Nowhere Safe (7 page)

She immediately began plotting her next move. She’d killed sexual abusers before. Several times. During her recovery at Mr. Blue’s she’d told herself to stop playing with fire, so to speak. It was the only way to stay alive. But she’d disregarded her own advice almost immediately after she was well. She’d moved to Portland for a time, eventually making her way into the protection of Rick Wiis, a businessman who modeled himself after Hugh Hefner and offered employment to young women who might or might not be escorts, and might or might not be Rick’s girlfriend du jour. Lucky had thought she could use Rick’s place as a base, but she’d quickly learned that wasn’t going to work. In his employ she was constantly put on parade under men’s lustful stares and she didn’t do well with that. Since there was no way she was about to entertain any of the men who roamed Rick’s bar and back rooms looking for sex—even if she’d been able to, there was the problem of explaining the burned and scarred flesh on her back—her time at Rick’s was short-lived and unlamented.

Besides, the sad and lonely losers who hung out there were not the pedophiles she sought. She left Rick’s employ and returned to Mr. Blue’s. It wasn’t as handy a place to launch from, but Mr. Blue didn’t ask questions and he had no expectations. It felt, for Lucky, as close to a home as she’d ever had.

Picking up Harmak was almost too easy. He’d been at that point of slipping into the dark side, and he was tired of waiting. She’d followed him home and then she’d followed him to work. Learning he was employed at Twin Oaks Elementary had stepped up her game. If he touched one hair on one of those children’s heads she would kill him with her bare hands and screw the consequences.

From the early days when she’d nearly gotten herself killed taking out sick scum like Harmak, she’d learned to try and make their deaths look like suicides, if she could, inexplicable homicides if she couldn’t. When she ran across Christopher Ballonni, the mailman with the searing eyes as he looked at any of the little girls along his mail route, she’d thought long and hard what she wanted to do with him. She’d run across him at the post office. She’d been walking back to the truck after picking up some packages for Mr. Blue—she never asked what—and Ballonni had whipped by in his mail truck. She was immediately enveloped in the stench of his intentions. She’d gazed at him hard and he must have felt the weight of her stare because he turned and narrowed his eyes on her before wheeling out of the parking lot.

She went back to Mr. Blue’s and plotted what to do. The stun gun was his and she diffidently asked if she could borrow it. He nodded and said, “It leaves marks,” and so she’d changed her mind, borrowing a .38 from Mr. Blue’s cache of firearms. She’d picked out the cardboard for the sign, tied some twine to it so that it could loop around his neck, tucked a felt pen in her pocket, then wiped everything down so there were no fingerprints. She bought some zip-ties and thrust them in another pocket.

Then she made her concoction laced with roofies and put it in a thermos.

It was as cold as Ballonni’s dark soul and she was wrapped in a long black coat, wearing a fedora-type hat, sunglasses, and thin, flexible leather gloves. She timed it so she had the sign under her arm, the thermos in her hand, the gun in her pocket, and was walking across the parking lot just as he was finishing his route. As she approached, he glanced up. She smiled and, not immediately recognizing her for the threat she was, he smiled back, waiting to find out what she wanted. Even though it was freezing cold, she wore nothing under the coat and she flashed him as he was opening his driver’s door, letting him get a good hard look at her body. She had too many curves to be his cup of tea, but it shocked him enough that she was allowed to draw close and press the muzzle of a gun under his ribs. “Get in,” she whispered, reaching down and grabbing his flaccid cock through his pants.

“I don’t—”

“Get the fuck in the car or I will shoot you dead right here.”

He protested some more, but, with his eyes on the .38, he complied, scooting across to the passenger seat at her insistence. At gunpoint she drove him to a nearby park where, because of the frigid February weather, no one was around. It was a far riskier move than with Harmak; she could have been seen by other employees, Ballonni could have tried to overpower her, anything could have happened.

