to cry again. What a dripping mess she'd turned into. She couldn't remember the last time she'd cried before moving here, unless you counted “The Elimination,” and now it seemed to be one of her daily activities. At least these were good tears.

She grabbed her car keys again, still in her interview attire, and rushed to the car. She didn't have much time, and she doubted Diane would wait for her. Speeding past the town center, Stan navigated the back roads to the out-of-the-way dog pound. She hated the thought of that sweet little dog sitting in that damp, unfriendly building. Probably scared to death and surrounded by big dogs barking and growling at her. She hit the gas harder and turned onto the street leading to the park.

Quiet had settled over the wooded area. Even though dusk had barely fallen, the hush of the trees and the thick greenery gave everything a closed-in feeling. The park was supposed to close at dusk, but the gate was still open. Diane must be responsible for that, since she likely was in and out at all hours.

Stan followed the winding roads, noting the few stragglers unwilling to end their late-day summer fun. A couple of exhausted parents dragged their kids off play equipment. Farther down near the lake, a family packed up the remains of a picnic. Dinner. She was starving. She bet Scruffy was, too. She would make her a special meal when they got home. She had organic turkey in the refrigerator, and some ground beef from the co-op she had planned to cook for Nutty later in the week. But this was a special occasion.

She pulled into the pound parking lot. Diane's white truck was outside and the building was lit up. It was five to seven. She'd just made it. But Scruffy was coming home! Grinning for the first time in days, Stan grabbed her keys and jumped out. She hurried precariously across the gravel, regretting not changing her shoes. Not really the place for stilettos. Faint barking sounded from behind the building. The dogs must be out for their last playtime of the night. She shoved the heavy door open and barreled inside, calling out.

“Hey, Diane? I'm here for Scruffy.”

And then she tripped, pitching forward over Diane, who was sprawled to the left of the door. Stan's breath left her in a
whoosh,
hands automatically out to break her fall. They scraped the cement floor. One of her shoes slipped off. She twisted around; the horror of what she was seeing was dawning on her. A scream worked its way up her throat; but when her mouth opened, nothing came out.

It was happening again. Diane was dead. She looked dead, anyway. And the murderer might still be here. She had to run. But she crawled over and felt Diane's neck for a pulse, praying she'd feel something. If Diane was dead, she would get blamed. Stan would be tossed in jail without a second thought.

Then . . . a soft moan. And a faint pulse under her fingers. Thank God. But she needed help.

“Diane?”

Nothing. Stan searched frantically in her pocket for her phone. She remembered leaving it in the car and nearly screeched in frustration. “I'll be right back,” she promised, not caring if Diane could hear her. “I'm calling for help.” Vaulting to her feet again, she took a step out the door . . . and slammed into a body blocking her way.

She gasped and jerked back. This time she tripped over the shoe she'd lost and landed on her butt. Pain shot through her tailbone. She ignored it and scrabbled backward with her hands and feet, crablike, kicking her other shoe off so she would be balanced when she got up. Whoever blocked her way lurched inside, almost losing his own footing.

Once he stepped under the light, she realized it was Russ, Gene's apprentice. What was the strange boy doing here? Regardless, help was help. “Something's happened,” she said. “Diane needs help. Will you stay with her while I get my phone?”

The kid didn't respond, much like when she'd tried to speak to him while he mowed her lawn. Well, she didn't have time for this. She tried to push past him, but he stayed where he was, blocking her way.

“Can you let me out?” she asked, but fear started to prick her throat. He held a hand out to halt her, still not speaking.

“Get out of my way!” she shouted.

A shock of white hair appeared over his left shoulder. Gene. Thank God! He would collect his disturbed charge. “Gene! Can you please do something about him? Diane's hurt!”

Gene put his hand on the kid's shoulder and observed Stan with those watery eyes.

“Sorry,” he said. “You're not goin' anywhere.”

Gene and Stan stared at each other over the kid's head for seconds, which seemed like hours.

“What—what are you talking about?” Her voice came out more like a croak, and she struggled to command authority. She didn't have to sound like a scared schoolgirl. “What's going on, Gene?”

Gene stepped in, lightly pushing the boy ahead of him and out of Stan's way, his limp apparent by his heavy left step on the cement floor.

“Just what I said. You ain't leaving.”

He'd lost his mind. Clearly. Her legs shook, but she stepped forward. “What's wrong with you? This woman needs help. Did you do something to her?”

Stan gauged the space between Gene's body and the door. She had just decided to chance a run for it, when Gene looked down at Diane, who had started to stir. He delivered a vicious kick to her head with his heavy work boot, the one worn on his good leg. Diane immediately stilled. Gene brought his other hand up from behind him. A wood-carving knife, its grooves as razor sharp as a shark's teeth, was clenched in it.

Stan stared at him as the reality of her situation dawned on her. She took a step back, hands up in front of her in a defensive pose, and she drew on every ounce of her spin doctor skills. “Gene, this looks bad, but we can turn this into a good story. Let's stop this right now so we can all walk away from here.”

