Skin Heat (31 page)

Time to pack it in and head for the sheriff’s office to use the NCIC database. As he got back in his car, his phone rang and Raleigh’s voice came across the line. “I think you need to get over here, if you’re still in town.”

“What’s up?”

“Last night I told my boys to keep an eye out for any reports related to light, late-model Chevrolets.”

“An unofficial BOLO?”

“More or less.”

“I take it they found something?”

“Strangest thing . . . but, yes. The Willigs called and reported their car missing. They’d gone on vacation in Europe, but the missus started feeling poorly, and wanted to come home early. When they arrived, they found the back door of the garage standing open and the car gone.”

“Let me guess,” Hebert said. “It was a Cobalt Coupe, summit white.”

“How did you know that?” Raleigh sounded impressed.

“Never mind that. What’s the status on the vehicle?”

“I’ve got it in impound right now.”

“Already?” Now Hebert was impressed.

“They had OnStar. That’s why we tracked it down so fast. The thief must have fled on foot, as soon as he realized it had a tracking system. The truly strange thing? It was only a few miles down the road from the Willig place when we found it.”

Strange, indeed. He had the sense they were missing a vital piece of the puzzle, and if he could just work it out, then everything else would fall into place. But if the guy had been forced to abandon the vehicle earlier than planned, he would’ve left evidence behind.
Got you this time. Foiled because an old woman didn’t like French cooking. That has to sting.

“Don’t let anyone touch anything. I’m calling my crew.”

Hebert did that first thing and received a promise the full team would arrive as soon as they could. Hair, fiber, prints—anything they found on the car could prove useful, assuming a connection between the man who had tried to lure Geneva Harper into stopping and the one Minnie Davies had seen outside Tina Hedwig’s house. If not, then they’d have a ridiculously strong case against anyone they arrested for joyriding in the Willig coupe.

Then he drove downtown, such as it was. He could tell it had been restored recently because most of the buildings carried the same brick façade. In winter it was quaint, the light poles strung with white lights. Somebody—the town beautification committee most likely—had planted trees along the sidewalk at regular intervals, and they too had been wrapped in lights . . . and red ribbon. Most likely, it meant nothing. Red ribbons were a common holiday touch. Yet he stared hard at those trees as he went past.

The Halpern County courthouse was an old colonial building with smooth white columns, surrounded by lawyers’ offices and bail bondsmen. They were doing a brisk business, too. These days, crystal meth had become a problem even in rural areas. Hebert grabbed his bag and exited the vehicle; he clicked the button, locking the doors, as he hurried up the steps. A chill wind bit through his jacket. It was hard not to feel for the girls he had found out in the woods.

They’d discovered another one. Anonymous tip. He didn’t like those. Didn’t trust them. And the girl . . . this death had been the most personal—and the most artful—yet. He could still see her in his mind’s eye, pale and pretty and covered in flowers. Someone had choked the life out of her. The count had increased. He’d escalated, gone from experimentation to perfecting his method. This kill displayed none of the tentative exploration from before. Now they were dealing with someone who had discovered what gave him the greatest satisfaction. Less time would elapse between victims, though he might become cleverer about disposing of them. Or he might become more flagrant, seeking the attention inherent in quick discovery. Some dreamed of starting their own cult of personality and did not mind they could end their days in prison or in the execution chamber.

His people had swept the area and this time, they hadn’t come up empty-handed. Unfortunately, the results took time. The labs were all backlogged, and the approaching holidays didn’t make response times better. If only he could sit down at a computer and get instant results as they did on detective shows.

He pushed through the heavy doors and found himself in a hallway, where everything was made of burnished wood. Hebert paused at the directory and then followed the arrows to Sheriff Raleigh’s office. Once inside, he found himself in an large open room full of desks used by his deputies. There was a jail cell to the left, and straight on, an ornate door inset with frosted glass stenciled with Raleigh’s name and title. He made straight for it.

A few officers nodded or raised a hand in greeting. Nobody tried to stop him. He did knock before stepping into the other man’s domain. It was only polite.

“Come in!” Raleigh called.

Hebert did. They had a lot of ground to cover, and he had a new theory. One that just might catch a killer, if the evidence bore his idea out.

This time, nothing he did made the old man’s voice go away. It drilled into his skull like an ice pick.
You’re gonna get caught before you do her. Because you don’t have the balls. Way to go with that car, genius. That was a real brilliant plan.

A shudder went through him. The worst part was that he’d been thinking the same thing. Having the couple return just before he brought the vehicle back had been catastrophic, derailing his master plan. Nobody would’ve ever known it was missing, and he would’ve had the opportunity to wipe down the car just in case, and then park it in the garage. But then Geneva Harper was rumored to be kind; she should’ve stopped for him.

As her brother had.

A roar escaped him. It didn’t matter out here. The only one who could hear him had been without recourse for months. Maybe that would make him feel better. Maybe the old man would like to see Lucius Harper bleed.

He had kept him alive this long because it was perfect and diabolical; after everything else he’d suffered, Luke also had to watch his sister die. And he knew precisely how to do it, now. He was ready for her. Feeling the soft flesh give in his hands, silencing the gargling cries and incoherent wails? Godlike. Just thinking about it gave him a silent rush. Unlike the others, he had kept something of hers to remember her by. She had been the perfect victim, offering him the perfect death. He wished he could do it again and again.

But now everything had been ruined. He’d left evidence behind. If they ever figured out that everything centered around the Harpers, they would start digging. And it wouldn’t take long to find his family’s history of threats and grievances. The old man had left a trail a mile wide.

Never left them a stolen car with my fingerprints all over it,
the old bastard said.

