Skin Heat (18 page)

“Sec. I’m putting on the headset so you can brief me while I drive.”

Hebert plugged in his phone and made the connections, then curled the earphone mic around his ear. He pulled out of the driveway then. He wanted to get away from the grieving family inside more than he felt they couldn’t afford a five-minute delay.

“Ready?” Birch asked.

“I’m plugged in.”

“A weird one. Locals responded to a B and E report from the alarm company and investigated a suspicious vehicle in the lot. Since the plates came back as reported stolen, they popped the trunk and found our girl inside.”

“Tell me about her.”

“From what they said, no ID or unusual marks. Mid-twenties, brunette. But get this . . .” The anticipation in his boss’s voice put his nerves on edge. “She was all tied up in red satin ribbons.”

He froze, hoping this wasn’t going where he thought it was. “Like a Christmas present?”

“Not exactly. More like the laces of ballet shoes.”

Just like the girl we found in the woods, a few weeks back.
Birch was describing the same general physical type, too. That made two.

“Any marks on her?”

“Nope. But you’ll see for yourself soon enough.”

That was unusual. But there was no overlooking the laced red ribbons. The two cases had to be connected. A sour feeling swelled in his stomach. Birch was right; this was a weird one, and he had a feeling it would get worse before it got better.

“Did you call the tech team?”

“Yeah, they’re on their way and will meet you at the scene.”

He hoped the locals had enough sense to cordon the area off. He’d seen more than one scene compromised by wellintentioned incompetence. This was a different county from the vic the hunters had found, so he could expect different personnel. Hebert drove through the sunrise, and it was full morning by the time he got there.

They had, indeed, secured the area. The car sat isolated while the sheriff and his deputy milled around, barking at passersby. The lot had more than its share of lookie-lous. Unfortunately, there was a sandwich shop in the mall that served breakfast so everyone who stopped there on the way to work had seen the flashing lights and the tape and then spread the word.
You gotta love the digital age.
A surprising number of people had turned up to see the show. He guessed this town didn’t have much in the way of entertainment.

Since they wouldn’t let anyone in the lot, people had parked along the streets and stood with coffee or some other steaming drink, watching the show. First Hebert skimmed the crowd for anyone showing undue intensity or excitement. But they all expressed standard-issue morbid curiosity and interest. Then he went over to introduce himself to the Halpern County Sheriff.

He extended a hand. “I’m with the ABI. Emil Hebert.”

“Nice to meet you, Agent Hebert. Cliff Raleigh.” The other man shook hard, proving a point, he guessed. “Your men got here before you did. Seem to be efficient, too. Taking pictures with their Rebel digital cameras and all.”

His good-old-boy façade might fool some people, but Hebert wasn’t falling for it. When he first started out, he’d been taken by that
I’m just a rube
ruse and been burned by it. He kept his expression neutral. There was no call for this to turn into a pissing match. The sheriff had obviously known he needed outside help.

“They’re good at what they do. Walk me through what happened?”

He listened to what Raleigh had to say and his report matched what his boss had told him. “You have some names and addresses for me?”

He needed to talk to the two people who had been present when they found the body. Maybe some other workers would have some idea when the car had arrived in the lot; it wasn’t a huge parking area by any means. And the vehicle itself was pretty distinctive in its ugliness.

“Yes, of course. But please be extra polite when you visit the lady who runs the clinic. Geneva Harper’s people—”

He set his jaw and blanked the rest.
Not this again.
Hebert cared fuck-all for local politics. He didn’t care if she was born of Jesus and Mary Magdalene; she still needed to answer his questions. If they wanted him to investigate, they couldn’t set up roadblocks. Rina would’ve smoothed over his icy look, but she wasn’t here, and he had to deal. It also pissed him off Raleigh would try to tell him how to best do his job.

“I’ll need to talk to them. And I want to see the report from the alarm company. Are there any cameras in this lot?”

Raleigh laughed. “Don’t I wish. Geneva—that is, Ms. Harper—had some in her shop, but the thieves busted them in the break-in and there are none outside.”

This case was going to be a bundle of laughs—he just knew it. “Then why don’t you start by showing me our girl?”

After they both donned protective gear, Raleigh led the way. Hebert lifted the tape and stepped under. He’d seen a lot of strange things in his day, but this gave him pause. With the lid raised, the trunk looked like a coffin, a resemblance further amplified by the white satin she lay on.

But no damage had been done to her. Eyes closed, lashes in dark contrast to her pale skin, she looked serene and almost peaceful. Few murder victims did. He didn’t know what to make of the red ribbons, but it clearly had a ritual significance. It meant something to the killer.

Yeah, he had a feeling he’d be seeing this guy’s work again.

 

He’d enjoyed watching
them discover her.

While the sheriff waited for outside help and rubberneckers stopped to gawk, he’d stood in the shadows and admired the response to his handiwork. This one had been closer to right, but still not perfect. He’d used some of the drugs he’d stolen from the clinic, and she died quickly, but not accidentally. This time, it happened in accordance with his will, not due to incompetence, and the old man was pleased.

How amusing to slip in and take the drugs silently, no alarms, no notice, and then return to her to do his work. Once he finished, he’d come back and trashed the place, setting the alarm off. These stupid cops probably thought it was a coincidence. He had been a little surprised they’d focused on the car so quickly. He’d thought it might take a little while, although he hoped not. He did want her found while everyone could appreciate the expertise.

But that wasn’t the death he wanted for Geneva Harper. She required more drama. More passion. In time, he would learn how to do it.

Practice, practice.
He was starting to like it.

He’d taken pleasure in this one, arranging her limbs and winding the ribbons about them in a pretty counterpoint to her pale, pale skin. This time, there had been no ugly wounds to hide, but it looked right; he didn’t question why. Closing her eyes had been inspired.

