Never Smile at Strangers (22 page)

RACHEL OPENED THE front door and walked in. The house still smelled the same, although she knew her life would never be.

The four nights at her mother’s had been therapeutic. Her mother had listened as Rachel filled her in on her life. It was the first time in almost a year that she felt she could be honest about her marriage troubles, but once she started talking, it all came pouring out effortlessly. When she finished, her mother hugged her and told her that she and the kids weren’t just welcome but were
expected
to stay with her until Rachel could find a teaching position and get on her feet.

Oddly enough, Kelsey had softened a lot during their days in Phoenix. Rachel knew she’d scored brownie points by finally standing up to her situation with Tom. Little Tommy, on the other hand, was angry and wanted to go back home. He hated Phoenix and he missed his dad. Rachel told him they’d work everything out in due time. But for now, she had to return to Louisiana alone to see to their affairs.

Now, standing inside the front door, she called out for Tom but there was no reply. Without bothering to set anything down, she walked upstairs to talk to him, to tell him her plans. His keys and wallet were on the bureau in the master bedroom, but he was nowhere in sight.

“Tom?” she called.

Nothing.

She checked the bathroom and the kids’ rooms. No Tom.

She was confused. The car was there. . . his keys. . .wallet. Maybe he was in the living room and hadn’t heard her.

She went downstairs and when she stepped into the living room, her hand flew to her mouth. One of the big windows was shattered and glass was everywhere.

She hurried to the phone and dialed the detective’s line, but got his voice mail. She dialed the sheriff. Again, voice mail. As she began to dial 911, there was a knock on the door.

She hurried down to the foyer, but when she opened the door, no one was there. An envelope lay on the porch step.

She looked at it for a minute, a sense of foreboding deep inside her gut, then she bent and picked it up.

A crow cawed from the side of the house. Rachel quickly glanced its way, then returned her focus to the envelope. She opened it and unfolded the letter inside.

Your husband won’t hurt you anymore.

***

DETECTIVE GUITREAUX SHOWED up at Rachel Anderson’s within seconds of her call. It was almost as though he’d arrived
too
quickly.

They stood in her kitchen. “And you don’t know who dropped this off?” he asked, his face flushed.

For the first time since she’d known him, he didn’t look so calm and cool. In fact, he looked oddly disheveled with his shirt untucked and his sleeves rolled up in a hasty fashion. His thick hair was even mussed as though he’d spent hours running his fingers through it.

She shook her head, waves of nausea cascading through her stomach. She thought again of what the note had said.
Had someone hurt Tom?

“No. I answered the door and no one was there,” she said.

“And you have no clue what happened to that window? Or where your husband is?”

She shook her head and glanced at the windowsill. Her sunflowers were limp, their leaves dehydrated. Tom hadn’t taken care of them. In fact, he hadn’t nurtured
anything
in a long while. Still, he didn’t deserve to be hurt.

“And you said you just got back from Arizona.”

“Yes, Phoenix.”

“Right, Phoenix. And you’ve heard nothing from the FBI?”

Rachel’s brow furrowed. “FBI? Why would I hear anything from the FBI?”

“You know a Chris Guidry?” Guitreaux asked.

Rachel was confused. She gazed past the detective at the lacy towels that hung from the handle on her stove, blue pastel towels lined in red flower petals. They’d been expensive but didn’t even absorb water. They were a façade. Once this was over, she’d get a place in Phoenix, close to her mom’s, and buy only things that were real. Things that were honest, that made sense. “Doesn’t he own Luke’s Diner?” she asked.

He nodded.

“Then, yes. I know who he is.”

“How about a Sarah Greene?”

Rachel blinked. Of course she knew Sarah. She’d known Sarah since she’d been a baby. “Why do you ask?”

“You’re telling me you don’t know that she went missing? Chris Guidry, too?”

Her heart leapt into her throat. “Missing? Oh, my God.”

“Don’t look so surprised. It’s not becoming.”

But she
was
surprised. She’d always loved Sarah. What. . . was going on?

“And I suspect you’ll tell me next that you had no idea that Tom and Sarah Greene were having an affair?”

“An aff—?”

Guitreaux shook his head in disgust.

Rachel felt as though a bus had hit her.

“Your husband doesn’t seem to keep to himself very good,” he said. “I’d think you would be very angry with him. And possibly very angry at the girls with whom he transgressed.”

Her voice came out as a squeak. “And you wouldn’t?”

“Oh, of course I would. Anyone in their right mind would. Hell, I, myself, may even go as far as having murderous thoughts. After all, we’re only human. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Blood rushed into Rachel’s cheeks. She was beyond exhausted. But she had to regain her composure. She’d deal with the shock and the pain later.

“I don’t like what you’re saying, Detective, or how you’re saying it. I didn’t do anything to Tom and I didn’t do anything to those girls. And I’m beginning to think I should have a lawyer here.”

“Two of your husband’s lovers have disappeared, ma’am. Not one. Two. And this ain’t a big town like Washington, D.C.,
cher
. This is Grand Trespass.”