He turned on her, his face full of hate. “You shoulda left it alone. What happened with me and Carole was between me an' Carole.” He advanced on her, the knife pointed accusingly.

Stan took a step back, her mind racing. She had nowhere to go but the back of the building, where there was no exit. Except maybe through a dog run. She'd been wrong about Vincent and Amara. The killers were right in front of her, and she was screwed.

Gene pulled the heavy door shut behind him and turned to Russ, still standing frozen where Gene had shoved him. The young man's eyes were glued to the floor; his hands were clenched in front of him. If the kid had a weapon, he wasn't ready to draw it yet.

“Drag that one to the back,” Gene said, waving his knife at Diane's still body. At Gene's command the boy sprang into action, shoving his hair back. Stan got her first glimpse of his eyes. They were terrified. Which was a lot better than maniacal. Finally something that could work out to her advantage, if she played it right.

Russ grabbed Diane by the armpits and dragged her across the floor, the strain showing in his biceps. He wasn't a large boy, and Diane had to be 140 or 150 pounds.

“Gene. Tell me you didn't . . . . you killed Carole.”

Gene refocused on her. “You stupid city girl. Don't know how it works round here, do you? They woulda let it be after too long. Nobody cared about her, anyway, really. Nobody but me, an' she was too stupid ta see it all this time. Her boy here finally could see what she was about, too. Knew he could count on me, instead.”

“Her . . .” The light went on in Stan's brain, and she didn't like the view. “You're Carole's son,” she said to Russ. If he really was Carole's son, his name would be Adam. Had Gene given him an alias?

No response from him, but Gene shook his head vehemently. “He's
my
son. He had no use for her. She sent him away! Sent him away and I never even knew he existed.”

His son? The last piece clicked into place. Maybe too late. His hatred for Carole was so apparent that Stan felt it spilling over to encompass her.

“So that's your son and Carole never told you? Adam. Is his real name Adam?” Out of the corner of her eye she saw the kid react to his real name. She was right. The validation filled her with dread.

“That's what
she
named him. Course I couldn't call him that 'round here, what with everything going on. People would be thinking the wrong thing. Buncha busybodies. How'd you know that, anyway?” He moved forward, faster than she thought he was able.

Stan shrank back, held up her hands in what she hoped was a soothing gesture. “You haven't seen him in a long time, your son. You must have missed at least twenty, twenty-two years? I can see how that would make you mad.” She held up her hands and spoke soothingly as her eyes darted around, looking for something, anything, to help her. “No one would blame you for that.”

He frowned at her and motioned to the back of the room. “Twenty-three years, you want the real number. And he needed me. He . . . he's been sick. I coulda helped him.” Gene looked at him again. His son didn't seem to hear him. Gene shook his head and turned back to Stan. “Over there. Sit. At the desk.”

Diane's desk, in the back of the room against the cement wall. That little alcove was as good as putting herself in a grave. She needed to stay out here, where she could make a break for the door or window. As it was, she was nearly backed against the wall. She reached in her pocket to feel for her keys. Still in there.

Her brain kicked into action. This was, on some level, like the CEO problem she'd faced at Warner. Like her former president, Gene had done a bad thing and she had to make up a good story out of it. If she could get him to believe her, she might be able to get out of this.

She didn't want to think about how she'd gotten fired for failing last time. Hands in front of her, she stood firm. “Carole took advantage of you, didn't she, Gene? What happened that day? Tell me so I can help you tell your story.”

“‘Help'? What help? I don't need no story. They're gonna say what they're gonna say anyway. Won't matter that I didn't mean ta do it. She just made me so mad, and that damn needle was in her hand . . . . how was I s'posed ta know what was in it would kill her?” Gene's eyes flared at the memory, and he refocused on Stan. “It don't matter. We just gotta get you outta the way, then me and my boy'll be fine. We'll get outta this town and go live the life we never got to live.” Adoration filled his gaze as he watched the boy, still struggling with Diane's weight.

“What kind of life were you supposed to live, Gene?” Stan glanced at the boy, who took great care to tuck Diane's legs and arms in the right position. Almost like she was being laid out for a viewing. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a dog leash hanging from one of the chain-link runs behind her. She inched back, half a step at a time. The kid was the wild card, but she'd have to take her chances.

“We never got the chance to find out! That rotten mother of his kept him from me! His whole life. I missed everything.” Hysteria blurred the edges of his voice. His hands shook as he tried to wipe his eyes. “Until now.”

She moved fast. Took two steps left, grabbed the leash, wrapped it around her hand. Made sure the metal piece that clipped on the collar was at the other end. She leaped forward, using the leash like a whip, hearing a satisfying
clang
as it connected with the knife. Gene bellowed as his knife clattered to the cement floor. She dove for it, praying the kid wasn't diving for her. Her hand closed around the blade itself and she felt it slice into her palm, but she hung on and bolted for the door. Cursing the gravel that cut her feet, she yanked her keys out of her pocket. And stopped in front of her car.

The driver's-side front and back tires were slashed, leaving her car at a lopsided angle. With no means of escape.

