Stay of Execution (14 page)

 

Chapter Thirty-­Eight

N
IKKI
S
TEPHENSON HATED
Blue Hill College. She hated the classes and the boring professors. She hated her part-­time job at the Campus Grounds Coffee Shop, and most of all, she hated the stupid town of Little Springs, where absolutely nothing ever happened. The only interesting thing had been the press conference where the guy who'd been in jail for years stood in front of all those rednecks and told them he forgave them. She smiled at the memory. All around her, ­people had been grumbling and talking about running him out of town. Then he came out and shut them up. She had liked him immediately.

Hurrying across campus, she glanced at her watch. Late again. Not that it mattered. Not many coffee drinkers showed up in the middle of the afternoon anyway. Mornings and nights were busy, but she tried to avoid those shifts. The less she had to deal with customers, the better.

She strode through the door and pretended not to see the annoyed expression on the baby-­faced boy behind the counter.

“Hey,” he said. “You were supposed to be here a half hour ago.”

She shrugged and went to the back of the store, grabbed an apron off the hook, and tied it around her waist. She logged in on the computer, pulled her hair off her face, and moved back to the front.

The boy shot her a nasty look. “I ought to report you, you know. This is the third time you've made me late for class.”

“So report me.”

He followed her to the register. “You think you're so much better than the rest of us? You're not.”

Pink spots appeared on her pale cheeks, but she refused to let him get to her. Instead, she counted to ten, concentrating on her breathing. It was so tiresome. There wasn't a single person on campus who didn't know who her father was. Not just a politician, Senator Connor Stephenson was also a nationally known evangelist. He'd pushed her into this school. “Strong Chris­tian principles. Good foundation,” he'd said. And he'd held the checkbook. Still, she'd mistakenly thought getting away, even to Blue Hill, was better than staying. Ha!

She forced a smile to her lips and took a step backward, putting space between them. “Leave it alone, Jake. I won't be late again.”

“You'd better not. I happen to know you need this job.”

She glared at him, the smile gone. “That's none of your business.”

He laughed, a hollow, bitter sound. “Yeah, well if you don't want everybody knowing your business, Miss Virginity, then tell your big-­shot dad to keep his big mouth shut.”

She groaned. “Old news, asshole.”

“Yeah? Well, tell the boss how much you need your paycheck for tuition after you get fired.”

Nikki's head whipped around. “What are you talking about?”

His eyes danced over her, his expression a mix of disbelief and glee. “You don't know.”

Her stomach fluttered and rolled. “Oh, for God's sake. Know what?”

His smile broadened. He reached under the counter and pulled out a national news magazine. Her face, smiling in a cap and gown, stared back at her from the cover. The headline read, “Is This the Face of a New Generation?”

She sucked in her cheeks, the color drained from her face.

“What's the matter, Miss Fancy Pants?” She pushed past him, knocking him in the shoulder. “Don't you want to read it?”

“What for?” She struggled to keep her voice from shaking.

He threw the magazine on the counter. “Why're you always such a bitch?”

When he was gone, she picked it up and turned to the cover story, her stomach churning. Inside were several pictures of her and her family. She swallowed hard and read. After two readings, she tossed it in the trash.

“Hypocrite,” she said under her breath.

“Excuse me?”

Nikki's head jerked up.

“Is this a bad time?” A small woman with reddish-­brown hair stood at the counter holding a cup.

“No, sorry,” Nikki said, her cheeks hot again. Seemed everything she said and did was wrong. “A refill?” The woman nodded. Nikki set the machine in motion, watching the coffee drip into the cup.

“You're the girl on the cover of
NewsWorld
, right?”

She looked past the woman to her table. On it sat a laptop, a notepad and pencils, a black book, and a large canvas bag. A reporter. Nikki had seen a few in her day and recognized the gear. They were always around her father, and he loved it. He had a personal trainer now and a stylist, too. It was disgusting.

“So?”

The woman apologized. “I don't mean to be nosy, and I promise I'm not asking for a story.” Nikki pushed her hair behind her ears, one hand on her hip. “Although it's a shame you were only quoted once. Something tells me you might have had more to say.” Nikki bit her lip. “That wasn't a story,” the woman said. “It was a campaign speech.” The woman's voice was gentle. “Was the article a surprise? I know it's none of my business, but I couldn't help overhearing.”

Nikki nodded once. Shock was more like it. She wondered how many other kids found out they would be paying their tuition—­with no help—­in a magazine. Was it true? She had no idea. The only thing she knew for sure was he'd made her the poster child for hardworking, Chris­tian children. The media would lap it up. His constituents and followers would hold him up as an example of solid parenting. It was a joke.