Lovers. Tom’s lovers.

“And we have a body at the morgue now,” he added, “about ready for identification.”

“Body? Who? One of the girls?”

Guitreaux stared deeply into her eyes as though he were trying to pry something from them. It infuriated her.

She took in a deep breath. “Are you arresting me?”

“No. . . not yet.”

“Then get the hell out of my house. Now. I don’t have time for your games, Detective. I need to find my husband.”

He opened his mouth to say something, but his cell phone rang.

He answered it. “One second, sheriff.” He covered the receiver with his hand and said, “Looks like you got your wish for the meantime. I’m goin’ now. But you might want to stay put. I’ll be back real soon.”

ERICA’S HAND JERKED open and the fruit fell, splattering against the moist earth. The taste of decay rocked her taste buds, the not-so-subtle taste of the tomato’s slow death.

She spit twice to help rid her mouth of the rotten tomato taste, then quickly finished the page she’d been working on.

A few minutes later, she snapped the notebook shut and grinned at the cover.
Never Smile at Strangers,
by Erica Duvall. An account of what had transpired in Grand Trespass that summer. Of course, it was far from finished. With the information she’d gathered thus far, the discovery of the body and Guitreaux’s feeling that it would be the key for unveiling the murderer’s identity, she figured she was a good portion of the way through it.

Chris hadn’t shown up to open Luke’s that morning. No calls, no messages to anyone, he simply hadn’t shown up. It was a first for him in the three years she had worked for him. And the first time the diner had been closed for a full day.

Could he have been involved in the disappearances? Been the one to have hacked Sarah Greene up, then bury her body in the woods somewhere? Tiffany’s too? Beat the unidentified man’s head to a bloody pulp?

No, it was impossible to imagine he could hurt anyone. He wasn’t the type. But there wasn’t a specific “type” for killing, was there? She was pretty sure that with the right reasons, most everyone was capable of it.

She spit again, hoping to get rid of the nasty remnants of the rotten tomato. And that’s when it happened. Fifty feet from the clearing, just a hundred yards from Whiskey Road, she heard movement. She fell into a crouch and scanned the woods.

She saw someone. A man wearing a black ski-mask. He was stumbling toward her. As he approached, he let out a blood-curdling scream that made her want to cry out herself.

Startled, she withdrew into the shadows, her back against a mature oak, the rotten taste in her mouth quickly forgotten. As he grew closer, she curled into herself, trying to make herself as small as possible.

Her heart beat so furiously she was afraid he could hear it.

There seemed to be something very wrong with him. Muttering to himself, he pulled off his mask and took in several labored breaths.

Although she could only see the side of his face, she knew exactly who he was. Haley’s words echoed in her mind:
These days it just doesn’t seem like people even really know each other. . . or what they’re capable of.

He stumbled forward again in her direction. He was closing in on her.

She sucked in a breath and prepared to run.

Suddenly, their eyes met. She could see the realization of who she was slowly creep into his beet-red face. His eyes widened and he froze.

She tried to run, but was horrified to find that she couldn’t move.

She was frozen, too.

HALEY FINISHED WIPING down the kitchen counter. The house was quiet. Almost too quiet. She dropped the dish rag in the sink and walked to her sister’s room. She knocked and immediately heard whispers. “What?” an irritated voice cried from the other side.

“I’m putting dinner up. Sure you don’t want any?”

“I’m not hungry,” Becky called out.

There were more whispers. Then Haley heard hushed giggles.

Careful not to turn on any lights, Haley went to her own bedroom. Becky had pinned two blankets to the wood planks separating their rooms, but there were a few areas that were still exposed. Haley found one and peered through.

Seacrest was in the room with Becky, and so were two boys Haley hadn’t ever seen before. A half-emptied bottle of Southern Comfort and an empty two-liter container of Coca Cola were on Becky’s dresser. Each kid had a juice glass.

Seacrest was sitting topless.

“Truth or dare,” one of the boys said.

Becky’s voice was wobbly. “Uh, dare.”

“I dare you to take off your shirt, too.”

Seacrest laughed. “Are you serious? And see what? Fat rolls?”

“That’s a pretty shitty thing to say,” the boy said.

“It’s the truth,” she said, defiantly. “Why are you so interested in seeing Becky’s tits anyway? It’s not like she really has any yet.”

Seacrest turned toward the makeshift wall and it looked to Haley as if the girl was staring right into her eyes. “It still creeps me out that your sister could be in there, watching us,” she said. She’s the type of freak who would.”

Haley gasped and brought her hands to her mouth, staring at something on the girl’s chest.

“Oh, my God,” she whispered.

She jumped out of the bed and went to her sister’s door. She didn’t bother knocking before trying to twist Becky’s doorknob. But it was locked.

“Becky!” she shouted, her heart pounding in her throat. “Becky, let me in!”

“Haley, wait!” Becky cried.

When Becky finally opened the door, the window was open and the boys were gone. The room reeked of spilled liquor. Seacrest was standing at the end of Becky’s bed, adjusting her tank top.

“Show me what’s on your neck.” Haley demanded.

