The Survivor (11 page)

The sound of a door opening and an ear-piercing beep signaling the countdown for the security alarm interrupted her. A small box on the table in front of them flashed red. Heavy footsteps pounded down the hallway. Amy blanched. She hurried to the doorway. Kariss grabbed her purse, where she kept her 9mm handgun.

“Baxter, you scared me.” Amy placed a hand over her heart.

“Sorry. I used my key. Let me stop this thing.” The alarm quieted. “I need to talk to you.”

“I’m talking with someone in my office. Can you come back later, or can we meet somewhere?”

“A client on Saturday afternoon? That’s unusual.”

“No. A friend.” Amy, red-faced, glanced at Kariss, then back to the man in the hall. “I could introduce you.”

“Sure. Maybe this friend isn’t as stupid as you are.” His words dripped bitterness. He stepped into her office, his towering frame filling the doorway, so unlike Amy’s small frame. Dressed in jeans and a dark-blue pullover, he reached out to shake Kariss’s hand, and she introduced herself.

“I’m Baxter Garrett, Amy’s brother.” Brother and sister shared the same wide-set blue eyes and light hair.

After Kariss introduced herself, Baxter claimed a seat beside her on the love seat. Body odor permeated the air.

“Has she told you about her crazy idea of having her story published?” Baxter said.

“She has.” This guy could have sent the threatening email. “You obviously don’t agree with the project.”

“I don’t. I don’t want her dead.”

“Baxter, this isn’t appropriate.” Amy touched his knee.

“Save it.” Baxter didn’t make eye contact, but Amy could obviously still read his lips. “What you’re proposing is dangerous. Could get you killed.” He noticed the recorder, which
Kariss had not shut off. “You’re the writer, aren’t you?” His nostrils flared.

“I am. I understand your concerns, and I want you—”

“You don’t understand squat. This is family business, and I suggest you keep your nose out of it.”

The threat fueled Kariss’s temper. “Or what?”

He stood and shook his finger in her face. “You really don’t want to find out, pretty lady.”

3:30 P.M. SATURDAY

H
e prided himself on being a true craftsman by designing precision-made bullets that no one could trace. This afternoon he’d perfected the one he’d use for the kill, a hollow-back bullet for his Beretta .40. Perhaps his finest piece of art. Undeniable pleasure, warm and tingling, flowed through him.

He was also an expert in other means of killing—his bare hands, preferably. Unfortunately, those days were gone. Technological advances meant he had to be careful. There were so many ways to trace a person now that he’d considered retiring, and he would once Amy lay cold in a dark grave. But what would he do during idle hours while Michelle slept? For the past few years, he’d gotten by with less and less sleep, until three hours did him nicely. He could possibly work as a consultant and hire himself out to the highest bidder.

Holding the bullet to the overhead light, he considered his expert marksmanship. He’d also developed competitive archery skills, could throw a knife dead center, and had the expertise to build a bomb with plenty of scatter power. His favorite bombs were those that used Semtex. Expensive but worth it. He’d been able to pass on the cost to buyers and recoup his expenses.

Good job.

Perfect.

The voices always confirmed his artistry.

Using strains of E. coli to kill masses of people intrigued
him. Lately he’d been working with coral snake venom, and the rhyme, “Red on yellow, kill a fellow. Red on black, venom lack” repeated in his mind. The little buggers were hard to find, since they hid under logs in hot, humid areas, preferring sandy soil around hardwoods. But he’d been lucky and had three good specimens to play with.

He paused. What an ingenious idea. If he hadn’t already perfected the bullet for Amy, he could have painted it red and yellow. That would get the attention he deserved. Maybe he wasn’t ready to retire yet.

Amy Garrett, PhD, had lived when he’d thought her dead. His fault. And because she’d survived what he believed was a perfect crime, he’d allowed her to live all these years. No one else could claim the title of survivor. She’d fought the odds and won. As always, a quote from
In Cold Blood
reminded him of her.

“‘I didn’t want to harm the man. I thought he was a very nice gentleman. Soft-spoken. I thought so right up to the moment I cut his throat.’” He repeated the quote, just like the night he pulled her through her bedroom window.

He chuckled. “I didn’t want to harm the little girl.” He tossed the copper bullet in his hand and imagined sending it into her head. “I thought she was a very nice little girl. Soft-spoken. Sweet. Innocent. I thought so right up to the moment I cut her throat.”

Another matter irritated him. A Kariss Walker had stepped in his way, but he’d devise a plan to stop her too. What a great idea. He could create another bullet like Amy’s for her so they’d know no one should get in his way. His and Amy’s story was their own private adventure.

He licked his lips and reached for a tall glass of tomato juice.

4:00 P.M. SATURDAY

I
don’t scare easily.” Kariss wrapped her fingers around the recorder, thankful she hadn’t turned it off. She stood and eyed Baxter. “I have a theory about bullies.”

“You’re not going to make money on my sister. She’s not a sideshow freak.” Baxter snarled, his wide eyes dilated. “I’m looking out for my sister, something you selfish types wouldn’t know a thing about. So gather up your tools of the trade and leave. Don’t ever contact Amy again.”

