Say Goodbye (10 page)

FOURTEEN

“…the venom was used primarily as a paralyzing agent to inactivate the prey, which may actually remain alive for four to five days. The spider then feeds at its convenience.”

FROM
Biology of the Brown Recluse Spider,
BY JULIA MAXINE HITE, WILLIAM J. GLADNEY, J. L. LANCASTER, JR., AND W. H. WHITCOMB, DEPARTMENT OF ENTOMOLOGY, DIVISION OF AGRICULTURE, UNIVERSITY OF ARKANSAS, FAYETTEVILLE, MAY
1966

IT WAS AFTER SIX WHEN KIMBERLY LEFT THE OFFICE. Traffic was piling up, the highway one long tangled snarl. She thought of heading back to work, waiting out the worst of the congestion. God knew she had a million calls she could make, 302s to process, reports to review. She didn’t, though.

She drove to Alpharetta.

She didn’t know the area well. Atlanta was so large she could spend decades here and still not make a dent in the explosion of sprawling townships that marked the city’s phenomenal rate of growth. The city felt like a web to her, one that was constantly being spun larger and larger, gobbling up chicken farms and country lanes until a scenic drive one year became the location of the latest mall the next. And yet the state absorbed the booming developments relatively easily, peace still two hours away in the northern mountains, or three hours away on the southern beaches. Mac claimed there was no place else on earth he’d rather live.

She was still considering the matter herself.

She was armed with a map, a cell phone, and a nearly photographic memory. How lost could she get?

The drive to Ginny Jones’s house wasn’t bad. The abandoned residence formed a small, gray mound against the darkening sky. Windows boarded up. Yard desperately overgrown. Yet it wasn’t the most neglected-looking property on the block.

Kimberly worked her way through side streets, as lots became larger, houses more sprawling, lawns more perfectly manicured. It took her half a dozen wrong turns and about twenty minutes, then she found the next address on her list: Tommy Mark Evans’s home.

It was a stately brick Colonial situated atop half an acre of emerald-green lawn. A silver BMW SUV was parked in the driveway. Expertly shaped corkscrew hedges lined the drive. That told her enough.

So Ginny was the poor, fatherless girl; Tommy the rich football hero. Now, was the situation more like Cinderella meets Prince Charming, or Lady and the Tramp, with the genders reversed?

Kimberly started to see the possibilities. Such as Tommy dating Ginny Jones, but feeling pressure from his peer group/parents to keep it quiet. Perhaps Ginny was feeling a little tender on the subject. All the more reason to run, once Mommy stopped coming home at night?

Kimberly had a final stop to make. It was now completely dark, making it difficult for her to read the map and drive her car. She took it in half-mile batches, looping through a maze of side streets, office parks, and residential areas until she nearly lost herself. She thought she was closer to Ginny’s neighborhood than Tommy’s, but could no longer be certain. A left at the oak tree, a right by the large birch.

Tires left pavement. She bumped along on the dirt. One of the last few rural roads in the area. Probably be developed by this time next year. Then there’d be nothing left to indicate where a young man had died.

She found the exact spot without difficulty. A white cross stood gleaming in the dark, a Christmas wreath drying out at the base, red bow flapping lightly in the wind.

Kimberly pulled over twenty yards back. She grabbed her jacket and walked the final distance to the memorial.

It was past seven-thirty now. She was not far from civilization, but the trees formed an effective buffer, and standing in this spot, she couldn’t hear the sound of passing cars or make out the distant lights of a bustling community. With the new moon floating dark and hidden overhead, the only illumination came from her vehicle’s twin headlights. It was quiet, still.

In spite of herself, she shivered.

Tommy Mark Evans,
it said down the cross. Then, along the arms:
Beloved son.

Kimberly looked around: at the thick cluster of rhododendrons, nearly higher than her head; the thin, scratchy outline of straggly pine trees, clutching at the night sky. She felt the deep ruts of the dirt road beneath her feet. Used her flashlight to illuminate the grooves of tire marks tracking in and out.

She could picture a young man joyriding down this lane, pedal to the metal, shrieking each time his monster tires hit a rut and sent him airborne. She could picture a young man and a female friend tucked alongside the road, necking hard and heavy, steaming up the windshield.