But all Ballonni wanted to do was protest his innocence. She had the wrong guy. He was a husband, a father. A
good
guy. She pretended to listen while she pressed the barrel of the gun against his temple and picked up the sign from where she’d dropped it behind the seat.

Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out the felt pen, handed it to him, and ordered, “Write this: I MUST PAY FOR WHAT I’VE DONE.”

His blustering escalated and she put the index finger of her free hand against his lips. Gradually, he wound down and then he recognized her as the woman he’d seen earlier.

“Who are you?” he demanded, his voice quaking. “I didn’t do anything! Nothing! You’re dead wrong. I’m not that guy! I’m not!”

“You had sex with a child,” she told him. She didn’t know who. She didn’t know how. She just knew it to be true.

“No! No! Never!”

“Write it.”

“I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.”

She thought about just shooting him. She wanted to. Cold fury was running through her blood and she could probably get away with it. But as if he sensed her thoughts, he wrote out the words in a shaking hand, his pleading changing to a stuttered sobbing.

“Please,” he said, handing the placard back to her. “I have a wife and a son.”

“Shoulda thought of that before you hurt her.”

“I don’t know what you think you know. It’s not . . . it’s not . . .” he blathered, then his eyes widened in horror as she slipped the sign around his neck.

“Drink this,” she said then, picking up the thermos.

“What is it? No. You’re trying to kill me!”

She was implacable. Her finger tightened on the trigger.

He refused. He begged. He pleaded. He cried.

But she wasn’t interested in negotiation. Finally, he took a few swallows, trying not to drink it all, but she eventually got him to finish it.

She drove him back to the post office, stripped him down, rolled him out, and zip-tied him to the flagpole.

Now, thinking back on it, she realized how many things could have gone awry. She was lucky he’d gone along so willingly. She then drove his car back behind the building and jogged down the road to where she’d left the truck.

No one had known what to make of it, according to the news. Was it murder, or assisted suicide?

After Ballonni’s death, Lucky ran across another troller who wasn’t as easily cowed and had tried to wrest the gun from her. She’d shot him in the process and was lucky to come out of that one unscathed. His death was put down as a case of road rage that had happened in the Portland city limits, so it wasn’t being investigated by the same department that Ballonni and Harmak were.

She’d decided on the stun gun after that. It gave her an advantage in controlling her prey. Of course, the police would definitely know Harmak’s death was a homicide, but then there was also a pattern now, too, so it was a moot point. Getting him to write in his own hand had been a trick. He’d been crazed with fear. Kept blubbering that his stepsister and brother were cops and they would crucify him. She told him she would zap him again, and eventually she got him to take the thermos cup and drink down the cocktail of drugs, pleading with her all the way. He practically wet his pants, he was so scared. And he started bucking wildly when she tried to loop the sign around his neck. She zapped him again and then the drugs finally took him out.

But she’d let Harmak live. Had been distracted by the other scent. Hadn’t wanted the kids to find a dead body, but that just left him able to abuse some other child. She was pissed at herself. She would have to rectify that error and soon. Couldn’t have him going back to work around all those kids.

Tonight, she thought. But how, with his mother there?

She thought about her own mother, a woman who’d given up her and her sister before spiraling down into madness. Her sister had fared better than Lucky, who’d been left in the care of a doctor, a surgeon, of sorts, who’d used and abused her every single goddamn night until that fateful day on the jetty when she’d lured him out to the edge and pushed him off.

Her life had been that of a vagabond ever since. She’d had a number of protectors and an even greater number of abusers. She’d learned to kill without compunction and apart from that time when she’d confronted her sister and her sister’s lover, Detective Tanninger with the Winslow County Sheriff ’s Department, she’d steered clear of feelings and relationships and caring and
people
, ever since.

As she turned onto the road that led to Mr. Blue’s, she determined that she would have to make sure Stefan Harmak’s mother was away from the house before she could take him out.

But then he was hers.

