Vision of Darkness (11 page)

“Hey, don’t cry.” The tears were killing him.

“Sorry.” She sniffed, shook back her tangled hair and dashed away the tears with the edge of her blanket. Dark circles of exhaustion bruised the pale flesh under her eyes. “It’s been a hell of a night.”

“I don’t think it’s over yet.” He hated to say it, but he had a sinking feeling in his gut, a gaping black hole that made him nauseous. He knew better than to ignore it. “Before anything else happens, I need to ask you something important.”

Worry creased her brow. “Okay.”

“Has there ever been a murder in Three Churches?”

Pru stared at him. One beat. Two. Then she shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

“Has there ever been a fire in the lighthouse?”

“Besides tonight?”

No one had told her about the lack of damage in the kitchen yet, Alex realized. He ignored the punch of relief that she had seen the fire too. If he was hallucinating, then so was she. “Yeah, besides tonight.”

She shook her head again. “No—ah, I don’t know. Maybe. Not as long as it’s been in my family, but before that, it’s possible. It was built in the mid-1800s. Fires happened all the time back then. My grandma might know. Why do you ask?”

He couldn’t explain. It was just a hunch, a feeling of unease he could not shake, a prickling sensation like the hairy legs of the desert tarantula he’d discovered he was sharing his sleeping bag with one night in Iraq. He’d had the same creeping feeling right before he watched through a rifle scope as his friend Sullivan Nathanson was shot at point-blank range in the chest. Then again on the night K.C. Archer was killed when insurgents fired a RPG into their camp three days before they were slated to come home. And again Tuesday morning when he entered that restaurant on Tremont to have breakfast with his handler and ended up killing a man.

Alex had never put much stock in the apparent extra sense he’d been cursed with, but it would be downright stupid to brush it off right now when it had yet to fail him. Even if it was the luck of the Irish or coincidence as he’d always thought.

He moved to sit beside Pru on the bumper of the ambulance. “Lookit, it’s hard to explain. That guy that died here last year. Cappy?”

She nodded. “I didn’t know you knew about it. His name was John Putnam Sr. Everyone called him Cappy. He hung himself last fall.”

“No, I don’t think he did.”

She gave him another long look, like a cat’s unblinking stare, that made him twitch on the inside. Outside, his expression stayed calm. One of the perks of working undercover for so long.

Finally, she moistened her lips. “So…what? Are you saying he was murdered?”

“I don’t know what I’m saying.” At least he could be honest about that. “There’s something about the whole deal that doesn’t feel right. I heard some women talking at the diner that first day I was in town. They said he had arthritis and that shit hurts. If he had it in his legs and knees, there’s no way he walked to the top of that tower without help.”

“He was determined. His son, John Jr., was talking about putting him in a home. He was ill, couldn’t take care of himself anymore, but he didn’t want to go.”

Well, that was a damn good reason to off yourself, Alex thought. Death had to be preferable to living in an institution.

Like Theo
, his inner cynic pointed out. Alex rubbed a hand over his face and mentally told the cynic to fuck off.

Still, it didn’t make sense to him. Hanging was a horrible death if the neck didn’t break. He’d seen more than his share of people hanged while overseas. It took minutes, as many as twenty in some cases, if the drop wasn’t long enough or the noose wasn’t fashioned right or in the right position. Why would the old guy walk up that tower, loop a noose around his throat and jump? Why not use a gun or pills or a hundred other easier, less painful ways?

“Was Cappy’s death investigated?” he asked Pru.

“By the sheriff,” she said.

“Yeah, I had the pleasure of meeting the sheriff,” he muttered and made her smile a little. “Not impressed. What about the state?”

“I was still in Portland when it all happened, but I would assume so. I thought that was standard operating procedure.”

Not always, Alex thought and wondered if anyone performed an autopsy. He opened his mouth to ask and saw the sheriff headed his way, trailed by three deputies, including Rhett Swithin.

Great. That cocksucker worked for the sheriff’s department? That was something he hadn’t calculated into his plan. Not good.