She could not picture a college kid coming out here alone, pulling over for no reason, and winding up shot two times to the forehead.

Tommy Mark Evans knew his attacker. She had no doubt in her mind.

An owl hooted. A squirrel burst out, making a mad dash across the lane. Kimberly watched the grass rustle on the other side of the road long after the squirrel disappeared into the brush, and the owl swooped by overhead.

She felt a fluttering kick in her side, her own child waking up. She pressed her hand against her lower abdomen, and for a moment, the powerful feeling of life while standing before a scene of such tragedy left her unutterably sad. She wondered how Tommy’s parents had made it through the holidays. Did they surround themselves with photos of their son? Or did they find it easiest to pretend his life had never happened?

How had Kimberly’s father done it? Looking at all those photos, visiting all those crime scenes of young girls and boys so viciously murdered, then coming home to his own family each night? How did you comfort your child’s tears over a scratched knee when you could picture another child missing all of her fingers? How could you tell your child there was no such thing as monsters when you witnessed their handiwork each and every day?

And how had he borne it, when the call finally came in the middle of the night:
Sir, we regret to inform you about your daughter…

Kimberly herself rarely thought about her sister. Her mother, yes. But Mandy…That loss was more insidious in ways she couldn’t explain. A child expected to one day lose her parents. Her sibling, on the other hand…A sister was a companion, a peer. They were supposed to grow old together, standing up at each other’s weddings, swapping advice on child-rearing, while one day trying to determine how to best take care of Dad.

Once, Kimberly had been the younger half of a paired set. Now she was an only child.

You’d think she’d get used to it, but she didn’t.

Kimberly turned, started for her car, arms wrapped around her torso for warmth.

She had only taken two steps before her cell rang.

It was too dark, she thought. She was too alone, her mind filled with too many unsettling thoughts. Veronica Jones’s last desperate screams. Her sister, head wrapped in white gauze on the hospital bed as the doctor flipped the proverbial switch and they stood together, she and her parents, to watch Mandy die. And then, just a year later, the House of Horrors that became her mother’s last stand.

Mandy had been lucky. She had not lived long enough to know that, with her death, she had sealed their mother’s fate. Had Veronica Jones understood? Had she truly realized what her anguished confession would mean for her daughter?

Her phone rang again. Kimberly wanted to walk away. But she was her father’s daughter, helpless to say no, even when she of all people knew better.

“Special Agent Quincy,” she answered.

Nothing.

She waited for someone to tell her hush, for another macabre scene to start playing out in the background. But second passed into second. She heard nothing at all.

She checked signal strength, tried again. “Special Agent Quincy.”

Still no words, but now, as she concentrated, she thought she caught the sound of breathing, low and even. She let the silence roll out again. The strategy didn’t work.

“I would like to help you,” she said presently. “It’s okay if you need to talk.”

Nothing.

“Is someone there? Are you afraid of being overheard? Just make a sound, like you’re clearing your throat. I’ll take that as an affirmative.”

But the caller remained silent.

She started to feel frustrated now, walking in a small circle.

“Are you in danger?”

Nothing.

“If you talk to me, provide information, I may be able to offer protection. You can’t just dial my number, however. You have to be willing to talk.”

Then, finally, that small voice again, high-strung, but hushed, like a child’s: “Shhhh.”

“Please, I want to help…”

“He knows what you’re doing.”

“Who knows—”

“He knows everything.”

“Can you give me a name?”

“It’s only a matter of time.”

“Listen to me—”

“You will be the next specimen in the collection.”

“Can you meet? Name the time and place, I’ll be there.”

“Shhh. Remember to look up.”

The call disconnected. Kimberly stood there a moment longer, clutching her phone, totally bewildered. And then, mostly because she could not help herself, she glanced up.

The night sky yawned above her. A pinprick of stars. The more distant glow of the city. She forced herself to take in the shadowed outline of the trees, the bushes, the distant horizon. Nothing loomed in the dark unknown. No boogeyman leapt out to get her.