Janet Ballonni studied the young woman detective cautiously, one eye on the clock. One o’ clock. Well, at least she’d come on time. But Janet didn’t want her around by the time Chris Jr. got home, which should be around three-thirty, if all went according to plan. She didn’t like the authorities messing in her life, and she really didn’t like them messing in Chris’s. Hadn’t they suffered through enough pain already?

The young, auburn-haired detective was quite pretty with startling blue eyes and a slim, athletic build. Occasionally she caught herself up short, as if jabbed by some unseen pain. What had happened to her? And why, in God’s good name, would anyone want to be a police officer?

“Can I get you something, Detective Rafferty? A soft drink, or coffee . . . ?” Janet asked cordially. She had to force herself to smile. She just wanted them all to go away and leave her and Chris Jr. alone.

“No, thank you,” she demurred. “I don’t want to take up too much of your time, so let me get to it, all right?”

“Thank you.”

“I know Detective Chubb interviewed you, but I’ve taken over the case and I would like to hear your thoughts firsthand.”

“Detective Chubb left months ago,” she said, forcing herself
not
to look at the clock.

“There had been no movement on the case, but now we’re looking at new leads.”

“Oh?” Janet didn’t really believe it. They always said something of the sort.

“I assure you, it’s not been forgotten.”

Janet hmphed at that. They all treated Chris’s death like a suicide and she knew he would never kill himself. The idea! She’d heard law enforcement officers were more interested in job promotion than in actually solving crimes and she believed it. “I don’t see how I can help you. I told Detective Chubb and the other detective the same thing.”

“Could you lead me through the last few weeks before your husband’s death?” the detective suggested.

Janet smoothed her apron. It was Thursday and she always baked cookies on Thursdays. Chris Jr. had always loved the ones she made with those tiny currants and oatmeal. He couldn’t stand raisins, but the currants were his favorite. “I have no idea where to even start,” she complained.

The detective had a file and now she picked it up and glanced into it. “Two weeks before your husband’s death, there was a complaint lodged against him.”

Wouldn’t you know? The first thing out of her mouth was that. “Oh, that woman. She has one of those pit bulls and it came after Chris and he had to kick it. Barely slowed the beast down. It left teeth marks in his shoe and he warned her that it damn well better not bite him, or he would have it put down. I just don’t understand people who raise animals like that. They say the breed is fine, but it’s the owners who turn them into killing machines. Maybe that’s just what she wanted—a killing machine.”

“You’re speaking of Mrs. Bernstein,” she said, glancing into the file again. “I see that she had words with your husband before the attack.”

“Well, she’s a liar, then! Chris never had words with anyone. He was the nicest guy. Jovial, you know. Always had a smile for everyone.”

“Mrs. Bernstein complained that your husband gave her daughter a stick of gum.”

Janet could feel the color rise in her face. “Well, I’m sure he did. He gave everyone gum. That’s just who he was. And Mrs. Bernstein’s one of those women who hovers over her child like she’s so fragile and lovely, but I can tell you, Missy Bernstein is a sly little imp. She loves to stir up trouble. My Chris gave all the kids on his route gum. He’d done it for years, and when Mrs. Bernstein complained, there were other people on his route who stood up for him. LeeAnn Walters and Marnie Dramur were right there. That better be in your file, too!”

“Yes, it’s all documented. I’m just looking for anomalies.”

“Are you going to interview Mrs. Bernstein? You should. Then you’ll see what she’s like.”

“Was there anything else that occurred in the last few weeks before his death that seemed different, out of routine?”

“Detective Chubb asked me the same thing. No.” Janet was firm.

“Your son is at school now?”

Janet’s right hand clenched into the fabric of her apron. “Yes. Why? You can’t talk to him. He’s a minor.”

“I would like to talk to him,” the detective said. “With your permission.”

“Well, I’m sorry. He’s missing his father so much, it’s all he can do to get himself up each day. It’s so unfair. Someone did this to Chris and you people haven’t done anything to find out who that is, and Chris Jr. is struggling so much. No, you can’t talk to him. You’ll just stir everything up for no good reason!”

