Still Lake (18 page)

“We'll be fine, Doc,” she said—wishing she felt as certain as she sounded.

 

“Old Doc Henley gives me the creeps,” Marty announced when Patrick finally decided they could take a break. She was dirty, sweaty, aching, scratched from the bark of the trees, but in an oddly good mood. Maybe there really was something to the benefits of physical exercise. She would have preferred more body contact, but this was a surprisingly enjoyable alternative.

She should have known Patrick really wanted her to help. With anyone else it would have simply been a veiled invitation to a make-out session, but with Patrick Laflamme, what you saw was what you got.

He'd taken off his shirt in the bright, cool sunshine, but he pulled it back on while they took a break. She couldn't understand why—he had truly the most beautiful chest she'd ever seen. And back,
and shoulders. Hard work obviously did wonders for the muscles. He was absolutely gorgeous, with no reason to be modest. If any of the boys she'd known had been even half as well-built as Patrick they would never have worn shirts, even in the dead of winter.

“What have you got against Doc?” he asked mildly enough, reaching for his thermos of coffee.

Marty shrugged. “I don't know. Maybe I just don't like old men. He's nice enough, I guess, but I don't like the way he's always looking at me. Like he thinks I'm a terrible burden to my poor sainted sister.”

“You are,” Patrick said, his generous mouth curving in a faint smile.

She was getting used to him by now, and his cool teasing only stung a little. “She's no saint. You should see the hickey on her neck. Speaking of which, do you want to go someplace and park?”

“Park?”

“You know. Go off in your truck and make out? We could even do more than that if you want.” For all his seeming standoffishness she knew he wasn't as disinterested as he pretended. He liked her, whether he wanted to or not. And she wasn't about to let the first decent prospect in all of the Northeast Kingdom escape so easily, even if he was a little too serious for her tastes.

“No, I don't want to go off and park,” he said patiently. “I'll pick you up at six.”

“Huh?”

“We'll go out to dinner in Stowe, so wear something nice. I'll bring you flowers, and you won't smoke, and when I bring you home I'll walk you to your door and I won't kiss you. Not until the third date.”

“You think there are going to be three of them?” she asked, caustic.

Again that slow, devastating smile. “I'm betting on it. But you're going to have to stop smoking. I don't kiss girls who smoke.”

“You're a judgmental pain in the butt, Patrick Laflamme,” she said, pouting.

“I know,” he said. “But I'm worth it. Let's get back to work.”

She would have loved to tell him to fuck off. That would make his beautiful brown eyes open wide, wouldn't it? He wouldn't like potty-mouthed girls any more than he liked ones who smoked.

But despite that, he seemed to like her, anyway. And maybe he was right. Maybe he was worth it.

She just might be willing to find out.

 

Griffin closed the door behind the Kings, stepping out onto the front porch, leaving his dour, judgmental help behind. He'd been here for five days and accomplished squat.

That wasn't entirely true. He'd come up with enough circumstantial evidence to know he wasn't a murderer. There were too many victims, too many graves with yellow flowers. Whoever killed Lorelei, Alice and Valette had killed countless others, as well. And he still lived in Colby.

How long had it been since a young girl had died a mysterious death? He'd seen nothing recent, but that didn't prove anything. Maybe the killer was dead, and whoever brought the flowers knew the truth and tried to atone.

Hell, he didn't even know for certain that he didn't kill Lorelei. Logic dictated that the same person killed all three, but he knew from years of practice that logic had little to do with reality. And he wasn't going to be at ease until he remembered the truth about that night.

Distracting as she was, Sophie wasn't a complete waste of time, either. She was a pure, sinfully rich indulgence on his part. An indulgence he'd enjoy a lot more if he knew what the hell was going on. The sound of the chain saw in the distance sent a tense reminder through his gut. Whoever was working at the inn would be down by the lake. Out of sight of the old wing. And it was as good a time as any to go snooping.

He'd always found an excuse not to go up there, and right now he was tired of playing it safe. Hell, he was bigger and stronger than any of the women
who lived there. If someone tried to stop him he'd just walk right over them. If he couldn't have Sophie, at least he wanted answers.

There was no sign of Sophie's car as he approached the inn from the woods, but that meant nothing. Her slightly battered Subaru had been towed into town. She was probably sitting in the kitchen like a spider, just waiting to catch him.

He moved past the ramshackle toolshed, pausing for a moment as a cold shiver went down his spine. The roof had fallen in, the door was off its hinges, and no one had used the place in what looked like twenty years. Not since he used to duck into the dark, cobwebby interior for a quickie with a willing and eager Lorelei.

He peered in the broken window, but everything was a shambles. He thought he heard a faint rustling sound, and he remembered the mice. Lorelei had been terrified of them. Valette liked to kill them by hand.

Any mice left there deserved amnesty, he thought, moving past to skirt the perimeter of the inn. No sign of any possible way to break in—he'd have to figure out a way past Sophie's watchful presence.

Maybe he should just walk into the house, pick her up and carry her upstairs to her bed. He could fuck her senseless, then go down and check out the old hospital while she slept.

As a plan it had a great many flaws, and only one thing to recommend it. It was what he wanted to do.

Unfortunately he wanted to do it so badly he might very well not leave her to go wandering through the ruins. And the longer he waited, the more entangled he was becoming.

He'd forgotten how much he liked Colby, and the cool, pristine beauty of Still Lake. It felt like the only home he'd ever known, which was flat-out crazy. He'd been living in his house in Sudbury, Massachusetts, for six years. Long enough to put down roots.

