Shadow of Danger (33 page)

Winston’s leer sent a chill through him.

“He raped and beat that woman,” Winston continued. “And encouraged me to do the same. Like I said, I hadn’t planned on her dying, but the rush, the high...it became too much. Toby couldn’t stop hurting her, and I couldn’t stop watching or wanting to do the same. What did you say her name was again?”

“Tracy Lyles,” he answered with disgust.

“Yeah, Tracy. She saved us, you know. She wiped the slate clean. Wiped away the memories. I’m sorry she died now, but maybe God put her in our path for a purpose.”

How Winston could validate murder, using God as a crutch while claiming he sought redemption, both baffled and sickened him. “You honestly believe God wanted you and your brother to murder Tracy Lyles? Do you also believe God wanted you two to murder your mom, too?”

“I guess it doesn’t matter now, but I do want to set the record straight.”

John fought from rolling his eyes at the absurdity. “Please, by all means.”

“
I
killed her, not Toby. She’d forced us to have sex for over a year so she could keep up her habit and buy her slutty clothes. The day she died, she’d shot herself up with some sorta shit that messed her up bad.”

A slow grin spread across his face. “She stumbled into the hallway, screaming for me. I ran up the stairs and found her lying on the floor, flopping around like a fucking fish, blood oozing out of her nose, her eyes rolling back. And I thought to myself, she’s gonna die from whatever she stuck in her veins. But then I worried she might not. What if she recovered? So I decided to help her along, and kicked her. To this day, the sound of cracking bone makes me smile. It’s the best memory I have of
mommy.
”

Although disturbed by Winston’s confession, John kept himself composed. From beneath the stack of photographs, he pulled out the binder and flipped through it, stopping when he reached the autopsy report on Susan Haney. “You killed your mother to protect yourself and your brother. You claim you were the one who created the monster he’s become, correct?”

“Yeah, that’s right.”

“Which is why you would sacrifice yourself, and take the death penalty so that your brother could live.”

“Exactly. Just like Jesus did to save our souls.”

“Amen,” Roy said.

“Do you know what your mother overdosed on?” John asked.

“Nope and I really don’t care. She’s dead and burning in hell, that’s all that matters to me.”

“This will matter. The night your mother died, she did shoot up, but it wasn’t just heroin she plunged into her veins, but ammonia.”

“So,” Winston grunted and frowned. “I’ve seen people take just about anything for a rush.”

“True, but what I think is ironic is that Hoyt attempted to kill you with a similar substance.”

Winston stared at him. “Are...are you saying Toby...No.” He shook his head. “He would have told me. Maybe not back then, ‘cause he was probably scared. But when he was older...”

“He didn’t need you to take care of him then, and he doesn’t need you now. You’ve become a liability to him. He wants you dead to keep you from spilling his secrets.”

The new Winston was back, crying and praying.

“Enough of this crap,” Roy shouted, and gripped the rail at the edge of the hospital bed. “Quit hiding behind God and Jesus and your salvation bullshit and give him to us.”

Other than the fast beeps ringing from the monitor next to Winston’s bed, the room remained eerily silent. John looked to Roy, who shrugged. When he focused on Winston, he knew they were screwed.

What began with tears streaming from his wide eyes, suddenly turned into a cacophony of wailing sobs. “He never needed me,” he cried as he wiped snot from his nose with the back of his hand. “All this time, he never needed me. I brought him the women, I confessed just like he told me to and now he wants me—”

“Dead,” Roy said. “You were an expendable tool to him. And the moment you were tossed in jail, you became a liability.”

John gripped the bedrail. “Fight him back, Garrett. Give him to us. We know he hasn’t used his real name since he turned eighteen. What name is he using now? Where is he hiding?”

The monitor connected to Winston beeped louder, faster. He clenched and unclenched his hands into fists as his eyes grew cold, dead. He slowly curled his lips into a mocking sneer. As the old Winston returned, the monitor went off with quick successions of beeps. “You want a name? An address? Check your local white pages for Go Fuck Yourself.”

“I’ve heard enough.” Roy threw his hands in the air. “How ‘bout you?”

With a nod, John turned off the tape recorder and slipped it into his pocket. The entire interrogation had been a waste of valuable time. He’d been so sure that Winston would offer up his brother. Apparently, too much of the old Winston lurked beneath the crybaby killer.

He gathered together the photos and binder. “I’m done.”