“
Run somewhere!”
the voice in her head screamed.

But where? The park was just as scary, and Gene had the home court advantage. She may have gotten his knife, but he probably had others.

His truck. If the universe was on her side, it would be open and the keys would be in it. She whirled and ran to it, yanked the door handle. Locked. She slammed her hand against the door, spattering blood. Cursed at the pain that shot through her hand. Now what?

The barking increased as the dogs out back worked themselves into a frenzy. And then she remembered. The boy was afraid of dogs. Even Gene's mild-mannered pooch, he'd told her once. If her pursuers came face-to-face with a yard filled with pit bulls . . .

Gene appeared on the step, shouting something she couldn't make out. Stan dropped against the side of the truck and peered around. When he turned to shout something else to the boy, she made her move.

Stan sprinted back to the building and pressed flat against the concrete, inching around to the gate leading to the dog area. She heard Gene's awkward shuffle as he pursued her, dragging his bad leg. She hoped the boy was with him. As she got closer, the dogs got louder. She unlocked the gate and dove in. Hit the ground and rolled into a crouch. A stampede of rushing paws came at her. She braced herself, channeling her grandmother with all the strength she had. If there was ever a time she needed the abilities of an animal whisperer, it was now. The dogs' breath grew hotter as they approached, panting, excited, finally getting to be part of whatever action they had been hearing.

Then Stan felt a sloppy tongue on her face. Not teeth. She opened her eyes to see a massive pit bull face in front of hers. The brown dog. The leader. Henry. He remembered her, or maybe it was her treats. Whatever the reason, the dog kissed her again and charged out of the gate, his pals all behind him. A canine SWAT team. Her heart swelled with gratitude. Now she could get to her phone and call for help.

“Go get 'em, guys,” she whispered, and ran to the gate. They followed her as if they had understood and took off around the corner, right into the building, their barking a cacophony of reproach.

Stan raced out of the pen to her car. She fumbled her way inside, dug around in her purse and found her phone. Called 911 and relayed as much of the story as she could; then she ran back inside, stopping short in amazement.

Her friends had done their job. Gene and Russ/Adam were in one of the empty dog runs; the boy was crying and shaking. Gene attempted to quiet him. The dogs waited in a semicircle around the door, barking and growling like any good watchdog would do. In the corner Diane had struggled to a sitting position, holding her head. Stan ran to her.

“Are you okay? I called for help. You should stay there. You might have a concussion.”

Diane looked at Stan. Her face was pale, her eyes black. She took in the dogs and their captives. Stan's torn suit, her bare feet and bloody hand. She slumped back and shook her head, wincing. “You get here and this town goes straight to hell,” she muttered.

 

 

Two state police cars blared into the parking lot, lights flashing. Stan ran outside and threw up her arms, waving frantically as they rushed in. Lou led the pack.

“Wait! Don't scare the dogs. Everything's under control,” she called.

Lou drew up short at the maniacal barking coming from behind her. “Doesn't sound like it's under control!” But he held up a hand behind him, warning his fellow officers to hang back.

“Carole's killer is in here. The dogs have him cornered,” she said. “Cover the back end of the dog run. I'll put the dogs back in their pens.”

“You will?” Lou looked doubtful, peering over her shoulder.

“Yes. Just get ready to arrest them, will you? And take this.”

She handed Gene's knife to Lou, still covered in her blood from the cut on her hand.

“Are you hurt?”

“I'm fine.”

Lou looked like he didn't believe her, but he used a napkin from his pocket to pick up the weapon. Stan heard him tell one of the other troopers to call an ambulance.

She used the treats Diane kept on her desk to tear the dogs away from their prey and get them into their runs. They weren't as effective as Stan's treats, but the dogs were more than willing to eat them, anyway. Once they were safely locked up, Lou and his sidekicks swarmed in and pulled Gene and Russ out of the dog run. Lou handed them off to his fellow officers and turned to Stan.

“Your hand is bleeding. You should go to the hospital.”

Stan looked down at her hand. It was a superficial slice. She hoped. She took off her suit jacket and tied one arm around her hand.

Lou gaped at her. “You're gonna ruin that.”

“It's fine. Take care of Diane first.”

“The EMTs are here,” Lou said. Two guys came in with a stretcher and went to Diane.

“Wait!” Stan said, remembering why she'd come to the pound in the first place. She went over to where they were loading Diane onto the stretcher. “Where's Scruffy?”

Diane looked pained. “He made me call and leave you that message, before he bashed me over the head. I don't have her. I'm sorry.”

That was enough to take the elation out of knowing the murderer was behind bars. Stan blinked back tears and turned away. Then she felt a hand on her shoulder.

“You all right?” Lou asked. “Other than that hand?”

She shrugged.

“You lose your shoes?”

Stan had almost forgotten about her bare feet. “I think it's safe to say this whole outfit is a loss. I can't wait to throw it away.”

Lou shook his head. “C'mon, I'll drive you to the hospital. We'll get that hand stitched up.”