Kariss realized her tolerance level had just reached the breaking point. “As I said, I have a theory about bullies. They either have low self-esteem, or they have something to hide.” She hoped her words sounded braver than she felt with all the warning flares going off in her head. “Maybe you have both.”

“Call it what you want. My sister is the most important thing in my life. My job is to protect her from losers, and you fit the bill.”

“So what are you hiding?”

He stepped closer. She trembled, but she didn’t back down.

“Baxter, that’s enough. You have no right coming into my office and berating my friend.”

“He threatened me.” Kariss shook with the anger raging through her. She gathered her laptop, purse, and recorder as she attempted to speak rationally. “I’ve had enough of this family feud.” She focused on Amy. “You said your family didn’t approve of the idea, and I should have probed that statement
further. My fault. But it’s quite evident you have a few issues to handle before we can continue your story.”

“Smart woman. Good riddance.” Baxter’s bravado permeated the room.

Kariss took three steps toward the door and then whirled back to face him. “I’m assuming you sent the email last night warning me against writing Amy’s story. I don’t take aggressive behavior lightly. If I ever hear from you again, I’ll press charges.” She paused to keep her anger in check. “And I don’t make idle threats. I play for keeps.”

He chuckled. “Glad you saw the point.”

Amy clenched her fists. “Baxter, get out of my office. Now.” She reached toward Kariss. “Please don’t go. I can explain.”

“Explain what? That your brother needs psychological help? At this point, I wonder if he needs to be locked up.” Kariss caught herself before she uttered another word. She couldn’t control Baxter’s behavior, but she could control her reactions. “I apologize, Amy. I’m angry and need time to cool off.”

Baxter blocked the doorway. “Anyone who lives in a fiction world is a nutcase.”

“Baxter, leave now,” Amy said. “Wait. Give me the keys to my office, car, and my house first.”

He pressed a finger against Amy’s chest, towering over her. “Once I’m gone, you’re on your own. He’ll come after you, and this time he’ll make sure you’re dead.”

“Your strong-arm tactics no longer affect me. Truth is, I dealt with what happened years ago. You should have too. Instead, you use my past as an excuse to intimidate me and others.”

Kariss understood siblings not communicating well, but these two were drowning in the deep end. What happened to the happy family who tucked away dysfunction?

Baxter pulled out his keys and slipped one off his ring, then another.

“I won’t be blamed for this.” Kariss kept her tone soft. “I’m leaving, and you two can work out your differences.”

“I’m finished with you, little sister.” Baxter palmed a third key into Amy’s outstretched hand. “You’re an idiot to put yourself out there. Go ahead. Have your story published. Hunting season is now officially open.” He swung around, brushing against Kariss’s shoulder, and stomped down the hall. The entry lock clicked and the door slammed, vibrating the walls.

Amy turned her attention to Kariss. “I’m so sorry.”

“I appreciate your apology. But that was ludicrous.”

“May I explain? Baxter has issues.” She sighed. “That’s obvious. Ten minutes of your time. Please?”

Staying went against Kariss’s better judgment, but she didn’t want to run into Baxter in the parking garage. She sat and placed her laptop and purse beside her. The recorder continued, and she didn’t see a reason to stop it, especially if Baxter returned.

Amy hurried down the hall, no doubt to lock the door. Kariss blinked. Had she heard God correctly about writing Amy’s story? She hadn’t expected Baxter’s response.

Amy stood in the doorway again. “Baxter blames himself for what happened to me. When we were kids, his bedroom was next to mine.”

Her parents probably blamed themselves too. “That doesn’t give him a license to threaten me. And I have a feeling I’m not the first.” Kariss took a deep breath, forcing logic into the conversation.

“You’re right,” Amy said. “It doesn’t give him a license to make life miserable for others.”

“How do your parents handle him? Or do they think his behavior is acceptable?” Kariss caught her own sarcasm. “Never mind. I’ll listen to your explanation.”

“Thanks.” Amy sat on the love seat opposite her. “My parents don’t approve of his actions, but he’s a grown man. I have to be the one to stand up to him. Baxter proclaimed himself
my bodyguard the moment I returned home from the hospital. For over two decades, he’s taken his role to the extreme. As you can see, I’m not married. Baxter has run off every man who’s ever expressed interest in me. He’s also destroyed any friendships with other women. I’ve put up with him for as long as I can. I told him those very words when he blew up about the story idea. But I never expected what just happened. Honestly, he’s harmless except for his nasty tongue.”

Amy shuddered. “I’m not being honest. He can be physical. But I never thought he’d barge in here and pitch a fit like a toddler.” She glanced at the keys in her palm. “It’s over. He won’t be back. I’ve never taken such extreme measures before. Finally I’ve practiced what I encourage my clients to do.”

How could Kariss be sure? “I’m the youngest of six, and we’ve weathered a lot of junk. Someone has to put the reins on your brother. Even if he pushes me to press charges, that will only stop him temporarily.”

Amy nodded. “I’ll explain his behavior to my parents. They’ve always encouraged me. I’ll make sure he doesn’t interfere again.”

“How do you plan to do that?” Anger at Baxter rolled through Kariss again. “He’s a ticking time bomb, and I don’t want to be around when he explodes again.”

