All Fall Down (18 page)

F
rom that moment on, Melanie's life changed dramatically. Suddenly she was at the center of one the biggest and certainly the most controversial cases to ever hit the Charlotte area.

In the first two weeks of the official investigation, four more probable victims were found, all from the Charleston area. That brought the potential body count to eight, a substantial and alarming number. Until Melanie, the Dark Angel had enjoyed free rein, acting with impunity, without the pressure of law enforcement nipping at her heels.

And Melanie was the one being lauded for having uncovered the connection between the killings. She had been interviewed by every major news organization in the Southeast; when the media wanted an up date, they came to her first.

The press had had a field day with the Dark Angel, speculating daily in the news about the killer's back ground and motive for the murders. They sparked a lively debate among Charlottonians by calling for individual opinions—and opinions they got, citizens from every walk of life and religious affiliation spoke up, ones from the political right, left and everything
in between. Even the local chapter of the National Organization for Women chimed in.

Everywhere Melanie went, the Dark Angel killings were the topic of conversation. Some argued that the killings were biblical-style justice in a world gone mad, others that society had become such that vigilantism was an acceptable, even necessary, means to an end. And still others, Melanie included, contended that taking a life outside the law, other than in self-defense, was murder. The killer's motives didn't matter, neither did the victim's crimes—no one had the right to take the law into their own hands.

Most satisfying to Melanie, however, was the chance to participate in an investigation the size and complexity of this one. Though the hours were long, she never tired; even the parts of the process that progressed at a snail's pace she found fascinating.

To her surprise, Melanie had enjoyed working with Connor. She'd found she liked him. He was smart. Honest and honorable but outspoken. A cowboy who always did what he believed was right, even when not politically correct—qualities that should have made him less than desirable partner material, but didn't.

Connor had a big ego, though he never let it get in the way of their relationship. In fact, every step of the way, he had made it clear it had been Melanie who'd uncovered the Angel, Melanie who had done the preliminary legwork, and Melanie who should head the investigation because of it.

She appreciated that. He could have benefited professionally from accepting some of the glory, such as
it was. And it would have been easy for him, with his impressive credentials, to have grabbed it.

He wasn't a glory seeker or an ass kisser. In fact, the last thing he seemed to want was attention. At times he acted as if he didn't want to be publicly associated with the case at all.

Melanie found him interesting, a complex mixture of character traits that shouldn't quite fit together, but did. However, it was the aura of sadness about him, the way his smile never quite reached his eyes, that intrigued her most. She wondered if the atrocities of the job had stolen his ability to smile—or if something closer to his heart had been the culprit.

The phone on Melanie's desk rang, and she picked it up. “May here.”

“How could you?” a woman whispered, voice muffled. “How could you do it?”

Melanie frowned. “This is Officer Melanie May, Whistlestop Police Department. Who is this, please?”

“I know who you are,” the woman said, her softly spoken words taking on a bitter edge. “I thought you, of all people, would be on our side. I thought you cared. Traitor.”

“I do care,” Melanie replied automatically. “If you would tell me who this—”

The line went dead. Quickly, Melanie punched in *69. When that yielded only an “unknown,” she returned the receiver to its cradle. She hadn't recognized the voice, yet she had found something familiar about it. Something about it had struck a chord of recognition in her.

The woman had to have been referring to the Dark
Angel case. But what had she meant when she said
“our side”
?

“Heads up, Mel,” Bobby murmured from his desk, located behind hers. “Incoming.”

She lifted her gaze and her heart sank. Her ex-husband was striding across the station, his expression thunderous.

She stood, intent at least on meeting him on his level. She was not about to allow him to stand over her, growling like some sort of human attack dog.

“Stan,” she said as he stopped before her. “What brings you all the way to Whistlestop?”

“This case. I want you off it.”

Behind her, Bobby cleared his throat—she imagined her partner ducking for cover. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me, Melanie. I want you off the Dark Angel case.”

She met his gaze calmly. “You're no longer my husband, Stan. You have no right to tell me what to do. And furthermore, this is my workplace. I don't appreciate you showing up here and making a scene.”

“As Casey's father, I have every right—”

“No, you don't.” She tipped up her chin, staring him down. “If you have a concern about our son, of course I'll make myself available to you. But you will not come into my place of employment and order me about. Is that clear?”

By his expression, she could see that she had surprised him. In truth, she wasn't sure who she had surprised more—him or herself.

Stan drew back slightly, she could see him scrambling to regain his equilibrium, the advantage he was
accustomed to having when it came to his dealings with her. After a moment, he cleared his throat, then addressed her in a more reasonable tone. “Your involvement with the Dark Angel case is upsetting Casey.”

