Nowhere to Hide (19 page)

"The interview."
Her smile was at once weary and defiant. "I expect you really mean foolhardy, don’t you?"

"No. That’s not what I mean at all. You did what you had to do. I think that’s what real courage is—doing what we have to do in spite of our fears."

"Thanks. You’re in the minority." She lowered her eyes to her coffee. "And you’re right. I am scared. I’m scared as hell."

"Good. It means you’ll be careful." Studying her, Mike thought how well she fit in with her surroundings. Despite a definite inner toughness, there was an ethereal quality about her. He could easily imagine her on the cover of one of those romantic novels his mother used to read. Or perhaps, he thought, gazing up at the painting above the fireplace, she was more like the woman in that picture, able to find a quiet joy in the simple task of bathing a child.

"Lieutenant Oldfield?"

He snapped his head around. "Yes? Oh, I’m sorry. I was just admir—"

"You said you had some questions. I am a little tired."

"Of course."
Clearing his throat, he took a notepad from his breast pocket. He felt more than a little ridiculous, not to mention chauvinistic. It wasn’t like him to go off on romantic flights of fancy. At least, not for longer than he cared to remember. Nor was Ellen Harris in any state even remotely resembling serenity, quiet or otherwise.

"We’ve already posted an unmarked vehicle close by," he said. "I don’t suppose you could be persuaded to stay with family—or friends? What about your friend up the road?" He gestured in the direction of Myra’s house.

"That would be defeating the purpose, wouldn’t it? I did what I did, Lieutenant, because the police don’t seem to be having much success. And don’t they say a trail goes cold after twenty-four hours?"

"That doesn’t necessarily mean—"

"Well, it’s been a lot longer than that since my sister’s life was so brutally torn from her," she cut in, leaning forward, rage flashing from her blue eyes.

Mike could only nod mutely. She was right. Chances they’d find Gail Morgan’s killer were bleak, and growing bleaker with each passing day. Serial killings, if that’s what it was, were damn near impossible to solve.
Mainly because there was no motive, no connection to the victim.
He thought of all the Ted Bundys, Hillside stranglers and Leslie Allan Williamses types still out there, still stalking and murdering innocent women. He wished he could nail this son of a bitch. Yet a part of him hoped to God the killer was miles away from here, somewhere where they didn’t have television.

Somehow he didn’t believe that was the case.

"Sergeant Shannon thinks you’ve been way out in left field with this," he said.

"I know. He tried to convince me the killer is someone living right here in Evansdale. I think he just wants to rid himself of the case, dump it on the Evansdale Police Department."

"Maybe," he smiled thinly. "Though I don’t know what he’d have to gain. He’s retired from the force as of yesterday."

She registered surprise at the news. "He never gave me any concrete reason for his theory."

"It’s mainly a hunch."

"A hunch?
You’ve got to be kidding."

"I wouldn’t dismiss it out of hand. Crimes are often solved on little more than a gut feeling. Shannon’s a good cop; he’s been on the job most of his adult life. He did think you might have something with the composite, though. They’re running it on the evening news."

She settled back on the sofa. "Well, that’s something." Visibly trying to calm
herself
, she said, "Look, I’m not saying the police aren’t trying, but Gail is just one more murdered girl to you people. No one knew her, or loved her like I did-do...no one misses her—" She batted impatiently at her tears. "Damn! Sorry."

"Don’t be." Mike rose and handed her the box of tissues from the sideboard. She blew her nose, an unladylike honk that, though it shattered his gothic image of a moment ago, Mike found oddly endearing.

Ellen walked him out to his car. Seeing the flag up on her mailbox, she picked up her mail which had been collecting over several days.

"Call me," he said, before closing the car door.
"Day or night.
Even if you just feel like talking."
He scribbled his home number on a scrap of paper and handed it to her. "In case you can’t reach me at the station."

"That’s very kind of you. Do policeman’s wives ever get used to that sort of thing?"

"I don’t have a wife.
Haven’t for a very long time."

"Oh. Sorry. I didn’t mean to pry."

"You weren’t. The only woman in my life is my little girl, Angela. She’s eleven, nearly twelve."

Ellen couldn’t help noticing his pride when he spoke of his daughter.

Twenty-three

As soon as Lieutenant Oldfield drove away, Ellen went inside and locked the door, then, tossing the mail on the sideboard without looking at it, she went through the rest of the house checking the locks on doors and windows. Not that that would stop him. A madman with a purpose would find a way to get to her, just as he had gotten to Gail.

"Well, I’ll be ready for you," she said aloud.

In the kitchen, Ellen squirted detergent in the sink, ran the hot water over the few dishes. Was it possible the killer really was someone from right here in Evansdale, as Sergeant Shannon believed? And didn’t Gail once say to her, "Don’t think I haven’t met my share of weirdos in good old Evansdale"?

She was drying her hand, examining the tiny white spots, scarrings from where she’d cut herself on the glass. Looking down, she saw she’d not gotten all the blood off the floor; a line of it had crusted darkly in the groove between the two tiles at her feet.

She was down on her hands and knees, rummaging under the sink for a rag, when she heard a pattering sound, as if someone had tossed a handful of pebbles at the window. She swung her head around, cracking it on the corner of the cupboard door.