“Run, run, run,” Winston said mockingly, and leveled them with an unreadable look. “But consider yourselves warned. I know how Toby works. I know how he operates. I know he thinks I’m just as stupid as y’all do. But I also know that he’s got a thing for tying up loose ends. He knows about you, Kain, and that psychic...what’s her name? Something kinda weird and hippy-like. Celeste, maybe?” He smiled. “Yeah, Celeste. She could definitely be a loose end. Heard she’s a real looker, too. Better watch out for her. My brother’s got a thing for knives.”

Raw fury caused John’s vision to blur. He didn’t think, he didn’t rationalize. The need to shove his fist into Winston’s face and rip his throat for even breathing Celeste’s name had him lunging across the room.

Roy grabbed him around the waist and threw him against the wall before he even reached the bed. “Don’t.” He gave him a hard shove. “He’s not worth it. We’ll keep her safe.”

Breathing hard, as both fear and adrenaline pumped through his veins, John nodded. At the same time a nurse and Winston’s doctor entered the room.

“We’re leaving,” John said to the doctor.

“You’ll be back.” Winston grinned. With the bandage on his head, his face and eyes bruised, his beard unkempt, he looked demented, devious, and just like the old Winston. “Remember, I know something you don’t know,” he sang, then laughed. “Oh yeah. You’ll be back.”

A chill ran through him as he turned from the door to stare at the doctor and nurse who were once again trying to hold Winston against the bed. Several nurses brushed passed him as they rushed into the room to help.

“I know,” Winston continued to shout. “I know everything. Who he is. Where he lives. He’ll kill that pretty psychic and disappear. Just wait and see. Just wait and...”

The rest of Winston’s words were muffled as they stepped from the room and Roy closed the door. As they moved down the hallway, John’s head spun, with the rage still coursing through him, along with fragments of what Winston had said.

He stopped dead as Winston’s words pushed passed his outrage and anger.

“What?” Roy asked.

“Winston knew Celeste’s name, which tells me Toby knew she was involved with the investigation from the start.”

“How? The night Winston was arrested, the only people who knew about Celeste or you, for that matter, were...” Roy stopped dead and stared at him with sheer dread. “My deputies.”

John held onto the door handle as trees whipped passed the speeding cruiser. “Roy, I know you’re a sheriff and all, but even you shouldn’t be doing thirty miles over the speed limit.”

“I want to get back to my office.” Roy tightened his hands around the steering wheel and clenched his jaw. “I...need to think.”

“You need to slow down, in every sense.” Since they’d left the hospital, they’d wracked their brains trying to come up with who would have known about not only his, but Celeste’s involvement
before
Winston’s arrest.

Mitchell and his CSU team had met him at the dumpsite, but Celeste had never been mentioned to any of them. The ME, Carl, and his assistant, Dean, had witnessed her performing the reading that had resulted in a sketch of Winston. They’d ruled out Carl and Dean immediately. Winston was thirty-four, which made his brother, Tobias Haney, thirty-two. Carl was in his sixties, and while Dean fit the right age bracket, he’d grown up in Wissota Falls. Roy had known Dean since he’d been in diapers.

The reporter, Matt Boysen, had known about John’s involvement, and even Celeste’s because he’d seen her car parked outside the Sheriff’s Department the day they’d gone to the dumpsite together. Again, Boysen was a native to Wissota Falls and also in his early forties. Which left Roy’s deputies.

“Think about it.” Roy tapped a finger on the steering wheel. “It all comes back to my men. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

John agreed. Yet after witnessing the array of emotions drifting across the sheriff’s face, the betrayal, the disbelief, the anger, the hurt, he tried to think beyond Roy’s deputies. Unfortunately, he came up empty.

“See,” Roy said when he didn’t comment either way. “Even that logical brain of yours knows I’m right.”  

“Logically, it
does
make sense,” he said, “But what’s your gut telling you? You’ve worked side by side with your men. Do you honestly believe one of them could be a killer?”

The sheriff released a deep breath. “No. I’ve known Lloyd since he was a kid.”

John had already dismissed the Viking, knowing he’d grown up in Wissota Falls. “Okay, what about the others? Are they from the area, too?”

“No. They’ve all been hired within the last three to ten years.”

“Any of them from Mississippi or any of the other states we know Winston had been?”

“No, none of them. The closest one to the Mason Dixon line is Dan. He and his wife moved here from Tennessee. But you’re right. I can’t see him or any of my deputies being involved with something like this. They’re good men.”

Even good men
and
women do things for the wrong reason. John had learned this firsthand, but didn’t say as much. He needed the sheriff calm. He needed him rational and thinking straight. During the past week, he’d witnessed the camaraderie between Roy and his deputies. These men weren’t just employees, they were his friends.

