Bleeding Through: A Rachel Goddard Mystery (Rachel Goddard Mysteries) (35 page)

“State mental hospitals have units where they treat drug addicts,” he said. “If Jordy didn’t actually hurt himself, that’s where he would have gone, to a substance abuse facility.”

“Facility,” she scoffed. “Everything’s a
facility
these days. Well, to me it was the nuthouse. Yeah, they got him off drugs, and they blamed the dope for him wanting to kill himself. But I think he’s got a screw loose. Anyway, that was just the first time he landed in that place. I tell you, he’s bad for Rita. I thought so when they run off and got married straight out of school, and I think so now.”

Mrs. Jankowski was hardly the first mother to take against a daughter’s boyfriend. “If they’re back together now, maybe that means they belong with each other. They shouldn’t have split up the first time.”

“No, sir, she don’t belong with the likes of him.” Mrs. Jankowski shook her head so vigorously that a red curl pulled loose from the pile atop her head and dangled over her right ear. She swiped it back into place and folded her arms. “I’ve been beggin’ and beggin’ Rita to cut him off, steer clear, but she won’t listen to me.”

“Don’t you believe he’s kicked his habit?”

She looked at Tom as if she couldn’t believe somebody so dumb was walking around loose. “There ain’t no such thing as kickin’ a drug habit. You oughta know that, bein’ a cop. Once they’re hooked, they stay hooked. You might as well cut your losses and let ’em go.”

“You’re a hard woman, Mrs. Jankowski.”

She sniffed and rubbed at her nose with the back of a hand as if scratching an itch. “Anyway, like I said, it’s not just the drugs. It’s the way he makes Rita feel about herself. He just sucks the life out of her, you know what I mean? Makes her think she’s not worth a thing, and he’s the only man who appreciates her.”

Rita had said as much to Tom in slightly different words—
Jordy treats me with respect. He’s the only man in this county who doesn’t treat me like trash.

Mrs. Jankowski was wound up now, the words spooling out of her. Through the screen door Tom watched a kaleidoscope of emotions play across her face. Anger. Bewilderment. Frustration. And fear, deep and genuine.

“It wasn’t so bad long as he stayed up there with his sister, but every time he landed in the nuthouse, Rita had to go see him, didn’t let a week go by. Spendin’ money she couldn’t afford on motels so she could stay over. Missin’ work. Nearly lost her job over it that last time, back in the winter. Now he’s right here underfoot, and he’s just shot her plans all to hell.”

“What plans?”

Tom watched in surprise as Mrs. Jankowski’s eyes filled with tears. “She could be on her way to something good if it wasn’t for him. You know them TV shows where people sing and everybody that’s watchin’ calls in to pick the winner?”

Tom nodded, recalling his own question to Rita about auditioning.

“Well, she was all set to go and try out, and you know what her voice is like, she coulda got on the show like that.” Mrs. Jankowski snapped her fingers, then sniffled and swiped at her nose with the back of her hand. “She was keepin’ it a secret, so she wouldn’t be embarrassed in case it didn’t work out. But she told Jordy, and by the time Jordy got through, she was sayin’ she wasn’t ever gonna sing again. He’s a loser, and he’s makin’ sure she’ll be one too, so she won’t get above him. He’s tryin’ to get her to run off with him, start over somewhere. If she does that, she’ll never come back, I just know it. I’ll never see her again.”

“Are you afraid he’s going to hurt her?” Tom asked. “If she won’t do what he wants?”

“Now, I didn’t say that. I—” She broke off, frowning. Then she produced a little smile and her tone changed abruptly to a wheedling plea. “You know, you could do Rita a lot of good if you’d talk to Jordy, tell him to leave her alone.”

“Sorry, but keeping Rita and Jordy apart isn’t in my job description.”

She huffed in frustration. “Well, I’m gonna find a way.”

Mrs. Jankowski’s feelings about her daughter were all over the place, shifting from resentful to protective without signaling a turn. The prospect of her daughter being tied to a man with a history of drug abuse was enough to worry any mother. But Mrs. Jankowski was in the grip of much darker fears for Rita, and Tom was beginning to think she might have good reason.

He pulled the photocopied picture from his inside jacket pocket and unfolded it. “Is that Jordy there, at the last concert?”