Her dark hair wild, Seacrest threw Haley a piercing glare. “Excuse me?”

“Show me. Show me what’s on your neck!” Haley shouted.

Becky gaped at her. “Haley? You okay?”

Seacrest brought her hand to her neck, then seeming almost surprised that it was there, she fingered the necklace. She pulled the heart-shaped pendant from beneath her tank top. “This?”

Haley ripped the necklace from the girl’s neck.

“Careful!” Seacrest protested. “What the fuck’s wrong with—”

Haley turned it over and saw the monogrammed TP. She held the necklace in front of the girl’s face. When she spoke, her voice came out as a hiss. “Where’d you get this?”

Seacrest took a step backward and fear crept into her emerald eyes. “Why? What’s wrong?”

“Where’d you get it?!” Haley screamed, stepping toward the younger girl.

“I. . . I found it. So what?”

“Where?”

A loud, throaty moan rose from another part of the house. Wrigley was howling.

Seacrest’s lower lip trembled. “I. . . I just found it, okay?”

“That necklace is Tiffany’s! She was wearing it when—”

Feet padded on the hardwood. “What’s going on?” Mrs. Landry asked, walking in. Her eyes took in a bewildered Seacrest.

“Mama, Seacrest was wearing Tiffany’s necklace!” Haley exclaimed.

Mrs. Landry looked confused.

“She was wearing Tiffany’s necklace! The one you bought for her. Don’t you see? Tiffany was wearing it when she disappeared!”

Her mother seemed to be putting the pieces together slowly, too slowly, in her head.

Haley turned back to Seacrest just in time to see her climbing out the window. Losing her balance, her chin smacked against the pane and she let out a sharp cry.

Haley darted across the room to stop her.

But the girl was gone.

THUNDER RIPPLED THROUGH the sky as he replayed the scene in his head. His angel had looked at his note for a split second before wilting in front of his eyes. Seeing her pain made the terror swell inside of him, but what hurt even more. . . and was almost too much to handle. . . was the realization that he’d never see her again.

On the way back to the house, he’d been seized by a panic attack, one so intense he thought he’d suffocate. In the midst of it, he’d seen Erica Duvall crouched down in the woods. She’d seen him, too, but that didn’t concern him much. There was nothing she could do to him now.

At the house, he went to his bedroom and grabbed a second note from under his mattress. Then, in the kitchen, he focused on steadying his hand. Five minutes later the more important note, the one he had worried over for a month but hoped he wouldn’t have to send, was completed. He slid it into an envelope and walked out to the mailbox that read ‘The Seacrests’ in bold, white letters. Sliding the letter into the box, he pulled up the red metal flag to let the postman know that there was outgoing mail.

Back inside the house, he went to his mother’s room, and into her tiny private bathroom. The bottom shelf of the medicine cabinet held a skinny tube of toothpaste covered in dust and two orange plastic vials half-filled with medication. Both haloperidol. The labels were faded and peeling away from the plastic, but he could still make out his mother’s name. Dariah S. Thibodeaux. The “S” stood for Seacrest, her
precious
maiden name.

He opened the first bottle and turned it upside down. Four small round pills with white crosses etched across their centers fell into his shaking hand. The second vial held nine. Gripping the thirteen pills in his sweaty palm, he shuffled out of his mother’s room and into his own.

Earlier that afternoon, he’d carried the television into his bedroom, then filled a bowl with a mixture of cat food and rat poison. He had set the bowl on the front porch for the evil Ian.

Now he flipped the television on and tuned in to an old episode of
Leave It to Beaver
. He turned the volume down and grabbed his tape deck. He slid a Bob Dylan cassette in and set the volume to medium. He could no longer bear silence. He needed to feel as though someone was with him. He didn’t want to die alone.

He sat on his bed. It would only be a matter of hours before they found him now. This was the end. Finally. He hoped the world outside his head was the real one. He wasn’t sure if it was, but decided to be hopeful. It was all he had. He thought about Chris and felt even more frightened. Killing him had been a mortal sin.

He wondered if God would find a way to forgive him.

He closed his eyes. Darkness. Is this what death would look like? How would it feel? Peaceful? Safe? Would there be love? Families? A chance for a new, normal beginning?

Deciding anything was better than what he was living, he opened his eyes and twisted the cap off a bottle of Budweiser. He took three pills at a time until he’d swallowed them all.

He lay back in his bed and peered out the window, listening to Dylan croon
Lay, Lady, Lay.
The sky had darkened so much with the storm that he could no longer see outside his window. Ian had come and gone moments ago. His eyes had looked especially red and cruel against the stormy evening as he glared at him through the window. He’d mewed weakly and pressed his scrawny body against the dirty glass. Then the cat had left. Perhaps to retrieve the food from the porch.

He now lay in the small room, under the sheet, his body curled into a ball. The heavier his eyelids felt, the more frightened he became. He fought it. He fought going to sleep, dying and going to an unknown and possibly more terrifying place. But it was getting difficult to stay awake.

Dylan crooned to him as he drifted off.