“I'm sorry,” the reporter said. “Look, I've taken enough of your time.” She nodded at a waiting customer.

Nikki poured coffee and wiped the counters. Her face burned when she heard the whispers.

“Did you see her? It's Senator Stephenson's daughter.”

“I'll never get my parents to pay for spring break now.”

It was a nightmare. She'd become part of his stump speech. Dropping out was not an option. Her mother and sister—­they would pay the price. She hated her father and everything he stood for. He knew it, too, but didn't give a damn.

Her eyes wandered back to the woman. Nikki was rarely allowed to speak to reporters. Her presence was required for family pictures, but after that, she was nothing but a convenient statistic and sound bite. Even though she'd always hated the press, she was starting to be intrigued by the idea of journalism. Reporters might not make the news, but they did have the ability to shape it. Maybe writers were in the background, but at least they were heard. Somehow, she didn't think her father would approve. She smiled and tossed her dishtowel onto the counter. Within seconds, she stood in front of the red-­haired reporter.

The woman looked up from her laptop, fingers frozen over the keys. “Hi,” she said.

Nikki's mouth went dry. “Hi,” she said back. “I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions.” The woman leaned against the back of the booth, hands folded in her lap. Nikki's words tumbled out. “About being a reporter. What that's like. How you do it. Do you even like it?” When the woman laughed, her blue eyes sparkled, and Nikki began to relax. “Sorry. That part is probably none of my business.”

The reporter laughed. “Then we're even.” She waved a hand at the other seat. “Actually, if you're thinking about journalism, that's the first question you should ask.” Nikki sat down, nodding. “I do like it. Not every day but most of the time. Sometimes it's hard, but I wouldn't trade it. I wouldn't want to do anything else.”

Nikki nodded again. “So, you don't mind my asking you some questions?”

The lady smiled. “Not at all. I'll be on the other side of the interview for a change.” She stuck her hand out across the table. “You can call me Julia.”

Grinning, she took the reporter's hand in her own. “I guess you already know my name, but it's nice to meet you. I'm Nikki.”

 

Chapter Thirty-­Nine

F
ROM A BENCH
across the street, he peered over the newspaper at the two women. They stood on the sidewalk outside the campus coffee shop. As they talked, the younger woman wiped her hands across her red apron. Julia hooked the straps of her bag over her shoulder, talking as she handed the woman a card. The girl took it, nodded, and smiled. He was too far away to hear their conversation, but he could see they liked each other. He didn't like complications. Julia reached out and gave the girl a hug, her auburn hair catching the sunlight.

“Well, well,” the man said out loud. Julia gave a wave and strode off. The young woman stood a moment, watching Julia's retreating back, a half smile on her face. After a moment, she went back to her job in the coffee shop.

Setting aside the paper, he strained to make out the younger woman through the large glass window, but all he could see were shadows in the afternoon glare. Irritated, he scratched at the dark wig. Under the hat and wig, his head was slick with sweat. Precautions were necessary now. He'd seen the police and the FBI on campus. The girl had been found, and while it might not be public knowledge yet, he had no doubt they were already looking for him. Not that it mattered to him too much. They were stupid and incompetent. Looking wasn't the same as finding.

From behind the sunglasses, he scanned the street. On the next corner stood an FBI man, propped against the brick exterior of a sandwich shop. The lawman, in his dark suit and sunglasses, garnered far more curious looks than he did. After all, who would notice a dark-­haired man of indeterminate age, wearing a hat, sunglasses, and the rumpled tweed blazer adopted by so many Blue Hill professors? An empty attaché case was propped at his feet. The FBI man, though, stuck out like a fucking sore thumb. It took all his self-­control not to laugh at the absurdity of it all.

The laughter died in his throat when he saw the young girl come out of the coffee shop. The apron gone, she hurried down the street toward her dormitory. His heart pounded, but he stayed on the bench, resisting the urge to follow. Later. He knew where she was going anyway—­straight across campus to her dorm, same as the other times. Her room was on the third floor. The shade would be drawn until the girl yanked it up and threw open the window. She'd climb out, perching on the windowsill, knees pulled up to her chest, and stare out into the distance. Sometimes she'd stay like that for an hour, sometimes longer. He wondered what she thought about, what she dreamed about. Maybe, when the time came, he'd ask her. Maybe not. He didn't care that much.

From under his hat, he peered at the FBI man again. Pathetic. The police, the FBI, even the school had acted exactly as he'd anticipated. So predictable. They were confused, and that was good. They were anxious and aware. It wasn't enough, though. He wanted more. It was time to do something bolder, louder. It was time to make believers out of doubters. He was back.

 

Chapter Forty

T
HE TWO YOUNG
men trudged across campus, shivering in the early morning chill. The taller one pulled the hood of his jacket around his ears. They walked along the tree-­lined street, kicking at the leaves dotting the sidewalk.