Rather than feed into Roy’s suspicions, even if he believed the sheriff might be right, he’d have him look elsewhere. In the meantime, he’d have Rachel take a look into the background of Roy’s deputies.

“Look,” he began as Roy parked the car in front of the Sheriff’s Department. “We both suspect Haney looked at Winston as a liability, otherwise he wouldn’t have tried to have him killed. But what if Haney had been keeping an eye on Winston? He follows him, sees that he’s dumped four women—”

“Then worried they’d be found, he goes to clean up Winston’s mess only to find us there?” Roy cut the ignition, then clutched the keys in his hand.

The scenario made as much sense as the killer being one of Roy’s deputies. It also meant they could be looking at any local male, in his early thirties, as a suspect. And how large of an area would they look? Eau Claire was only a half hour drive, depending on traffic, to the original dump site, and there were over sixty thousand people populating that city. Or what if their killer resided in Madison or Green Bay, and Haney and Winston only used Wissota Falls as a place to dump their victims? The killer could drive to Wissota Falls from Madison in two hours, Green Bay in three.

A needle in a haystack. A killer walking among John Q. Public, as maybe an accountant, or a salesman, with a wife and two-point-five kids.

“Anything’s possible.” John stepped out of the car, and met Roy at the front end of the cruiser. “I’ve got some calls to make. In the meantime, do you think you could get a search party together to look for the third victim?”

“Right.” The sheriff nodded. “With everything that happened, I’d almost forgotten. I’ll let my...men know.” He cleared his throat and looked away. When Roy faced him again, he appeared to have aged ten years. The lines around his eyes and mouth were deeper, his face pale, gaunt, his eyes bleak and watery. “I’ll see if I can get any extra bodies from Highway Patrol, too.”

John lifted the keys to his rental from his pocket. “Good. Let me know what time.”

“Before you leave, I’d like to hear Celeste’s trance. I know this area. Any clues she might have missed will help when we set up a search perimeter.”

He masked his disappointment and shoved the keys back in his pocket. He’d already heard the trance. Twice. And didn’t want to relive the painful memories he’d witnessed last night.

What he wanted was to call Rachel and have her run background checks on Roy’s deputies. Ruling them out as suspects would help keep the sheriff focused, and help them take their search in a different direction.

But what he really wanted was to see Celeste. Even if it was the start of the dinner rush and she’d be too busy to talk to him. Being near her was all he needed.
She
was all he needed.

*

He disconnected the call, then slipped his cell phone in his pocket. Removing the mechanic’s suit he’d worn earlier from a hook on the wall, he dressed, then paced his garage.

In a good way, that call had changed everything, except he’d kidnapped Ugly Evie for nothing. Even though they knew his real name, Garrett still hadn’t given him away, and was once again heavily sedated. While he still wanted him dead, sending Evie to do the job had now become an unnecessary risk. Especially because by this time tomorrow, he’d be gone, and all his loose ends neatly tied.

Still, what to do about Evie? 

He shrugged and pulled the ski mask over his head.

Kill her, of course.

What to do with her body though, he wondered as he unlocked the door to his workshop. He wouldn’t have time to dispose of her today. Then again no one would be by until tomorrow. Even if someone were to check inside his workshop, he’d already be long gone.

He couldn’t have planned the entire situation any better himself, he thought, smiling beneath the ski mask. He’d been given time to rehearse his fantasy, and the opportunity for the real deal with Celeste. By the time they found Celeste, if they found her, he’d be drinking Coronas on a beach somewhere in Brazil.

Flipping the light switch, he closed the door behind him, then locked the deadbolt. Ugly Evie lay on the cement floor, still duct taped to the chair, eyes blinking rapidly as he stood beneath the lone bulb.

“Did you really think you were going to escape?” he asked as he righted the chair.

She shook her head, her eyes wide with fear. She should be afraid. Very afraid. He now had hours to play with her before he had to make last minute preparations for tomorrow. He had hours to practice, and he planned to use every single minute to draw out the pleasure.

Kicking her legs apart, he rubbed his dick and set his booted foot between her thighs. A scrawny little thing, he’d have to caution himself not lose control too fast on her in the beginning. He didn’t want to break her yet, he wanted her kicking and screaming. Fighting him until she understood the absolute power he held over her.

“Today’s your lucky day,” he said, still stroking himself over the mechanic’s suit. “I’ve changed my mind. You don’t have to kill Garrett Winston for me.”

The relief in her eyes would be short lived. Grinning, he removed his foot from the chair. Unsheathing the hunting knife, he slipped the serrated edge beneath the elastic waistband of her polyester uniform. “But there’s something I still want from you.”