Ignoring the flare of pain, her heart beating wildly, Ellen slowly straightened. Seeing it was just the wind whipping icy pellets against the glass, she relaxed. She delicately massaged the fiery spot above her right eye, feeling the indentation where the corner of the door had struck.

The area around it seemed to be swelling under her touch. She felt nauseated. If she didn’t get a grip on herself, it was entirely possible she’d do herself in, without anyone’s help.

What she needed, she thought, was a drink.

Peering out the window, she tried unsuccessfully to search out the unmarked car Lieutenant Oldfield had said was parked nearby. They probably pulled into one of the little side roads, she thought, in full view of the house.
If she couldn’t see it, then neither could he.

Within seconds, the rain was coming down in torrents, as if the sky had split apart, sounding eerily to Ellen like ghostly applause.

~ * ~

Upstairs in her bedroom, Ellen stood on the stepladder, the same one she’d stood on just three weeks ago to straighten the angel on the Christmas tree in preparation for Gail’s visit. It seemed a lifetime ago, and at the same time, only yesterday.

Pushing aside boxes, albums, a couple of old purses, hats she no longer wore, Ellen quickly found what she was looking for—a plain white shoebox tied with green string.

Taking it down gingerly, as though something inside were alive she went to sit on the edge of her bed, the box resting in her lap. With the rain drumming on the roof and rattling the windows, she stared at it for several long minutes. Then she began to undo the string.

There it was. The gun Ed had bought for her. Once, the mere sight of the weapon had repelled and angered her. Ironically, it had been raining that day, too. Except it was a spring rain. Ed was away on a construction job when a rash of break-ins occurred in town. One woman who lived alone, Ellen remembered, was beaten so badly she had to be rushed to the hospital. When Ed returned, he had the gun with him.

"Just in case," he’d said.

She’d fought him on it, but he’d been insistent, and in the end she gave in. Once she learned how to use it, she put the gun in this box and shoved it to the back of the closet shelf. She’d never expected to have to look at it again.

The gun was small enough to fit neatly in the palm of her hand. Its pearl handle gleamed in the glow from the lamp. Rather than revulsion, she now felt a measure of satisfaction in its cool heft. The gun gave her a sense of control.

She snapped in the magazine the way Ed had shown her, released the safety. She’d forgotten nothing.

"It’s a .25-caliber automatic," he’d told her.
"Holds ten rounds."
In spite of the seriousness of the moment, he’d grinned. "In case you miss."

Her hand deadly steady, Ellen pointed the barrel at an imagined intruder in her bedroom doorway, her finger resting lightly on the trigger. "I won’t," she half-whispered. "I won’t miss."

~ * ~

Angela was bent over her homework at the kitchen table, wearing headphones and munching on a Granny Smith apple.

"Hi, princess," Mike said, ruffling her hair. She smiled up at him.

He sat down at the opposite end of the table and opened the file folder Shannon had sent him marked MORGAN, GAIL MARIE. Copies of the photographs taken at the murder scene were locked away in his briefcase.

Mike began to read.

Some time later, he closed the file. He slipped off his reading glasses and massaged the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. Angela was practically asleep at the table. He hustled her off to bed. Then he went into the living room to watch the evening news.

Twenty-four

During the eleven o’clock news, the composite drawing of the man A.J. Booker said he saw leaving the
Shelton Room
on the night Gail Morgan was murdered was seen in living rooms across the country.

One of those living rooms was located in a modest A-frame in Dedham, Massachusetts, where Debby Fuller Allan lived with her auto mechanic husband, Dwight, and their teenage son. Dwight was in the shower, and Kevin was in his room talking on the phone—had been for over an hour now. If there were ever a telephone marathon held around here, Debby would put him up against anyone’s daughter.

The cup was halfway to her lips when they flashed the composite. Her hand froze in midair, her mouth remaining slightly open, as though she were cast in wax. For despite the dark glasses and phony hair, Debby knew at once who it was.

She would never forget that face.
Especially his thin cruel mouth.
The last time she saw that mouth it hovered above her, inches from her face, twisted in an ugly sneer as he spat filthy names at her. She could feel herself, even now, pinned beneath him. She had cried and pleaded with him to let her go, but he only laughed at her. Then he raped her. The last thing Debby remembered seeing that night was his fist coming at her.

She woke up in a ditch. Somehow she managed to crawl home without anyone seeing her, ducking into the woods each time she saw car lights approaching. She had begged her mother not to call the police, threatening to kill herself if anyone found out. She felt dirty and ashamed. She had liked him. He seemed older and more exciting than the other boys at school. She didn’t care that everyone else said he was weird. She had willingly gotten into his car. It was her fault.

Her mother had finally, tearfully, given in, keeping her home from school, nursing her bruises until they had faded sufficiently for her to return.

The bruises on her soul would never fade.

The news commentator was asking anyone who recognized the man in the drawing to please call their local police department, or the 800 number flashing across the bottom of the screen.

Debby didn’t bother to write it down. She knew she wouldn’t ever call. They would want to know her name. They would want to know how she knew him. And no one must ever find out her dirty, shameful secret.

"Deb?"

"What?" Her hand jerked and some of the tea splashed on her leg. "Damn!"