Slice (25 page)

F
IFTY-EIGHT

B
ryan was lost. But how could he be lost? This was crazy. Just crazy.

He must have headed the wrong way on Hickory Dell and ended up smack in the middle of the woods. He looked around. The trees were thick, and he was crunching through an ever-deepening carpet of fallen leaves. Bryan had thought he was cutting through the Gorins' backyard; he'd wanted to avoid walking in the street, since he was bleeding from his hand and from the back of his head. But instead of cutting through the yards, he must have wandered into the woods, turned right instead of left.

“Fuck,” Bryan said to himself.

He thought he had sobered up a bit. But maybe he hadn't. How else to explain how he'd gotten so goddamn
lost
?

His shoulder ached. He'd probably dislocated it when he'd been thrown down the stairs.

Goddamn Manning. Bryan would make sure he paid for that.

His legs felt unsteady, as if they might buckle at any moment. So Bryan stopped walking and tried to get his bearings. He looked around. He didn't recognize anything. He looked up. The trees were so thick that he couldn't see the moon or stars. There was barely enough moonlight for him to see just a few feet ahead of him. Up ahead in the trees, he thought he saw a house—maybe a small shack. But he had no idea where he was. He'd never been in this part of the woods before.

The night was still.

Terribly still and quiet.

Bryan heard a twig snap.

A squirrel or a possum, he supposed.

He decided to turn around and walk back the way he came. But which way was that? How far had he walked? How far was the road?

He couldn't tell. But he began walking, the sound of crunching leaves unbearably loud in his ears.

After a few moments, Bryan stopped again. He still had no clue as to where he was, or if he was walking in the right direction.

He heard leaves crunching from not far away.

Someone was following him.

John Manning. He was sure of it.

“Fuck you, Manning,” Bryan shouted, and was aware that his words were still slurry. But at least he was now aware that he was slurring. That meant he must be sobering up.

He resumed walking. Every couple of minutes he stopped and listened. Whoever it was that was following him was getting closer.

It had to be Manning.

“You want another go at it, Manning? Okay, a fair fight this time. Not you coming up behind me! Show yourself, you asshole! And we'll fight this out, like men!”

The sound of leaves crunching ceased.

“Manning?” Bryan asked, eyes squinting into the dark.

Before he even knew what was happening, he felt a blade slice into his gut. He looked down, and saw the shiny metal as it slid back out of his flesh, caught by the light of the elusive moon. A second passed, and then a waterfall of blood gushed from under Bryan's shirt. The pain wasn't that bad. It felt more like having the wind knocked out of him. Already wobbly, Bryan crumpled to the ground. As he did so, he looked up into the eyes of his killer.

“Why?” Bryan managed to gasp, just before the blade swooped down and sliced him across the throat.

F
IFTY-NINE

I
t began raining slightly before sunrise. It was a torrential downpour that brought a cold dampness seeping through the joints of Jessie's old house, and it was made worse by the fact that the door and window of the front porch were taped over with plastic.

Jessie poured some steaming hot chamomile tea into Aunt Paulette's cup. “You must have been mistaken,” she told her calmly.

“I wish I was,” the older woman replied. She looked somehow diminished this morning. Her long gray hair hung raggedly at her shoulders, she hadn't applied her usual bright red lipstick, and it was obvious from her eyes that she hadn't slept. “But it was
him
, Jessie. It was Emil.”

Jessie sat down opposite her at the kitchen table and took a sip of her own tea. She shivered. “Why didn't you tell me last night?”

“Well, when we got home and I saw what had happened here, I didn't want to upset you further. I figured it could wait until morning.” Aunt Paulette looked over at her. “But I stayed awake most of the night, just watching your house.”

Jessie smiled sadly. “Dear Aunt Paulette.”

If this was true . . . if Emil really
was
still alive as Jessie had long feared . . .

Maybe Monica was right. Maybe Jessie shouldn't have returned to Sayer's Brook. All she'd done was bring anxiety and worry to the lives of her sister and aunt. When Monica had come home last night and seen the damage to Jessie's house, and then learned the reason for it, she'd had a fit. “Jesus fucking H. Christ!” she'd cursed, making Jessie cringe. She knew the curses were directed at her, not at Bryan. To Monica's mind, even Bryan's drunken shenanigans were Jessie's fault.

And now this. Aunt Paulette claiming to have seen Emil last night in town.

“You really think he was real?” Jessie asked.

“I don't know. I wondered if he might have been a ghost.” Aunt Paulette locked eyes with her. “I have seen ghosts other times in my life, you know.”