“I think things are about to get really bad, Pru. I might—” His throat tightened. He couldn’t look at her.

Dammit, he hated this. He didn’t want to be Alex Locke. He didn’t want to lie to her, but he couldn’t tell her he was not the asshole he had to pretend to be from now on. Everyone had to believe. One weak spot and his cover was blown.

Forbes’s expression was flat and grim as he approached. He gave off a distinct vibe that said
pissed off cop
. Swithin tried to appear as grim as his boss but had a satisfied
gotcha
look in his eye.

The black hole in Alex’s gut got a little deeper, a little blacker.

“Alex?” She touched his cheek. He closed his eyes and exhaled with a soft curse before meeting her gaze. This sucked.

“Listen, I might have to say or do some things that—”   

The cops stopped in front of them and sized him up for a beat. Dammit, too late. He gave Pru’s hand a quick squeeze and stood to face the sheriff.

Forbes lifted a hand. A gold chain gleamed between his gloved fingers, a crucifix and the dull copper casing of a 9mm bullet swinging from the end.

Alex touched his bare chest.
His
crucifix.
His
bullet. He’d taken the chain off before his shower and had forgotten about it until now. It should still be where he’d left it on the bathroom sink.

“Does this belong to you?” Forbes asked.

“So what if it does?” 

Forbes nodded, turned to one of the deputies, and dropped the necklace into a waiting evidence bag. “Cuff him.”

“For what?” Pru exploded to her feet.

Ah, shit. He’d hoped to have more time with her before he had to get into character. Alex looked at her, hair in tangles, blanket forgotten, eyes wide with outrage on his behalf. She had such trust in him. A dull pain started in his chest and sharpened as it moved into his throat, choking him. She was going to hate Alexander Locke.

Too late to worry about it now.

Alex let his mind go blank, forcing his own wants, needs and fears into a mental lockbox. His features hardened, lips twisting into the sneer Locke used whenever there were cops within spitting distance. His posture slouched, losing the erect bearing the military had beaten into him.

When Rhett reached for his wrists with a pair of handcuffs, he jerked away. Rhett clamped a hand on his shoulder and gave him a hard shove. On instinct, he spun and decked the guy.

At least that part felt pretty good.

“Alex!” Pru said in stunned horror.

Rhett stumbled backward, leaking bright red blood from his nose, and the other two deputies pounced. Alex took a couple swings at them, purposely missing but making it look real. He could beat these two down in his sleep, but he didn’t want to hurt them, just rile them up. Alex Locke liked little more than pissing off a bunch of cops.

Both deputies were panting by the time he let them drag him to his feet, each holding him under an arm. He hadn’t even broken a sweat yet.

Forbes marched over and got into his face. “That was stupid, son.”

“Fuck you, old man,” he said and the words tasted bitter on his tongue. His tone of voice had changed, picked up more street, more Boston, a hint of Ireland. Like slipping into an old, dirty suit.

Forbes said, “You’re under arrest for assaulting an officer and suspected murder.” 

Pru’s face went white. Alex momentarily forgot his alter-ego.

“What?” they said in unison.

Forbes focused on Pru, his forehead lined with regret. “I’m so sorry, honey. I hate to tell you this way, but Wade’s dead. One of my deputies found his body in the hole where that big tree stump used to be. We found that necklace in the grass nearby.”

“Wade…?” Pru swayed on her feet. Forbes steadied her with an arm around her shoulders. She blinked at Alex. “Did you—”

“No! They’re setting me up. I didn’t kill him. Pru, I didn’t—” He tried to hold her gaze but the deputies jostled him toward a patrol car and shoved him into the backseat. She didn’t move, except to wrap her arms around her middle. Even from a distance, he could tell she was shaking. The door slammed shut. He groaned and smacked the back of his head against the seat.

Shit.

CHAPTER 10

The body was lighter than expected. Skin and bone and more fat than muscle, but not much of either.

The former Kevin Mallory.