“That test on Monday was a bitch,” the tall boy said.

“I know,” Jackson said, shaking his head. He was shorter by almost a foot and craned his head to look up at his friend. “If I don't do well on the final, I'll be lucky to pass this stupid class. I don't know why we have to take math anyway when we're both English majors.”

“Yeah. Dumb.” They cut across a courtyard, taking the shortest route to the cafeteria. The sidewalks and park were still empty. That would change in another hour.

“Thanks for grabbing breakfast early today,” Jackson said. “I wanna try and catch Professor Morris before class.”

“Sure. No problem.” The tall boy slowed, elbowing his friend. He nodded toward a bench across the courtyard, near the largest oak tree. “Look, some girl is sleeping it off.”

“Damn. Must've been some party.”

The other boy laughed. “How come I never get invited to any of those?”

“ 'Cause you're a dork. That's . . .” The words faded. Both boys froze. The girl's bare feet hung off the edge of the bench. They looked at each other. “Do you think she's okay?”

The tall boy shrugged his shoulders and scanned the empty park. “Who knows? We should probably wake her up before she gets in trouble.” He walked toward the bench.

Jackson nodded, glancing once at the cafeteria, then back at the sleeping girl. “Yeah, okay,” he said, following at a distance.

“Holy shit!” The tall boy stopped, stumbling backward. His face blanched. He bent over, arms folded across his stomach, and vomited.

Jackson sprinted forward. Stopping short, he gasped, his eyes wide. “Jesus Christ.” He pulled his phone from his pocket, fingers fumbling as he dialed. “This is bad,” he whispered, backing away from the body. “Really bad.”

 

Chapter Forty-­One

“G
ODDAMMIT!”
C
ANCINI GLARED
at Talbot and slammed the car door. “What are all these kids doing here?”

“I've got a team working to secure the perimeter now,” Talbot said. He nodded toward a handful of agents and Little Springs cops pushing the gawking students from the courtyard.

Cancini followed his gaze. Several of the young ­people held up phones, snapping pictures of the crime scene. “They're taking pictures.”

Talbot stopped as they reached the tape. “Mike, we'll take care of it.” He put a hand on Cancini's shoulder, leaning in close. “I know I don't need to remind you, but this is not your investigation.”

“Right,” Cancini muttered. Groups of students were herded away, and police cruisers stood ready, stationed at every corner. It would have to do. The kids were the least of his concerns. The fact that another girl was dead was all that mattered. The short amount of time between the two murders sent cold chills up and down his spine. Someone—­Spradlin, a copycat, or someone else entirely—­was clearly trying to make a statement. No matter which turned out to be the case, a murder scene was no place for college kids. “Got it.”

“Good.”

“Who found the girl?”

­“Couple of students on their way to breakfast, a little before six. One of them called 911. We've taken them in for questioning and confiscated their phones.”

“Photos?”

“I don't think so. I actually think those boys were too traumatized to snap any, but we're taking every precaution.” Talbot paused and motioned toward the bench. “It's not pretty,” he said, his tone somber.

The detective sighed. He recognized the defeated slope of Talbot's shoulders and the troubled expression on his face. “It never is.”

Talbot lifted the tape, and the two lawmen ducked underneath. A forensic team had arrived and was waiting for Talbot to give them the go-­ahead. He held up a hand indicating they should wait. Cancini pulled on a pair of gloves, the rubber snapping at his wrists. Talbot led the way. “Early estimates place time of death between midnight and this morning when the body was found. Appears to have been sexually assaulted. She was beaten, her neck snapped.” Talbot's straightforward report couldn't disguise his sadness.

Cancini stiffened as he approached the girl. She was naked from the waist down, a dark piece of clothing tossed across her bruised legs. He crouched by her feet. Barely touching the toes, he pulled them apart and angled his head to look at the soles of her feet. “She was forced to walk somewhere without her shoes. Clay soil, some cuts, dried blood.”

He stood and moved toward her head; it hung awkwardly from her neck. Cancini bent at the waist, his face close to the girl. He inspected the bruises that covered her shoulders and upper torso, pushing aside the thin fabric of her shredded blouse with the tips of his gloved fingers. He looked at her swollen face, one eye already dark with pooled blood. He picked up a hand and, one by one, opened the clenched fingers. The hair on the back of his neck rose. There, in the palm of that dead hand, lay a single button with several blue threads. Like the others, she had fought hard. Unlike them, she'd done something no one else had been able to do. She'd brought them evidence. Careful not to disturb that evidence, he folded her fingers and let go of her hand. “Get the photographer. She got a button from the perp.”