Shadows of the Past (Logan Point Book #1): A Novel (24 page)

With a troubled heart, he entered the house through the back door and checked on Scott. He found him burrowed under a quilt, asleep. Taylor still thought his brother was involved in her stalking case, that even if he wasn’t the stalker, he knew something about it. He hoped she was wrong.

A commotion stirred downstairs, and Nick closed the door before the noise woke Scott and walked to the landing.

“Kate, where’d you hide my keys?” Charlie Adams’s voice bellowed from below.

“What are you talking about?” Kate answered.

“My keys. They’re gone. That pint of whiskey too.”

Whiskey? Maybe leaving Scott with Charlie this morning hadn’t been such a good idea.

“Anything wrong?” he asked.

Kate and her husband looked up at him.

“She hid my truck keys,” Charlie huffed. Wiry white hair protruded from beneath his Cardinals baseball cap. “Ain’t right.”

“Charlie, I haven’t had your keys. Or the liquor.” Kate sniffed the air. “Have you been drinking again?”

“I ain’t ever opened that bottle. Just had the pint settin’ on the dresser. Easier to stay quit when I know I can get it if I want to. You had no call to mess with my things.”

“For the last time, I didn’t touch your keys. They’re probably wherever that whiskey is. Did you look to see if you left them in the truck?”

Nick came down the stairs. “I’ll check for him,” he said, glancing at Charlie’s bare feet under his bib overalls. “Where’s it parked?”

“Right side of the house in the shade,” Charlie said. “Appreciate it.”

“Next to the oak tree? I parked there five minutes ago. There’s no truck.”

“It’s gotta be there. I ain’t moved it.”

A bad feeling started in the pit of Nick’s stomach and spread. “Let me see if Scott knows anything.”

He took the steps two at a time and didn’t bother to knock at Scott’s door. “Do you know where Charlie’s truck is?” he asked as he burst into the room.

Scott didn’t move. Nick jerked the blanket away.

Pillows.

B
lue lights on the side of the road sent ice rushing through Scott’s veins. Surely the old man hadn’t discovered his truck was gone yet. No, the Memphis cop was ticketing a speeder. His relief was short-lived. They’d be looking for him. Soon. He slapped his forehead. “Idiot.”

Borrowing Charlie’s truck had been dumb. But he couldn’t wait around for them to come and arrest him. He regretted telling Nick he’d been at Dr. Martin’s house that night. If he couldn’t convince his own brother he hadn’t attacked her and that sheriff, Dr. Martin sure wouldn’t believe him. Or the cops. He had to get away.

Scott glanced down at the pint of whiskey in the seat, still unopened. His fingers shook as he wrapped them around the bottle, desire blindsiding him.
No.
The last thing he needed was to get pulled over for drunk driving and for somebody to find the gun he’d stashed in the glove compartment. Not to mention he was driving a stolen truck.

His insides quivered like a strummed guitar. He needed to rest. And his mouth tasted like he’d been drinking with pigs. Should’ve brought a bottle of water instead of the whiskey. An exit sign on I-240 loomed ahead. Perkins Road exit. Wasn’t there a city park somewhere close by? He whipped off the Interstate. Audubon Park. Nick and Angie used to take him there for picnics. A few minutes
later, Scott pulled into the entrance to the park and found an empty spot beneath a huge oak. Not many people around. Maybe no one would notice him. He scanned the area and couldn’t find a water fountain.

Scott slid the whiskey under the seat and rolled down the window, wishing he’d never left Kate’s house. He shouldn’t have run. Nick would be so angry, he’d never help him . . . Dr. Martin wanted to put him in jail . . . but what if she’d only wanted to talk to him? His thoughts chased through his head like a mouse caught in a maze.

A light breeze wafted through the cab of the truck. His head nodded . . . so tired . . . maybe he’d just sleep, then figure out what to do. Scott nestled his head against the door and slipped into a troubled sleep as Kate’s words whispered in his heart.
God loves you.

“Agent Keller, Taylor Martin,” Livy said.