The detective considered. Janet could practically hear thoughts tumbling around in her head. “You’ve never felt your husband’s death was a suicide,” the detective said.

“Chris would never do that. Detective Chubb seemed to think that suicide was the likely answer, but he’s wrong.” She harrumphed again. “Not my Chris. And how would he have done it? He was drugged and he couldn’t tie his hands behind his back by himself.”

“Actually, Detective Chubb believed it was an accidental homicide. Detective Sandler agreed.”

“They just said that because they knew I would never accept suicide. Accidental homicide—what does that even mean?”

“That whoever did this to your husband didn’t mean to kill him.”

Janet didn’t like the way this was going. She hadn’t liked it with the other detectives either. “You think he was playing some sex game with a woman and it got out of hand.”

Detective Rafferty blinked. “I don’t know about that. Your husband died of exposure and that was because the temperature sank into the teens that night.”

“My husband wasn’t the kind to cheat!” Janet declared. She knew what they were thinking. What they were
all
thinking.

“We don’t know the reason he was tied up,” she said.

“I know what it said in the newspapers,” Janet retorted icily. “And I know what Gloria said. She’s probably the one who said all those terrible things. Not that it’s any of your business, but we had a healthy sex life. He wasn’t into role-playing!”

“Who’s Gloria?” she asked, searching her notes.

“Gloria del Courte. A coworker of Chris’s. She always had a thing for him, but she didn’t start making terrible remarks concerning him until after that scurrilous newspaper story about those weird sex acts, like autoerotic asphyxiation.”

The detective frowned. “I’m not sure what newspaper article you’re referring to.”

“The
Oregonian
did a whole series of articles after Chris’s death.” She flapped her hands, waving the memory away. “It was just awful.”

“There was a placard around his neck that read—”

“Yes, I know,” she snapped. “ I
MUST PAY FOR WHAT I’VE DONE,
or something. That’s what they said in the papers. But he wouldn’t cheat on me. I know it. Why won’t anyone believe me! This wasn’t role-playing. Someone killed my Chris!” Tears leapt to her eyes. They were all persecuting her. She was going to have to report them. Lodge a complaint at City Hall against the police. It was the only way to get them to leave her alone!

The detective hesitated a moment and Janet could tell she was considering what to say next. She braced herself. She didn’t like this attractive young woman any more than she’d liked the older Chubb with his hangdog face and world-weary expression or the other woman detective who’d called on the phone.

Rafferty closed the file. “There’s been another incident of a man drugged and tied to a pole. You may have seen it on the news.”

Janet’s mouth dropped open on a gasp. “What? I don’t watch the news. I don’t even read the paper anymore! Who is this man? What are you saying?”

“His name’s Stefan Harmak and he was tied to a pole that holds up a basketball hoop on the Twin Oaks Elementary School grounds in Laurelton. Like your husband, he was stripped down to his boxer shorts, but the temperature’s much milder now, so he survived.”

“Oh, my
God!
” She pressed a hand to her cheek. “What does this mean? Who’s doing this?”

“Mr. Harmak said a man accosted him, forced him to drink something that had the drug Rohypnol in it, commonly known as roofies, or the date-rape drug.”

“Rape?” Janet was horrified.

“Neither Mr. Harmak nor your husband was raped,” the detective went on. “Mr. Harmak also had a placard placed around his neck. His said
I WANT WHAT I CAN’T HAVE
.”

“Who is this man? Why is he doing this?” Janet could feel the hysteria rising in her voice.

“We believe someone targeted both your husband and Mr. Harmak specifically.”

Something in her tone bothered Janet. Like she was blaming Chris for this. “I don’t like where this is going.”

“Excuse me?”

“You think this is my husband’s fault. That he brought it on himself.”

“I didn’t mean to give you that impression.”

“Didn’t you?” Oh, they were all the same. She knew what they were thinking and it was like a hot needle in her brain. “I think I’ve answered all the questions I’m going to.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way. This new case has opened up avenues into learning what happened to your husband.”