“I know.” At least, Jessie knew that her aunt had
believed
she'd seen ghosts.

“It seemed possible that he may have been an apparition, because, after all, Monica didn't see him,” Aunt Paulette continued. “But the more I thought about it, I think he was a real living human being, because I heard his steps on the street walking away in the dark.”

“Ghosts don't make noise when they walk?” Jessie couldn't help a small smile.

“Go ahead, make jokes,” Aunt Paulette said, sitting back in her chair. “But I'm worried, sweetie.”

Jessie sighed. “I'm sorry, Aunt Paulette. I wasn't joking. I just don't know what to believe. So much has been happening.”

“Well, think about it. Was Emil's body ever returned to the United States?”

“I don't know.”

“They never informed you of a burial or anything?”

Jessie shook her head. “Why would they? We weren't married. I didn't know any of his family, so whether they were contacted, I couldn't tell you.”

“Sweetie, what if the Mexican drug agents were wrong? What if that
wasn't
Emil who died in the shoot-out ?”

Jessie ran her fingers through her hair. “Believe me, that thought has crossed my mind many times of the years. But . . . why shouldn't I believe the authorities?” She gave her aunt a look. “And
you
confirmed it for me. You said back then that you couldn't see Emil when you put on your psychic hat. You said that convinced you he was dead.”

“It was true that I couldn't see him. But there may have been other reasons for that.”

Jessie sighed and stood up from the table. “Aunt Paulette, you have been wonderful to me ever since I came back.” She headed over to the sink and began washing out her teacup. “In fact, I don't know what I would have done without you. I love you so much, and so does Abby.” She turned around to look at her. “But you frighten me when you talk about these visions . . . this tall, dark man you see out there, and now Emil.”

“I don't want to frighten you, but I feel I have to warn you! Should I not have mentioned what I saw last night?”

Jessie sat back down at the table. “No, of course you should have mentioned it.”

“If Emil is still alive, and he's come back . . .” Aunt Paulette said, her voice trailing off.

“It would make sense, in a terrifying way,” Jessie admitted. “He could have killed both Inga and Mrs. Whitman as a way to terrorize me.”

“I've got to tell the police that I saw him.”

Jessie nodded. “I suppose you should. I think Detective Wolfowitz will be very interested to hear that.”

“You should go back to New York, sweetie. Take Abby and go back—”

“No.” Jessie looked at her aunt with hardened eyes. “If this possibly is true—if Emil
has
returned—then I'm not going to let him win. That's what he wants. He wants to terrorize me. Well, I'm not going to let him.”

“Oh, but, baby, is it safe?”

“If Emil is really alive, if he's really out to get me, then
nowhere
I go will be safe. I'm not going back to an anonymous life again, hiding out in New York. I'm through with that! I ran from him for too long! Besides, I couldn't be anonymous again even if I wanted to. I've got a name now, because of my book, and soon I'll have another book in the stores. Emil could easily find me wherever I went.”

Aunt Paulette reached across the table and placed her wrinkled hand over Jessie's.

“I'm not going to run,” Jessie told her. “I'm tired of being scared all the time. I'm tired of crying. Todd is fixing the window and the door today, and tomorrow morning the security people will be here to install the alarm system. Some horrible things have happened, but if it's Emil who's doing them, then I'm not going to let him win. This is my home. Mom wanted me to live here. She told me I was strong enough to face anything—and I am! Emil's had me running scared for the last six years.” Jessie looked over at her aunt with a conviction in her eyes the older woman had never seen there before. “Well, not anymore. Not anymore!”

The phone was ringing. For a moment, Jessie didn't seem to hear it. Then she stood from her chair and hurried to answer it.

S
IXTY

“Y
ou're writing a book? That's how you explain it?

You're writing a book?”

Chief Belinda Walters stood facing John Manning in his parlor. He'd asked her to sit down, but she'd demurred. She'd gotten right to the point, asking him why he kept a dossier on Emil Deetz and the murder of Screech Solek. And why he'd been interviewing some of Deetz's old gang. Manning had replied by saying he was writing a book.

“I don't know why you should seem so surprised,” Manning added. “After all, I'm a writer. That's what I do.”

“You write about vampires,” the chief said.

“I'm making a departure.”

“A departure?”

“Yes. Every writer likes to stretch his wings, so to speak. I'm writing a crime thriller. I've had enough of supernatural monsters. There are enough human ones.” He grinned. “One of your investigators read my latest work on my computer when your SWAT team descended on my house. Surely he can back me up on that.”