Taylor tucked the interview notes she and Livy had discussed for tomorrow’s meeting with Lieutenant Wilson in her purse and held out her hand to the silver-haired FBI agent. Unlike his subordinates, he’d shed his coat and tie. Even so, she sensed a no-nonsense manner.

“I’m glad you could join us, Dr. Martin. I read the paper you published on the need for a stronger focus on victim profiling. Excellent work.” He checked his watch. “Time to get started. I’ll be interested in hearing your take on the victims.”

Livy gave her a discreet thumbs-up as they walked toward the door. When Taylor turned the corner, she almost ran over Zeke Thornton. She didn’t know which of them was more surprised. Taylor recovered first. “I thought your conference ended yesterday.”

“It did, but I got to talking with a couple of the Memphis detectives and found out the FBI was taking over this case. Billy’s handling the investigation back in Newton as well as I could, and
I thought I might learn something that would help in other investigations. How about you—you’re not FBI.”

“Agent Keller invited me.”

His eyes widened. “I’m impressed.” Zeke licked his bottom lip. “There’s something else . . . I want to apologize for the way I’ve acted in the past. I’ve never thought victim profiling accomplished anything, but after the Coleman case, I figured out I was wrong. Should have already told you.” He offered his hand. “Okay?”

“Thanks,” she said, accepting his hand. She’d waited a year to hear him admit that. “You want to sit with Livy and me?”

He nodded toward a couple of detectives. “Think I’ll sit with them.”

Taylor took the seat next to Livy, then turned off her cell as Agent Keller handed out packets.

“We have four victims prior to this case. Raped, beaten, and strangled, each murdered in a different state, seemingly random. The only common denominator is they were all prostitutes, and their mouths were glued shut.”

Ladies of the street were the easiest target. Taylor sorted through the photos and tried to block out memories of the Atlanta case as she focused on the pictures of the women when they were alive—before this monster did his work. She wrote each of their names on her notepad along with a brief physical description. Straight black hair, blue eyes, with ages from early to late twenties. “When and where was the first murder?” she asked.

“The first murder was ten years ago in New York City.” Keller pinned a photo of the youngest victim.

Someone else asked about the other locations.

“Florida, Georgia, Louisiana, and now Tennessee.”

Her hand stilled as Keller wrote the states on a whiteboard and put a date by each name. She’d lived in four of the five states at the time of the murder.

“Dr. Martin, do you have any comments?” Keller asked.

She looked over her notes. “At first glance, the only thing these
five women have in common is their looks and occupation. A good percentage of violent crime victims have come in contact with their perpetrator in the past, but I don’t think that’s the case here. I think with these murders you’ll find the connection in
his
past. He has a mental illness that may or may not be obvious, but at some point in his life someone wronged him, and it triggered emotions he couldn’t deal with. Perhaps a woman he fixated on scorned him, but he wouldn’t kill her because he believes one day she will be his. So, he finds a substitute. These five women had the bad luck of having characteristics similar to the woman he’s fixated on, and they were readily available.”

“Thank you. Good observations. Questions anyone?”

Several questions were asked, then Agent Keller moved on to other details of the murders. When they finally took a break, Taylor had five front and back pages of notes, and Keller had asked her opinion twice more. “Whew,” she said to Livy as they stood. “Keller can talk faster than anyone I’ve ever known.”

“He’s good, all right, but so are you.” Livy glanced toward the photos of the women. “Does the first victim remind you of anyone?”

Taylor walked to the board where Keller had pinned the photos. There was something vaguely familiar about the victim. All the victims, actually. “Not really.”

“The way she wore her hair reminds me of you ten years ago.”

“You’re kidding.” Livy wasn’t and Taylor looked at the photo closer. The woman’s black hair was pulled up in a ponytail, Taylor’s regular hairstyle in high school. She supposed she could see a slight resemblance.

“Are you sure you don’t mind interviewing Detective Wilson by yourself tomorrow?”

“Be better if you were there, but I understand.” Taylor glanced at her watch. Almost eight. Less than an hour before dark. “I’m going to scoot out of here and see if Nick will let me talk to Scott.”