Except he wasn't the kind of man who put down roots. Not here, not anywhere.

He was about to turn away when he saw a movement near the boarded-up wing. Someone was in the overgrown bushes, watching him. Possibly someone dangerous—maybe even the killer himself. Or someone who knew the answers to what had happened so long ago.

He didn't move, trying to peer through the undergrowth to see if he could make out anything about the person hiding there. And then to his surprise the bushes parted and Sophie's crazy old mother stepped out.

She looked just as peculiar as always, with her mismatched clothes and flyaway gray hair. She was looking right at him out of her beady eyes, and to his amazement she motioned him forward.

He had nothing to lose. He strolled across the open space to the edge of the overgrown shrubbery, only to have her grab his arm in her surprisingly firm grip and drag him deeper into the bushes. He had long enough to wonder if she'd flipped out entirely, when he saw the open window.

Someone had pried the boards off. The glass had been smashed long ago, and it was obvious that Grace had climbed through there. She was dustier than usual.

“Go ahead,” she said. “You've been trying to get in there since you came back.”

She sounded caustic, almost reasonable, but he reminded himself he was dealing with a woman who'd lost her mind. Funny, but she seemed saner than most of the people he'd been around lately.

“I've never been here before, Grace,” he said patiently.

“Sure you haven't. And your interest in the murders is purely academic. You're bigger than I am, but you can fit through the window. Mind the broken glass.” She turned away.

“Wait a minute!” he called after her. “Why were you wandering around in there?”

She looked back over her thin shoulder. “Same reason as you. I want to prove who killed all those girls.”

“All those girls? There were only three.” How
could she possibly know about the others? How could she possibly know anything?

Grace's mouth curved in a wry smile, and he could see a trace of the vibrant woman she'd once been. More than a trace.

“Don't take everything at face value, Mr. Smith,” she said. And then she walked away before he could say anything else.

The window was a tight squeeze, but he made it through, dropping down on the littered floor lightly. It was dark—the one broken window let in only a little bit of light, but this time he'd brought his flashlight, and he turned it on, shining it down the hallway.

Twenty years ago the place had been a wreck. By now it was beyond repair. Interior walls had crumbled, exposing the Spartan rooms, and beneath the fallen plaster and debris the occasional hospital bed could be seen. He and Lorelei had used each and every one of those beds during the long summer. It seemed like another lifetime.

He moved through the dust and rubble, shining his flashlight into every corner, trying to open his mind to any lingering memory. They remained stubbornly elusive. He could recognize rooms, remember events prior to his last night in Colby. But the night of the killings remained a mystery.

Even the basement kitchen came up blank. He didn't remember ever going down there, though he
imagined he'd checked out every square inch of the place long ago. He'd been here that night, he knew it. But nothing, not even returning to old haunts, was going to bring back the past.

He wanted to slam his fist into one of the crumbling walls in frustration, but it probably would have brought the whole place tumbling down on him, and he wasn't pissed enough to die. He'd wasted his time in coming here. The answers he needed just weren't ready to be found, and the sooner he let go of it all, the better. Maybe when he was as old and dotty as Gracey he'd suddenly remember what happened that night. Or maybe he never would. He could live with it. He had for twenty years.

He headed back to the broken window, throwing one leg over the sill. His shirt caught on something, and he heard a ripping sound. He looked down, and his sleeve was torn open, caught on a protruding nail. A long line of beaded blood followed the scratch.

Lucky he'd had a tetanus shot recently, he thought. And then froze, as the drops of blood swelled on his arm and began to soak into the torn shirt.

There'd been blood everywhere. On the ground, in her hair, in her torn clothes. Blood on her hands and even in her wide, staring eyes. He'd tried to stop the bleeding, but she was already gone, and he'd
knelt on the ground, holding her body, howling in grief.

Not in the hospital. In the inky dark interior of the toolshed. It was no wonder there was no sign of blood anywhere here. He'd found her in the toolshed.

Someone else was there, watching them. He'd known it, but he'd been too drunk and stoned to remember it. He'd held Lorelei's limp body until he'd passed out, and when he awoke he was alone, lying on the grass in the dark.

He'd stumbled back to his bed, convinced he'd imagined it. Even the blood smearing his body the next morning hadn't jarred his memory. Nothing had. Until now, as he watched the blood soak into the thin chambray of his shirt.

He hadn't killed her. He knew it now, with a deep, certain sureness. Someone else had, someone who'd been watching them. Someone who was still watching him.

It wasn't over.

 

He'd shown weakness, when he could ill afford to. He'd remained firm and true to his calling for so many years, and now, in the very twilight of his mission, his will had failed him. He'd seen her tears and felt her sorrow and foolishly thought she should have a chance to repent on her own.

He was older and wiser than that. It was a mo
mentary failing on his part, but he wouldn't make that mistake again. And there was no harm done. She was only enmeshed further still in her sinfulness, and it would be easier to get away with it once more. If that's what he chose to do.

Two sisters would be likely to raise suspicions in even the most trusting of the local police. But he counted on God to shield him from their eyes. He would do what he had to do, no more shirking, no more questioning the mantle God had placed upon him.

He would kill Sophie Davis and her sister. And release their souls to paradise.

 

At least Marty was in a good mood tonight, Sophie thought, trying to count her blessings. The bad moods had been fewer and fewer, and tonight her sister had actually been pleasant. And very pretty. She'd come down to the kitchen, wearing a skimpy dress and subdued makeup, and even her fuchsia-tinted hair looked relatively normal.

“I won't be here for dinner. I'm going on a date,” she announced.