Walters nodded. Indeed, the report detailing the search of Manning's house
did
include a brief summary of what was on his computer. The most recent Word file was the story of a drug dealer. But so far at least there had been no throat slitting or Mexican adventures that would make it seem all that relevant.

“So in all your interviews with Deetz's cronies . . . did you find out where he'd stashed the cash?”

“What cash are you talking about, Chief?”

“Don't bullshit me, Manning.”

“I'm not bullshitting you. Here's the deal. I heard about the case while I was in the process of buying this property. Of course, it was only natural that I would, since the woman who'd witnessed the murder had lived next door. The case seemed to me to have the right combination of adventure, melodrama, tragedy, and suspense that I needed for my novel. So I went to the library and did a little research.” He smiled, those deep dark eyes of his twinkling. “No crime in that, is there?”

Walters tried to read the man's eyes. He was a cagey one. The little smiles, the half-winks . . . he was trying to be charming. No doubt he'd won over many women this way. But Walters was too old, too shrewd to fall for that.

“No crime in that,” the chief agreed. “So you only learned of Solek's murder once you bought this place? You had no idea who Solek or Deetz were before that time?”

“None.” Manning's face was a blank slate.

Behind her, Detective Knotts stood glaring at the author. Walters knew she had to keep herself positioned between the two men. If Manning said something to rattle Knotts, the detective might very well throw a punch. Knotts was rather emotional this morning. They all were, given what they'd found a little more than an hour ago.

“Well then, explain this to me, Mr. Manning,” Walters said. “What were you doing in Mexico on the day Deetz was shot to death?”

“I haven't been to Mexico in fifteen years.” Once again, Manning's face betrayed no emotion.

“That's not what the FBI tells us,” Walters said.

At last Manning's eyes widened—not more than a fraction of a millimeter, but it was all Walters needed. She'd seen it. That had been the reaction Wolfie had wanted to see. Manning was cool and collected, but when Walters mentioned the FBI, he had reacted, ever so slightly, and just for an instant. It was enough to tell Walters the guy was hiding something. She knew then that he
had been
, in fact, in Mexico that day—and he most likely knew a hell of a lot more than he was telling them about Emil Deetz.

“I have great respect for our Federal Bureau of Investigation,” Manning said, smoothly covering up his reaction, “but in this case, they are wrong. Would you like to check my passport?”

“We would,” the chief said, “and we will. Though I'm sure that will tell us nothing.”

Manning shrugged. “Border control is very strict.”

“Not really,” Walters said.

“Tell me, Chief, why isn't Detective Wolfowitz the one to be leading my interrogation? I've gotten rather used to seeing his smiling face at my door.”

Walters leveled her eyes at the author. “Detective Wolfowitz was found murdered in his home this morning,” she said without emotion.

This time the reaction in Manning's eyes was more apparent, and he didn't attempt to hide it. Was the man really surprised, or was he just a very good actor?

“I'm—I'm very sorry to hear that,” he said.

“His throat was cut,” Knotts volunteered, his voice hard and accusatory.

“Then it's the same—or possibly the same—killer,” Manning said. “The same who killed the German girl and the schoolteacher.”

“Perhaps,” Walters said. “Perhaps Detective Wolfowitz was getting too close to something.” She paused. “Where were you last night, Mr. Manning, around six or seven o'clock?”

“I was here, writing,” he said.

“Anyone who can corroborate that?” The chief gave him a little smile. “Jessie Clarkson, perhaps?”

“Actually, she could. I was at her house last night for a brief period, but it was probably right around six-thirty.”

“We're going to be checking with her next,” Walters said. “All right, Mr. Manning, that's all for now. Thank you for your time.”

She started toward the door. Knotts followed, sending daggers over his shoulder in Manning's direction.

“Chief Walters,” Manning said.

Walters stopped, looking back at him. Manning's voice sounded a little bit uneasy.

“I wonder if... well, when you see Ms. Clarkson, are you planning on telling her about the files I have on the Solek murder?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“Well, it's just that . . . if you didn't have to tell her right away, I'd rather do it myself.”

“Why is that?”

Now Manning seemed distinctly uncomfortable. “It's just that . . . well, we've become friends.”

Walters held his gaze, trying to read what was going on in his mind. She wasn't successful. “We'll see,” she said, “if it comes up.”

She and Knotts headed out the door. The rain was still coming down hard and the sky was nearly black.