“That's nonsense. He's fine.”

“He's having nightmares.”

“Nightmares?” she repeated, drawing her eyebrows together. “He's awakened a few times in the night, but when I asked—”

“He hasn't wanted to tell you.” Stan hesitated, then went on. “He's afraid you're going to be killed.”

She made a sound of disbelief. “Killed? Where would he get such a crazy idea? I haven't even mentioned that I'm working on anything out of the ordinary. Why would I? He's only four years old.”

“Try the TV, Melanie. His friends at school. His teachers. It's what everybody's talking about and whenever they are, your name's mentioned.”

Casey had been quiet lately, Melanie realized. Subdued. He had begun crying when she dropped him off at preschool, clinging to her neck and begging her not to go. Something he hadn't done in a couple of years. She had put it down to her not spending as much time with him lately, to her having been preoccupied.

Boy, had she been wrong.

“I didn't know,” she whispered, a lump in her throat. “I had no idea.”

“But you didn't ask, did you?” Stan leaned toward her, all righteous indignation. “This was why I didn't want you to become a cop.”

“But I'm not in any kind of danger, Stan. This is simply a case of—”

“Of a mother spending more time thinking about her work than her family,” he supplied. “
I
have our son's best interests at heart. Can you say the same?”

 

That afternoon, Melanie punched out early, anxious to pick up Casey and to reassure him that she was in absolutely no danger of being killed. She had spent the time after Stan left vacillating between being certain her ex-husband had been exaggerating and knowing that he had not.

It was the last that had torn her apart. How could she have been so oblivious to her son's feelings? What kind of mother was she?

When Casey caught sight of her, he let out a whoop of joy and tore across the playground toward her.

“Mommy!” he cried and threw his arms around her legs. “You're here.”

She swung him up in her arms, guilt gnawing at her. “Of course I'm here, tiger. Just a little early.”

He wrapped his tiny legs around her waist, clinging to her like a monkey. “Missed you, Mommy.”

She gave him a big kiss. “I missed you, too, baby. Let's go home.”

Although anxious to talk to him about his feelings, Melanie held off, waiting for the right moment. She thought it best for him to be relaxed and happy when she broached the subject of her job and his fears.

As a treat, they made a homemade pizza for dinner. Melanie stood back, allowing him to spread the canned dough onto the pizza pan, not caring that it
was thick in places with holes in others. While their creation baked, they played two games of Candy Land—Casey beating her soundly both times. They ate picnic-style in the living room, on an old quilt Melanie spread out on the floor.

Dinner finished, Casey helped her load the dishwasher, chattering the entire time about his friends from school, the giant bug they had found on the playground and how Sarah had puked up her peanut butter and jelly sandwich after lunch. Melanie smiled to herself, just letting him talk, comforted by his nonstop monologue.

Dishes done, they curled up on the couch, Casey nestled up beside her, his favorite bedtime books on her lap. Now, she decided, was the time. “Honey,” she said, “did you know that Mommy is working on a big, important case at work?”

He darted a glance up at her, his expression stricken.

Her heart sank. “Is that a yes, Casey?”

He nodded, but didn't look at her.

Stan had been right. She hadn't been paying close enough attention to their son.
She took a deep, steadying breath. “Where did you hear about it?”

“The TV,” he whispered, hanging his head as if ashamed. “They said your name.”

She snuggled him a little closer, struggling to maintain a totally relaxed demeanor. “When you heard my name on TV, how did that make you feel?”

He shrugged. “Okay. But I told Timmy about it an' he said…he said…”

He looked helplessly up at her, and his chin began to quiver, his eyes to tear. She set the books aside,
scooped him up and brought him to her lap. He twisted around and pressed his face to her chest.

“What did Timmy say, sweetheart?” she coaxed. “You can tell me. I won't be upset. I promise.”

He pressed his face tighter to her chest. When he spoke, she had to struggle to make out his muffled words. “Timmy said…he said that you're chasing a really bad guy. A cereal-bowl killer. He said that…that you could…”

Her son started to cry and Melanie had a pretty good idea what Timmy had told Casey could happen to her. That she could get killed, too. Helpless anger filled her—at Casey's friend, at the media, but mostly at herself for not being more aware of what was happening with her son.

“Honey,” she said softly but firmly, “did Timmy tell you that the bad person might hurt Mommy?”

He nodded, his small body shaking with the force of his tears. She rocked him, heart breaking. “Remember when we talked about what a police officer does? About how he, or she, keeps people safe by getting the bad guys?”