“My dad could send him out of town to work on a project with one of his investment properties.”

Kariss thought about her commitment to write Amy’s story … and the possibility of helping other crime victims find healing. “That would work.”

“Good. Then we’re on track again?”

Kariss nodded. But Baxter Garrett was a hot match in a stack of brittle wood.

JANUARY 20

11:00 A.M. SUNDAY

T
igo drove home from Ryan’s church more confused about the faith thing than the day he’d decided to seek God. Taking time from his Sunday morning seemed a waste. There were so many other things he could be doing—sleeping, rereading interviews from the current case, looking to see if either of Joanna’s sisters had a record, and evaluating body language from past interviews while weighing conversations with interviewees.

His dwindling view of God had slid downhill after learning Taylor Yeat was cheating on his wife. Why did a good God allow such behavior? Two people were killed while a pastor duped his wife and his congregation. All that talk about Joanna being such a good person was a cover-up for his affair with her sister. The good pastor may have denied to Darena that he wanted Joanna out of the picture, but Tigo believed otherwise.

He pulled into his driveway and watched the garage door open slowly, as if some great unveiling was about to take place. Two mountain bikes perched on the right wall. In the opposite corner stood a workbench Tigo rarely used, covered by tools organized according to the job’s requirements. No Tonka trucks or Barbie training-wheel bikes. Nor were there any dents in the garage wall from a sweet wife who miscalculated when to apply the car brakes. All he had was a neat, orderly life that left him alone and miserable.

He had a lawn service.

A housecleaning service.

A reputable dealer to service his car.

A dry-cleaning service to keep his clothes clean and repaired.

Phone service to ensure he stayed connected to the world.

Internet service so he could search out global information.

But he didn’t have a service to repair the crack in his spirit.

He understood loneliness, but he knew Kariss couldn’t cure the longing in him for something he couldn’t name. So he searched and often wondered if God held the missing piece. If God had all this unconditional love, why did He allow countless crimes against the innocent? Or the premature death of Tigo’s mother? Or the big screwup with Kariss? All the songs and Scripture and sermons about a great God didn’t make sense when violence erupted and tragedies hit. Did Tigo believe in God or not?

He exited his truck and noted chores that needed to be done to keep the garage spotless. But why bother? Who cared? He wasn’t simply frustrated—he was furious.

If only he could have a discussion with God, ask Him why He allowed psychopaths and genocides to exist. Or the countless other questions that kept him up at night.

His work phone rang, and he snatched it from the seat of his truck as though the caller were God.

“We located Carolyn Hopkins in Arkansas, and she’s in transit back to Houston,” an agent said. “You and Special Agent Ryan Steadman can interview her around three o’clock. He’s confirmed the time.”

“I’ll be there. Has she given a statement?”

“Nothing other than she hates Yeat and claims she was driving to see her family during the time of the bombing.”

“I doubt her parole officer gave her permission to leave the state. Anything else?”

“She was packing a stolen gun.”

“Looks like she just renewed her reservation at the state prison.”

Tigo ended the call, dropped the phone into his pocket, and opened the truck door. He could use answers today, beginning at three o’clock.

2:15 P.M. SUNDAY

“Why are you so antsy?” Vicki said.

Kariss swallowed the butterflies hatching in her stomach and smiled at her sister. “Your color is much better today. Having Mom here to keep you in bed was a good idea. Glad she canceled the family lunch today. You couldn’t have handled the drive to Texas City.”

“That didn’t answer my question.”

“I told Tigo I’d call. Give him an update on how you were doing.”

Vicki tilted her head. “Rose and I are going to nap. We don’t need a babysitter. So take your cell phone to your office and be a good girl.”

“Easy for you to say.”

“I’ve made a decision.”

Kariss lifted a brow.

“I’m not going to bother you about what happened with Tigo until you’re ready to talk.”

“Thanks, sis. Probably wouldn’t seem big to you, but—”

“Go call him.”

Kariss tossed a frown at her sister and headed to her office. After staring at the phone for several seconds, she placed the call. And hoped it wouldn’t be confrontational.

“Hey. Can’t sleep on a Sunday afternoon?” His familiar voice ushered in sweet memories.

“Too full. Mom made carrot cake, and I ate the last piece.”

Tigo moaned. “Okay, you won that round. How’s Vicki?”

“Minding Mom, which is worse than taking doctor’s orders. Mom’s been assigned to bedroom duty since Friday afternoon.”

“Good, and thanks for the update. Tell her that mommies and FBI agents have to keep up their strength.”

Kariss giggled. She’d missed their talks … and the wit … and the laughter. “I will.”

“Do you still play Word Family?”

“Every chance I get.”

“When was the last time you were challenged by a winner?”

Word Family was an app on her phone, a game they used to play together. “I believe I have the trophy on the last three games.”

“I’m out to cut my losses. Be expecting my word. Gotta run to an interview now.”

After disconnecting, Kariss gingerly laid her cell phone on the desk as though it were Rose. Sixty seconds later, her phone alerted her to a Word Family play. Tigo had chosen R-E-G-R-E-T.