He tore the knife into the polyester, splitting the pants in half, then ripped them from her legs. She screamed against the rag in her mouth.

“What’s that?” he asked, mocking her cries, her tears. “Can’t hear you, Evie. Something wrong?”

He swung the blade, slicing the air in front of her face, then laughed when her eyes bulged with shock and horror. “Oh yeah.” He
swiped the flat end of the knife along her skinny thigh, then up between her legs. “You and me are gonna have us a little fun.” 

Her breathing grew rapid, as she tried to inch away from the knife. The duct tape around her arms and legs gave her no leeway. The rag in her mouth kept her screams muffled as he used the serrated edge to cut the front of her shirt.

He stared at her naked torso, the quick rise and fall of her thin chest, then looked to her face when she let out a deep grunt. Her eyes were still wide, not with fear, but pain. He hadn’t even touched her yet. Not so much as a nick to her pale flesh and still she screwed her face as if he’d already stabbed her in the heart.

“What the hell’s wrong with you?” he asked, and gripped her face with his hand.

Her lips moved over the rag as she dragged in deep breaths and tried to speak. Rolling his eyes out of frustration, he tore the rag from her mouth.

“I...” she whispered, then grimaced, and sucked in deep breath.

“You what?” He laughed at the pained expression on her ugly face. “Can’t wait for me to fuck you? Ram my shiny toy into your bony body?”

His laughter died, when the corners of her mouth lifted into a slow, triumphant grin.

“Fuck you,” she snapped, then her torso seized up, her arms and legs pulling against the duct tape as she cried out again.

He slapped his hand over her mouth as she released a hiss of air. “Shut up.” He looked to the ground for where he’d dropped the rag. “Shut the fuck up.”

She smiled against his palm.

He moved his gloved hand away, then reached for the rag. “What the hell are you grinning about? You like the idea of me killing you?”

“Can’t...kill...me,” she said, between short, gasping breaths. “Already dead.”

“What are you—?”

Her body went taut again as her words sank in and penetrated his brain.
Already dead.
She was dying. Holy shit, she was dying right in front of him. Dying before he had a chance to kill her.

Dropping the rag and knife, he grabbed her purse. He ripped it open and spilled the contents on the cement. He quickly picked up two pill bottles and read the labels. Nitroglycerin and Coumadin. Both medications were used on people with heart conditions, and neither would do him any good now. The Coumadin was a blood thinner and the nitroglycerin worked to prevent heart attacks, not as treatment.

As her breathing grew shallow, he rushed to her and knocked the chair back. She thudded to the floor without a grunt. Worried he might be too late, he began pounding on her chest, over and over, hoping to jumpstart her heart. Sweat soaked his body. The ski mask grew damp from his exertions and made his face itchy. He stopped to check her pulse, then didn’t bother.

Her head rested against the cement, her eyes wide, lifeless, her mouth gaping open without a sound or a single breath released. He sagged next to her in defeat and tried to calm his own racing heart.

The bitch had won. She’d died before he had a chance to kill her.

He caught the glimmer from the knife across the room and the anger inside of him swelled to the point he couldn’t see straight. Without rising, he crawled toward the shiny blade, picked it up, then closed his eyes. Every fantasy that should have taken place flashed in his mind and only added to his outrage.

Tearing off the suffocating ski mask, he scrambled over to the scrawny, half-naked, lifeless body lying on the cement and still duct taped to the chair. He raised the knife high over his head. “This is what I should have done from the start,” he shouted, and sent the blade straight through her dead heart.

The utter disappointment, the memory of Ugly Evie’s mocking smile fragmented his mind into shards of raw fury. He stabbed her again, then again, and again. Rage consuming him, filling him and unleashing his hatred for her, for the bitch living under his roof. For Garrett. God, for Garrett.

As the image of his brother’s lust-filled eyes permeated his brain, he sagged to the floor and wept. When he tasted a salty tear, he moved to wipe his face dry, but noticed the blood coating his gloves. He looked to Evie, to the knife sticking out of her chest, and laughed. Laughed and then cried some more. Over the irony of the situation, the loss of the only person he’d ever loved. While Garrett wouldn’t die tonight, he was still dead to him. As dead as Ugly Evie. Figuratively, of course, he chuckled again as he peeled off his gloves and looked around the room.

He sighed, and realized that while Evie had robbed him of the prelude to the fantasy he’d play out with Celeste tomorrow, she gave him a different kind of release. With her death, he’d let loose his control. Something he’d done only once, twelve years ago when he and Garrett had first killed together. The memory of that whore still lingered. He might not remember the faces of the others that he’d killed, but he’d always remember hers.