It might be a little tougher to track him. He’d changed his name for that very reason. But it wouldn’t stop a determined investigator. Soon enough they’d realize that Donnell Carson had a son. They’d figure out how he had been fired from the mill and spent his years thereafter drinking, beating his wife and child, and spouting threats against the Harper family.

I was so close,
he thought, heart heavy.

Now it was all falling apart. Funny how one mistake could change everything. Now he raced the clock to see if he could finish what he’d started before they put the pieces together. With the evidence he’d left behind in the car, if they started looking at his family, then he was done. His name change was a matter of public record, and the truth would lead right to him.

He strode through the ruined house and out the back door. Chain and padlock secured the root cellar, which offered perfect privacy for all his dire work. When they found this place, they would know. But he wasn’t in custody yet. He had a little time.

Pulling the key from his pocket, he unlocked the basement and climbed down the ladder, pulling the doors closed after him. He heard the other man breathing in terrified gulps. Each time he came down, Harper feared it meant the end, and he had gotten to the point, after his long captivity, that he didn’t know what he wanted more: freedom or death.

In the dark, with perfect ease, he found the chain and yanked, summoning weak illumination. This underground room smelled of human filth and fear. Lucius looked weak and sick from his incarceration. He had scabs on his wrists from where he’d tried to escape time and again, before accepting the cuffs weren’t coming off unless he chewed his own thumbs off. He was too civilized for that. For a while, he hoped for rescue and maintained a brittle defiance. Now Harper was more of a beaten dog. He knew that feeling well.

The water bottle beside him was nearly empty, and the bucket in the corner was nearly full. He hadn’t come down here in a while.

“Come to finish me?” Harper asked, toneless.

“Not just yet.” But he did lash out with a booted foot to sate his anger.

He moved close enough to snag the water bottle and fill it from the tap, then he set it on the floor just inside Harper’s reach. Next he found an old loaf of bread on the pantry shelf. By now it would be stale and moldy as well. If Harper was hungry enough and if he wanted to survive, he’d choose to eat it. And then, for the little time remaining him, Harper would burn with that awful desperation. He placed the bread beside the water bottle.

Down here it was dark and cold, nothing but dirt and cement block. The old man liked seeing the great Harper heir so reduced. It quieted his rage to manageable levels, freeing him to think. Maybe all was not yet lost. Maybe he could still triumph; surely he was not destined for a quotidian end in a gloomy cell.

“Why are you doing this?” The question came in the tone of one who had long since given up hoping for an answer.

He smiled. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

His tone must’ve penetrated because Harper focused on him, really focused, and fresh fear kindled in his face. “What does that mean?”

“It means you’ll be seeing your sister before too long.”

“No!” Despite weakness born of captivity and deprivation, the man lunged for him, straining at his chains. “Leave her alone!”

“Your parents are going to be devastated, you know. Both their children in one year . . . who could bear that? Your mother already looks so fragile—”

“You’re not human. Haven’t you done enough to my family already?”

“No,” he said gently. “I’m only just getting started.”

When he left, he carried away with him the beautiful sound of Harper weeping. He felt near tenderness for the man; he’d spent days down here himself. As a child, he’d tried to resist the old man’s attempts to shape him into something else. He’d just wanted to eat and sleep and play like other children. But the darkness and the rats soon cured him of it. The old man had been proud when he came back and found him surrounded by corpses.

Now they won’t bite me anymore,
he’d said, angry and defiant.

And the old man had unlocked his chains, for once approving. He’d ruffled his hair and said,
Good work, Son. You faced your fear. You killed your enemy. Now you’re worthy to eat at my table.

For the first time in his life, he had been proud. His mother, weak and cringing cow that she was, ran his bath and fussed over his wounds. She didn’t understand he’d come out of the ground in triumph, changed from that pathetic, crying, wetting thing. He had harnessed the darkness, as the old man intended. He could mold it to his will and make others dance as he desired. There was such power in that. If he could just succeed in silencing the old man’s voice forever, then he would be free.

It was a risk, driving his personal vehicle out here. But he could not risk a theft each time he needed to visit. So instead, he sat with his lights off, some distance from the ruined house. For long moments he watched the road, making sure it was clear in all directions, before he pushed out of the overgrown drive. Two cars passed, their lights blazing in twin halos. If someone stopped and asked why he was parked here, what would he say? He’d have to kill them. His pulse thundered as if he’d been running.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
The rhythm reminded him of a shovel striking the dirt—funny, even his own heart sounded like the grave.

But nobody noticed him. The old man had taught him well. Once the way was clear, he pulled onto the road and drove sedately home, where his woman waited for him. She was cooking when he arrived, which meant he was late.

“Did you get the cherries and the cognac?”

He stared at her, nonplussed. She’d asked him if he would run out to the store for her. A pound cake sat cooling on the counter, filling the house with a delicious, buttery aroma, lightly touched with sweet vanilla. The black cherry cognac sauce would provide the perfect touch to the dessert—and he’d forgotten the reason he’d left the house in the first place. Stress built at the back of his head. He couldn’t think of a single excuse.

She paused, frowning. “Are you all right? Did something happen?”

“I almost hit a deer.” The lie came out smoothly, supplied by the old man. “I never made it to the store.”

He felt the old man staring out of his eyes. Avid. Lustful. This was the first time he’d ever taken control, and he was so relieved, he let him.

You owe me. Remember that.
And he knew what the old man wanted. To ride her the way he had his mother in life: cruel, vicious, and domineering. When the time came, he’d fight that. She couldn’t be damaged as he had been.

“But you didn’t? You’re not hurt.” She took a tactile survey, her hands gentle.

“Just a little shaken. It was a close call.” He couldn’t afford to slip up like this again. The disaster with the car had shaken everything loose—distracted him and made him careless.

“Well, dinner’s almost ready now. Don’t worry about the sauce. Whipped cream and powdered sugar will do fine.”