Had they noticed the way he’d spread a pristine white sheet in the trunk before placing her inside? Doubtless, yes, which meant they would be checking the tags and the fabric and trying to deduce who he was from such small details. It wouldn’t work. He’d taken care to buy a common brand in a different town. Nobody would remember him, and countless thousands of these would’ve been sold in a week’s time.

Now, he sat in silence, waiting. This was his special room, no windows, just cement walls, and a door. Six by six. It had been used as storage by the old farmwives who lived here, once upon a time. Ancient jars still sat on the shelves behind him, homemade pickles swimming in brine, canned beets, and a pair of eyeballs. He hated the waiting, but the old man would come. He always did. It was better if he dealt with him here in private, where nobody else could see or hear.

From out of the darkness, the old man stumbled toward him. His face was lined with drink and he limped because he’d lost a foot fighting for his country.
So you’re finally doing what you were born to do, boy. What took you so fucking long?

He knew his father was dead, of course. But he couldn’t make him rest until the work was done.
Break them for me,
the old bastard would rage.
Leave them with nothing.
And he was an obedient son. He had found he heard the old man less, after taking a girl. They calmed him; he liked to watch.

“I don’t know.”

The old man made him feel weak. Impotent. Too well he remembered the nights in the dark in his own filth and the days he hadn’t eaten, until he would’ve promised anything to make it stop. He had promised, in fact.

He put his hands over his ears and shut his eyes. It had been too long since he laid that pretty, pretty girl to her rest. The old man was getting impatient. He’d done so much killing in the war that he hungered for more. He clawed at his own neck, feeling the old man’s teeth there.
Vampire. He will suck the life out of me.
A low moan escaped him, and he crouched down, arms over his head, and began to rock.

It was a long time later before he came to himself again. It was nearly dark, and there was a chill in the air. Carefully, he put his things away. He couldn’t take his work home, after all.

He climbed in the car and drove away from the desolate house. It was no more than a ruin to anyone else’s eyes, rotten clapboard and broken windows. His dreams had died there, long ago.

His mother had breakfast waiting when he got home. As ever, she seemed pleased to see him. She was a fragile little thing, who’d once dreamed of becoming a dancer; in happier times, she would get out her red ballet shoes and tell him how she’d planned to go to New York to join a famous dance troupe, but those days were long gone. It seemed impossible to him that she could’ve survived his father’s fists, but as he got older, he had stepped in whenever possible to take her place. She had wept over it, but she’d never once tried to put herself between them. Once, she’d tried to take him away, but the old man dragged them both back. They sat for twelve hours under the threat of his shotgun while he screamed and drank. He had been sure he would die then, but in the end, he only pissed himself and then the old man made him crawl through it like a dog.

“I made waffles,” she said, laying the table.

Her movements were jerky and fearful, after all these years. She couldn’t meet his eyes, and he had never hurt her. But he was starting to see why the old man had slapped her around; the constant cringing woke a monster in him, too. Sometimes he wanted to scream at her, just like the devil had. So far, he’d contained the urge.

“Thank you.”

“Thanks for fixing the heater. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” She touched his cheek with gentle affection, and he fought not to recoil.

Revulsion swelled in his stomach. He made himself ignore the evil, insidious voice and sat down at the breakfast table. He desperately wanted them both to shut up, but they never, ever did.

“Can I do anything else?”

The old man’s laughter rang caustic in his ears.
Hike up those skirts, pussy boy. She hasn’t had a good seeing-to in years, and since she can’t have a real man, you’ll have to do.

She was smiling, like she didn’t
know
. “No, just enjoy your breakfast. I’m going to the market for a few things.”

He couldn’t eat a bite. Once she’d gone, he scraped the pastry with its sticky syrup into the trash. Feeling trapped, he went down the hall to his old bedroom. He was exhausted, but sleep didn’t come easily. Eventually, he drifted off, and his dreams were dark as night.

When he woke, he found her there, as she always was. She had curled up at his back like a ghost, one hand on his head. There existed here no sense of what was right or fitting. If he protested, she would sob, and say how lonely she was.
You’re all I have left,
she would weep. And he hated her tears almost as much as the old man’s vitriol. But then she would cry anyway, so he had no choice but to hold her. As if she knew he was awake, she started sniffling on cue.

He rolled to face her. Close up, he saw the lines on her skin and the deep bruises beneath her eyes. Not from a man’s fists anymore, but from lack of sleep. Years after the old man’s death, she still feared his reach, or maybe she feared something else more, now.

“You’re going to
leave
me. You spend so much time away from home.”

This was an old argument. He didn’t even live here anymore. This was her place, and he only came when he had to. This woman was truly wretched, and he wanted nothing to do with her, for all she had carried him in her womb. He wished she would find some purpose that did not revolve around him. She was as likely to sprout wings. In that the old man had been right; she was worthless except when it came to cooking and cleaning. She herself could not imagine doing anything else, not so long after her dancer’s dreams went to dust by way of a man’s brutality.

“Mother . . .” But he could not find words to refute her claims. They clogged in his throat, and his fists clenched at the failure. He wanted to hurt her and could not.

Feeble,
the old man said scornfully.

“Oh,” she cried. “You’re still mine. Still my beautiful boy.”

She hugged him to her and covered his face with kisses. Her arms strangled his neck, squeezing, squeezing, and he loathed her closeness and loved it at the same time. His prick hardened because she was close and warm, and she had
always
done this to him. She’d once done more in the guise of educating him. But he knew it wasn’t right, even if his body remembered otherwise.

“What a good boy,” she whispered. “Such a sweet boy. Nothing like him.”