Too bad it had to come to this, but the little twerp was a whiny, spineless worm. If Alex Brennan got hold of him, he’d spill his guts about their little chat. Couldn’t have that, so poor Kevin had to disappear.

The Sierra Group operator hoisted the body onto his shoulder and carried it fireman-style away from his rental car. He’d dug a just-in-case grave as soon as he got the call to action from his commander, way out in the middle of the forest in the soft dirt at the bottom of a craggy ravine. A long hike from the road with one-hundred-forty pounds of dead weight on his shoulders.

Nobody would find Kevin. He’d be a runaway. Just like that girl he’d killed.

The operator sent up a prayer for that poor girl’s soul. Since he first saw the flyer at the diner, he’d suspected that someone in town knew what happened to Lila VanBuran, and during their chat, Kevin confirmed his suspicions. Four people were responsible for Lila’s death. Four living out their lives—well, the operator mused, three now—while that girl rotted away in a cave on the beach, lost to those that loved her.

It made him heartsick.

Killing Kevin hadn’t exactly been part of his mission, but God couldn’t fault him for wanting a slice of justice for the girl. If he had the time, he’d take out the others as well.

At the grave, he dumped Kevin unceremoniously into the hole and dusted his hands on his jeans. The body was still warm, but it already stank of death and the smell had lodged itself in his senses. He rubbed a hand under his nose and sniffed. No use. He needed a hot shower with a gallon of lemon-scented soap. But first, he had to finish the job.

It took longer than anticipated to bury Kevin and when he finished, sweat poured from him, making him shiver in the cold night air. He thrust the shovel’s tip into the dirt and swiped at his forehead as he admired his handiwork. It looked…like a grave. Still, he doubted anyone would find Kevin. Not down here.

Now to report in. He pulled his cell phone from his pocket, checked the screen. No signal, so he grabbed his shovel and scaled the steep wall. It wasn’t a hard climb for a man who’d spent his life in the woods hunting deer and the like, and he was out in minutes. The storm clouds had rolled away a long time before, leaving the chill of winter and a clear, starlit sky in their wake. To the east, the faintest hint of gray colored the horizon. Sun would be up soon.

His cell phone showed only half a bar. The call to report in would have to wait.

The operator returned to his car and drove back to the highway motel ten miles outside Three Churches, a shabby place that catered to truckers and pilots from the tiny local airport, which lay just beyond the motel’s back parking lot. Full of sin, it made him feel dirty, but it was also safely anonymous. His comings and goings wouldn’t be noticed or commented on by nosy neighbors.

After showering, scrubbing off grime and death, he set his alarm clock for eleven. Eli wouldn’t be happy about the delay, but he’d report in after some sleep. His eyes felt gritty and his brain had grown a layer of fuzz. He wasn’t sharp, and Eli would like that even less. This was his very first mission, and he didn’t want to screw it up.

With a yawn, the operator crawled into one of the twin beds and slept the sleep of the righteous until a familiar sound penetrated his dreams.

Whap whap whap whap.

He jolted, alert in an instant, and bounded toward the picture window that overlooked a cracked, mostly empty parking lot and the manager’s office. A helicopter swung in low over the motel, its sleek black body glinting in the morning sun as it headed to the small airfield. He couldn’t read the lettering on its side, but he recognized it anyway.

Perfect. Eli would be pleased.

Scratching the bit of new scuff on his jaw, the operator snapped up his phone from its charger on the bedside table and dialed.

***

Insanity.

It was the only word Miranda could think of for what was happening this morning at Mae’s. People lined up on the sidewalk long before she unlocked the door and flipped the sign to open, trying to peek in the windows, hoping to catch a glimpse of Pru. They wouldn’t see her of course. When Sheriff Forbes showed up on the doorstep of Miranda’s trailer at three a.m. with a pale, dull-eyed Pru in tow, he’d warned her not to let Pru come into work today. Miranda had been prepared to lock Pru down, but the poor woman was still too shocky to consider leaving the house.