The detective asked a few more questions, covering much the same ground, but Janet refused to answer in anything but monosyllables. She was also processing that this second guy tied up was going to throw more light on her husband’s death. Hadn’t they gone through enough? When did it ever end?

Finally, the detective made as if she were going to leave. Janet glanced at the clock. It was after two.

Go,
she thought.
Get out.

“I would really like to talk to your son.”

“Out of the question,” Janet snapped. “I don’t want my son involved in any part of this. He’s suffered enough.”

“Our goal is to find out who did this to your husband,” the detective reminded her, as if Janet were a schoolgirl.

“You want to sensationalize it! That’s what you want. Chris Jr.’s only thirteen. He doesn’t know anything about this. Stay away from him,” she warned.

The detective finally left after that and as the door closed behind her, Janet scurried to the front window and peeked through the curtains, watching her pull away from the curb in a silver SUV. Then she glanced down the street, wondering if anyone had seen the detective come to her door. Luckily, no one was around and the cop wasn’t driving a squad car.

Damn.

She turned from the window and her eye caught the picture of her and Chris’s wedding day, fifteen years earlier. They both looked so happy. She was all in white and her hair was long. She looked so incredibly young.

Touching her hair now, she wondered if she should grow it out again. She’d had gardenias in her hair for the picture, but she’d always worn headbands at that time. Headbands with bows had been Chris’s favorite. And Mary Jane’s with anklets. That had really turned him on and she remembered those times in the bedroom where he’d suddenly pushed her down and tickled her silly, ripping at her clothes until they were naked and he was driving into her and grunting like an animal. He never bothered to take off her shoes and socks.

A coldness settled into her lower back and she shuddered. Well, sex had never been her thing, really, despite what she’d said to that detective. Chris, too. They’d just loved each other a lot, though. They really had.

A tear slid down her cheek as she finished rolling out the dough for the cookies. She was just finishing up the last batch when she heard a car pull into her drive, then the front door flew open and slammed shut. “Chris?” she called.

She heard her son’s heavy footsteps clomp down the hall to his room and then another door opened and slammed shut.

“Chris?” she called again, then with a sigh arranged the cookies on a plate and took them to his room. She knocked on the panels of his door, resenting his rule to knock before entering.

“Yeah?” he demanded, surly. He was always surly these days.

“I made you some cookies.”

She tried the handle and he yelled, “Don’t come in! I’m getting dressed!”

“Good heavens, Chris. I’m just trying to do something nice.”

“Just . . . don’t.”

“Fine.” She left the cookie plate on the floor in front of his room with a clatter. “I won’t tell you about the female detective who came by earlier, then.”

She was barely back in the kitchen before her son appeared in the room, staring at her through dark eyes so much like his father’s—except Chris Jr.’s were open windows to his soul where his father’s had been . . . opaque, harder to read.

“What detective?” he demanded.

“Detective September Rafferty with the Laurelton Police Department. She took over your father’s case from that other one who didn’t do anything. Frankly, I don’t think she’s much better.”

“What did she say?”

“Oh, I don’t know if I remember. You didn’t want me to come into your room and talk to you. I see you’re still wearing the same clothes you left in this morning.”

“Mom, what did she say?”

“What’s gotten into you?”

“What did she say about Dad?” he persisted. “Do they know who did it—and why?” He was so intense that Janet found herself sorry she’d said anything.

“Didn’t you even try the cookies?” she asked.

“If I eat one will you stop stalling?”

“Christopher!” she said, hurt.

“Was it someone on his route?”

“What? No. What are you talking about?”

He turned away, thinking hard. “You were upset with Mrs. Bernstein.”

“Good heavens, Chris. I was upset with her, but I don’t think she’s a
killer
.”

“Not her . . . that other guy . . .”

“Who?” she couldn’t help asking. Hearing herself, she said, unnerved, “They don’t know who did it.” She’d wanted Chris to come and talk to her, so she’d used the detective, but now she wished she hadn’t said anything.