Livy nodded. “I’ll take good notes, and if a miracle happens
and I can get away tomorrow morning, I’ll meet you at Wilson’s. Ten o’clock?”

“That’d be great.” Taylor gathered her purse and notebook and looked around for Agent Keller. He stood near the doorway.

“You’re not leaving us, are you?” Keller asked.

“I need to work on another case.” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Zeke get on the elevator and waved. “But thanks for letting me sit in.”

“I appreciate your insight on the victims. If you’re ever interested in a career with the FBI, give me a call.”

“Thanks, but no thanks,” she said with a smile. The high praise lifted her spirits, and she hummed as she rode the elevator down to the first floor.

Heavy clouds had hastened nightfall. Goose bumps raised on her arms as she crossed Washington Street to the parking garage. She would not panic. Lightning arced across the black sky, revealing heavy clouds to the west. A gust of wind pushed against her, carrying the coolness of hail in it. The storm hadn’t crossed the Mississippi River yet—hopefully she’d make it home before it started.

As she started her car, Taylor slid her cell phone from her pocket and turned it on. Immediately, a beep warned of a low battery. She groaned. She’d left her car charger in Washington. Taylor glanced at the cell screen. Five missed calls. Three from Nick, one from her mom, the last one from Livy.

She hit the call-back button and Livy’s number dialed. No answer. She glanced at the fuel gauge. Less than an eighth of a tank. Why hadn’t she noticed that earlier? She had no idea if there was a gas station in downtown Memphis. Surely she had enough gas to make it to the Walmart in Logan Point. She dialed her mom’s number.

“Taylor where . . . you? Nick’s . . . reach . . .”

“I’m in a car garage, and you’re breaking up. I’m on my way, but I have to stop at Walmart.”

“Don’t—”

The phone died.

Scott stared at the families in the park, walking, spread out on blankets enjoying a picnic; in a far field, a few people played baseball. He and Nick and Angie had done that. His thoughts drifted . . .

“Why did we have to
leave Seattle?”

“You know why.” Digger poured more of the
amber liquid into Scott’s glass. “You did those bad
things . . .”

“No! I didn’t do it!”

A fly buzzed near Scott’s ear. He jerked upright, slapping the air. Sweat dribbled down his face. He must have dozed off. Day had slipped into night, yet the air remained still and hot. Lightning flashed to the west followed by a low rumble. Maybe not for long.

The conversation with Digger returned. Did he really do what Digger said he did? No! He didn’t hurt that sheriff. Or Dr. Martin. Did he? Digger was his friend—he wouldn’t lie to him. He pressed his hand to his sweaty head. He needed to talk to him. But first he had to get a phone.

Thirty minutes later Scott exited a Target store with a throwaway phone, a soda, two candy bars, and thirteen dollars and fifty-three cents of Charlie’s money he’d borrowed. He’d decided not to use his debit card, fearing the cops might trace him. It hadn’t rained, but the threat still held. He dug through his billfold, looking for his friend’s number, and found the photo of the two of them—Digger with his arm draped over Scott’s shoulders. He put it back in the billfold and kept looking for Digger’s cell phone number, finally finding it. Digger answered on the second ring.

“What’s going on, Scotty boy? Where are you?”

“At a Target store.” Scott climbed into the truck cab.

“Doesn’t tell me much.”

“It’s near Audubon Park.” He couldn’t remember the name of
the street. “Dr. Martin wants to talk to me. You gotta help me. Tell her I didn’t do it.”

“You been smoking too much dope, boy?”

“No! I’m sober. You—”

Sirens wailed into the opposite end of the parking lot. Scott snapped the phone shut. Maybe the cops made Charlie’s truck, and they were coming after him. Or maybe Digger told them where he was. He shook his head. He wasn’t thinking straight. Digger didn’t have time. But he had to get out of Memphis.

Immediately, his phone chirped. He ignored it as he eased the truck out of the parking lot into the night. Maybe he didn’t need to trust anyone.

Or, maybe he just needed to do what was right. Take the truck home and face the music.