Miranda hadn’t wanted to go in herself, but dammit, she was already late on her electric bill, she needed rent money, and the tips would pour in today as everybody stopped by to rubberneck. Shallow of her to think of money at a time like this, but that was the harsh reality of the world. A girl had to keep a roof over her head.

Nobody ate much, but coffee didn’t brew fast enough to keep the mugs full. Everyone asked after Pru. Most of it was harmless curiosity and genuine concern, and Miranda answered with vague, polite responses like, “She’s resting.”

A couple of the more vicious gossips tried to wheedle information out of her, like Azalea Wingate, the Sunday school teacher at the Methodist church on Pine Street, and her ever-present lackey, Emma Pickett.

“I don’t see why Pru invited that city man into her home in the first place,” Azalea said primly.

“She was asking for trouble,” Emma agreed.

“And now there’s a murderer in town!” Azalea turned on the waterworks and dabbed at her cheeks with a napkin. “Poor, slow Wade.”

“Wade’s death was an accident,” Miranda said, gritting her teeth in a smile as she refilled Azalea’s coffee. “Alex had nothing to do with it.”

“So why does the sheriff have him trussed up in the basement of Town Hall, hmm?”

Good question. But Miranda refused to think Alex had killed Wade Putnam. Sure, she’d only met him once and too briefly to form an opinion of his character, but she knew her best friend. Pru wouldn’t defend a killer, no matter how enamored she was with him.

And, boy, was she enamored. Miranda had overheard her making calls on Alex’s cell phone this morning—the trailer had paper thin walls and it was hard not to eavesdrop—pleading for help on Alex’s behalf from his friends. The longest conversation, with a man called Nick, went on for fifteen minutes. By the end, Pru, and Miranda by proxy, were both satisfied that the cavalry was on its way. Alex apparently had high friends in high places.

“… it’s just sinful,” Azalea was saying and drew Miranda’s attention back to the present. “I’ve always thought Pru was better than...
that.
” She emphasized the word so that it sounded more like
whore
.

“I’m sure what you think of Pru is right at the top of her list of concerns,” Miranda said with a bright smile and moved on to the next table.
You self-righteous, hypocritical bitch
, she added silently.

Never mind that Azalea had been shacking up with the church’s minister for the past ten years. No, Pru was the whore for inviting a man to stay in her house. Well, at least Pru’s man wasn’t married. Or a minister. And Pru did run a B&B for God’s sake.

At the last table in Miranda’s section sat a sole man reading the morning paper out of Bangor, oblivious to the chaos around him. Tourist. She recalled seeing him in the diner several days before, mainly because she’d found him attractive with his sandy hair yanked into a loose tail and a scruffy face hiding a blade-edge jaw. His face didn’t suit the pricey city clothes that fit his rangy body like a glove. A man of contradictions. His name…she struggled to recall. Something foreign and girly sounding, it didn’t fit him either. Mischa?

He set aside the newspaper and smiled as she approached. “We meet again. Good morning, Miranda.”

“Mornin’, Mischa,” she said and filled his empty mug.

He grinned. “You remembered.”

Butterflies twirled in her stomach at his smooth baritone. His accent wasn’t foreign like his name, but it wasn’t New England either. Midwest, maybe? “I always remember a handsome face. Can I get you something for breakfast?”

The menu lay open on the table. He scanned it then said, “The special sounds good. Eggs over-easy.”

“I’ll have it out in a jiffy.” She started to turn away and noticed the flyer lying on top of his newspaper. The missing girl, Lila VanBuran, smiled up from the tattered poster.

Miranda felt a sharp twist in her belly, as she always did when she saw one of those flyers kicking around. The girl was dead. No proof, but everyone knew something bad had befallen her.

Mischa followed her gaze to the flyer. Tight-lipped, he folded it into fours before sliding it into the pocket of his coat.

“I’m sorry,” Miranda said and averted her eyes. “Are you a relative?” Police had called off the search a long time ago, but Lila’s relatives had never stopped looking. Every few weeks, a cousin or uncle would pop into town hoping for new information.