He whimpered a “yes,” peeking up at her.

“That's what I do, I keep people safe. And I get the bad guys.” She smiled gently. “They don't get me, Casey. They run from me.”

He studied her silently for a moment, as if trying to decide if he believed her. “Really?”

“Really.” She crossed her heart, then held up two fingers. “I promise.”

She bent and rubbed her nose against his. “Now, you have to make me a promise. From now on, when
ever you get an idea in your head that scares you, you have to tell me about it. 'Cause it might be a wrong idea. Like you had this time. Can you make me that promise, Casey?”

He said he could, solemnly crossing his heart. Afterward, she read him all his favorite bedtime stories, beginning with
Good Night Moon
and ending with
I'll Love You Forever.

Next had come pj's and prayers and then before long, Melanie had been able to tiptoe out of the room. Taking one last glance at her sleeping child, she went to the phone and dialed her ex-husband's number. He answered right away.

“Stan,” she said, “it's Melanie.” She didn't give him time to respond, just forged ahead. “I just…I wanted to thank you for today. For coming to me about Casey. He and I talked and—” she drew in a deep breath “—you were right. A friend from school put a wrong idea into his head and he was terrified. Everything's all right now, but I just wanted… Thank you,” she finished. “I appreciate what you did.”

For a moment, he was silent. Melanie suspected she had stunned him. And she could certainly understand why. She couldn't even remember the last time they had spoken to each other without open animosity, let alone when she had thanked him for anything.

“You're welcome,” he said finally, his voice sounding unnaturally thick.

A moment later, Melanie hung up the phone, smiling to herself. For the first time in a long time she felt as if she and Stan were playing on the same team. And it felt good, really good.

A
smoky haze hung above the crowded dance floor. Boyd slipped around and past the gyrating dancers, most pressed so tightly together it was difficult in the dim light to determine where one body began and the other ended.

He skimmed his gaze from one face to the next, searching, hungry. Sweat beaded his upper lip. He had awakened this morning angry. On edge. Nothing had changed from the day before, yet a blackness had settled over him, one that colored every step he took, his every thought, word and action.

It had been weeks since his last encounter. Weeks since he had allowed himself to indulge in his weakness. He had staved off the hunger chewing at his insides by reliving the last time. By closing his eyes, taking himself in his hand and remembering.

He had prayed these memories would hold him longer than the last.

They hadn't. They were useless now. Dead to him.

Boyd breathed deeply through his nose, feeling light-headed. Queasy with desperation. He reached the perimeter of the dance floor and began circling again, moving his gaze from one face, one pair of eyes, to another, each leaving him cold.

These women were like the last. Weak. Without the inner strength to satisfy him. Pain was the thing. Total domination. Humiliation.

He had to stop. Each encounter, each new woman, played a game of Russian roulette with his life. He would run out of luck; one day he would pull the trigger and find the chamber loaded.

He was running out of time. He felt the certainty of that growing in the pit of his gut.

Before him, the crush of bodies parted, as the sea had for Moses. And he saw
her.
She was moving across the dance floor, heading for the bar. She was dressed entirely in black—spike-heeled boots, skin-tight leather pants and a lace-up vest that squeezed at her breasts, pushing them up and out. Her long blond hair looked coarse and was the color of corn silk, obviously a wig but sexy as hell against the black leather.

As if she sensed his scrutiny, she stopped. And turned. Their gazes met. Her lips were painted a deep wine color; her heavily made-up eyes outlined in kohl. She smiled. As if she knew
him
—his needs, his desperation. The things that would make him happy.

The music faded—the blood rushed to his head, screaming in his ear. She motioned him closer. He started forward, mouth dry, heart fast. Completely aroused. He stopped in front of her. She motioned him closer yet, indicating he should bend his head close to hers, to put his ear close to her mouth.

He did. Their bodies brushed and they swayed to the earthy music, in sync already. She slipped a hand between them, found his erection, straining against the
front of his pants. She caught the zipper and lowered it. He choked back a sound, of pleasure. Of shock.

“I'll make you beg,” she whispered, her voice thick and rough, like sandpaper. “It'll be so good, you'll wish you were dead.”

As the words reached his brain, she stuck her tongue in his ear and closed her hand around his penis, squeezing hard.

He exploded in her hand. But still she held him tightly, using his own release against him, the jerk of his own muscles to milk him dry. With a throaty laugh, she zipped him up, turned and walked away.

Boyd watched her go, already fantasizing about their next encounter.