Then, to her right, a tree limb cracked. She forgot about decorum and bolted for her car. Running hard, fumbling with the key. She yanked open the heavy door and leapt inside. Door shut, locks engaged, engine cranked.

At the last minute, she caught herself before she tore down the dirt road like the half-dressed heroine of a teen slasher film. She was a professional, for God’s sake. And heavily armed.

She got her breathing to steady, and safe inside the confines of her automobile, took final inventory. Nothing moved in the woods around her. No headless horseman came careening her way.

Just a solitary white cross, picked up in the crosshairs of her headlights.

She drove home slowly, trying to make sense of the caller’s latest warning and wishing that everything about this case didn’t fill her with dread.

Mac was home when she arrived. She pulled in next to his truck, shutting off the engine. She pasted a smile on her face, then braved the house.

Hallway light was on. Kitchen, too. She tossed down her shoulder bag, shrugged out of her jacket, wandering down the hall. No sign of Mac. She tried the family room with the large-screen TV and Mac’s favorite black leather recliner. Still no husband.

She returned to the kitchen, looking for a note and starting to feel herself panicking again for no good reason. He could be in the shower, or out back, or have gone next door. There were a million logical explanations.

Except now she was wondering. The caller had her cell phone number. How much else did he know about her?

“Kimberly.”

She jumped and twirled, her hand automatically going to her chest. Mac stood in the doorway of the kitchen, leather bomber jacket on, dark hair windblown, as if just returning from a walk.

“Heavens, you scared me,” she said, hand coming down, feeling foolish.

Mac continued to regard her somberly, making no move to cross the kitchen, kiss her on the cheek, welcome her home.

“It’s late,” he said at last.

“Sorry, got stuck at work.”

“I called the office.”

“I was out.” She frowned at him, not liking his tone. “Is something up? If you wanted to reach me so badly, you could’ve called my cell.”

“I didn’t want to use it,” he said flatly.

Her frown deepened. “What the hell is going on, Mac? I work late all the time. So do you. Since when do either one of us bring on the inquisition?”

“You’re working the case.”

“What case?”

Now he did take a step forward, his face intent. “You know what I mean, Kimberly. Delilah Rose. This arachnid guy. You’re getting involved. Five months pregnant. Five months
pregnant
, for God’s sake, and you’re wading knee-deep into this shit.”

“Of course I am. I’m a federal agent. Wading into shit is my job.”

“No, wading into shit is the Bureau’s job. And GBI’s job. As in, this state is swarming with hundreds of perfectly qualified investigators who could all handle this case. Like Sal, or your buddy Harold, or Mike, or John, or Gina. Each of them skilled and dedicated and just as tough as you are. But they can’t work this case, can they, Kimberly? It always has to be you.”

“Hey, I’ll have you know I kicked the case to Sal Martignetti first thing this morning. Even arranged to transfer the ring to state custody. You got your wish, Mac, it is GBI’s ball game.”

“Then where have you been?” He asked the question quietly, which is how she knew she was in trouble.

And heaven help her, she dug in her heels, preparing for a fight they’d both probably regret later. But that was then, and this was now, and she never could stand to be wrong.

“Since when do I have to account for my time to you?” she asked.

“Goddammit,”
Mac exploded. “You think I don’t know? I’ve already been on the phone with Sal. Who, by the way, wants to talk to you about his visit to Tommy Mark Evans’s parents. You went to check things out, didn’t you, Kimberly? Couldn’t trust Sal to do the work. No, he’s only investigated fifty or sixty homicides in the past ten years, what the hell could he know about this kind of thing? Did you hit the bar scene? Go hooker shopping? Or did you stand on a street corner and call, ‘Here Mr. Freaky Scary Man. Come find fresh bait.’”

“I did no such thing! I drove around Alpharetta, checking out Ginny’s and Tommy’s respective homes. Nothing dangerous. Just sightseeing.”

“And your phone? Did it stay quiet?”

She thinned her lips mutinously, which was answer enough.

This time, Mac pounded the counter. “That’s it. As your husband, I have never laid down the law. But enough is enough. If you don’t have the good sense to see it, I certainly do. You’re off this case.
Fini.
Done. Let Sal handle it!”