“No,” Mischa said and his tone sent a chill down her spine. “I’m someone who, God willing, wants to see justice done.”

O-kay. Major creeper vibes.

Miranda excused herself and hurried back to the kitchen, aware of his gaze tracking her movements. Not so handsome anymore, she thought. He had a feral look in his eyes that set off alarm bells in her mind. If anyone had killed Wade—she knew nobody had; it was an accident—but still, if someone had, she’d point the finger at Mischa long before Alex.

Mischa felt like a killer.

“You okay?” Gail asked as Miranda barreled into the prep area. She was loading plates of food onto a tray, but stopped and studied Miranda’s expression with a frown. “You’re awful pale, sweetie.” 

“I’m good. It’s crazy out there.”

“Bunch of vultures,” Gail muttered and hoisted the tray to her shoulder. “Why don’t you take a few minutes? You look beat.”

A break sounded like heaven. She’d normally jumped on the chance, but with Pru out and Jones pulling another no-call, no-show, they were already severely understaffed. “You sure?”

“Don’t you worry. Me and our angel Jenny got things covered, huh? Go ahead and take your break.”

No need to tell her twice. She placed Creepy Mischa’s order with Jen, the high schooler who worked as a part-time cook and saved them loads of trouble this morning by coming in on her day off. “Angel” was not a kind enough word for the girl.

Miranda snagged her coat from the employee lounge, a storage closet with a few battered lockers off the prep area, and hesitated again at the back door. “Um, Gail, keep an eye on the guy at table ten. It’s probably nothing, but I’m getting weirdo vibes from him.”

“Sure, honey.” 

Miranda stepped outside and the day slapped her with a cold hand. Snow wasn’t imminent yet, but the threat of it hung in the steel gray sky.

Silly to say anything about Creepy Mischa, she thought and turned her collar up to ward off the chill. But, hey, at least nobody could say she didn’t warn them if he turned out to be a crazed mass murderer.

She lit a cigarette, drew in a deep lungful of nicotine, and started walking. She didn’t know what drew her down Penobscot Street, hadn’t even realized her surroundings until she found herself standing in front of John Putnam Jr.’s Victorian. Years ago, the house had been a rundown, abandoned dump that all the local kids claimed was haunted. It wasn’t—unlike the lighthouse—but its state of dilapidation and looming turret made it look like it should have been.

Miranda smiled as she remembered it. J.J., Rhett, David Faraday, Kevin Mallory, and Wade—collectively known in those days as The Crew—had scared her silly one time in high school by hiding out and rattling the windows when she, Pru, and a group of other girls crept up to the house on a dare.

Now cheerful blue paint coated the house, with pretty gingerbread detailing in white. Elegant and charming, a cobblestone walkway led to the wraparound porch. Pru mentioned once J.J. restored the entire house on his own time between construction jobs. That must have taken crazy skills, Miranda thought.

And so had the Halloween decorations. Fluffy, store-bought cobwebs draped the porch and jack-o-lanterns lined the front steps. Plywood gravestones turned the yard into a cemetery, with a ghoulish hand clawing out of the ground in front of one. J.J. had painted each gravestone with a funny epitaph. Her favorite: “See, I told you I was sick!”

The curtain in the front bay window twitched and she froze, shame filling her cheeks with heat. He had to be hurting and here she was rubbernecking like the rest of town. Just as bad as Azalea Wingate.

Disgusted, she turned away and heard the house’s front door pop open.

“Miranda?” John Jr.’s voice was rusty and slightly baffled.

Caught red-handed. She spun and forced a smile that was probably too bright, considering the circumstances. “Hi.”

“Miranda?” he said again. He padded onto the porch in corduroy slippers that flopped against his heels and stared at her like he thought he might be hallucinating. His blond hair stuck up at angles and the flesh around his bloodshot eyes looked bruised. He wore sleep pants patterned with Animal from the Muppets. A threadbare sweatshirt from the local community college bagged from his lean, rugged frame.