She stared at the picture for a long moment, chewing on her bottom lip so vigorously that Tom was afraid she would draw blood. She flipped the latch, pushed the screen door open a few inches, and grabbed the paper from Tom. He waited out the silence while she studied it. At last she shifted her eyes to Tom. “Ain’t this proof enough he was around that night? The Beecher girl wanted Rita to say he was there, put it in writin’. But you don’t have to drag her into it, do you? This picture ought to be enough.”

“It’s nowhere near enough,” Tom said. “It’s not even a clear picture of him. Are you sure it’s him?”

She opened the screened door again and thrust the paper at Tom. “Maybe I said too much already. I’m not gonna get my girl in trouble. Jordy Gale’s gonna do a real good job of that.”

“I don’t know what kind of trouble you’re talking about,” Tom said. He didn’t let himself stop to wonder about the meaning of her statements. At the moment he wanted to keep her talking and get as much information out of her as he could. “If Rita didn’t tell the police Jordy was at the concert that night, so what? Nobody was investigating Jordy. There was no reason for her to say anything about him being there. Or was there?”

Mrs. Jankowski sniffled and her mouth puckered as if she might start bawling in earnest. Tom stayed silent while she dragged a wad of tissues from her pants pocket and blew her nose. He thought she was working her way around to telling him something, but instead she stepped back, shaking her head, and closed the door.

Chapter Thirty-seven

Ben Hern, Rachel’s appointed escort and guardian, stayed downstairs to play with Frank and Cicero while she collected a few things to take to Michelle at the hospital.

She opened the closet in Michelle’s room to find it empty except for a single pink blouse. Michelle had brought plenty of clothes with her. Where were they?

Rachel’s gaze dropped to the suitcase on the floor. She hauled it out, dropped it on the bed, and snapped it open. Inside, still neatly folded, lay the clothes her sister had packed when she’d been determined to leave. Despite their argument, Rachel thought she’d talked her out of going home, but clearly Michelle wanted to be ready to leave at any minute.

I should have let her go. She’s not safe around me.

Was that true? Sinking onto the bed beside the open suitcase, Rachel gave in to the accumulated tension of the past few days, allowing her shoulders to sag as her emotional defenses fell away.

Because of a drawing sent to her months ago, she’d become convinced Perry Nelson was the one tormenting Michelle, that the snake picture had turned out to be a literal warning. Tom didn’t seem sure, though, and his doubts made Rachel question her own conclusion. It must sound crazy to Tom. And if Rachel were the target, why would Nelson involve Michelle? Why didn’t he come after Rachel directly? Because it was more fun this way? Stretching it out, savoring the thought of stupid Rachel worrying about her sister instead of herself? Yes, she could imagine Perry Nelson thinking that way.

Even if Rachel were the ultimate target, she had been right to worry about Michelle. The calls and threatening e-mails terrified Michelle, destroyed her emotional equilibrium. The snakebite could have killed her.

If all this happened becau
se
of me
—

She banished the thought—this was all Perry Nelson’s doing, not hers. She rose to gather necessities for her sister. Toothbrush and toothpaste, comb, fresh underwear, a change of clothes, a bar of the triple-milled coconut oil soap Michelle couldn’t live without. She placed it all in a little pile on the bed. One of her canvas shopping bags could hold everything. Leaving most of Michelle’s belongings packed in the suitcase, Rachel returned it to the closet floor. Michelle and her husband would decide when she should go home to Bethesda, but Rachel knew it would be soon. Although Kevin was a sensible and even-tempered man, Rachel had a feeling he would be outraged if it turned out she was the indirect cause for Michelle’s fear and anguish over the past month.

Where was Nelson right now? Was he following her around, always just beyond sight? He had the kind of unremarkable good looks, a smooth boyish face and dark hair, an average build with no striking features, that would allow him to be a chameleon, blending in anywhere. Rachel hadn’t seen him in a while, and she might not recognize him instantly if he had changed his hair color or grown a beard. Maybe she’d seen him on the street in Mountainview, looked straight at him without knowing him.

She walked to the window and gazed out across the acres of rolling land that made up Tom’s small farm. For a moment she almost forgot her fear as she took in the beauty of the scene. The spring grass had a vibrancy that would fade when the heat of summer set in. Half a dozen mature dogwood trees near the house were losing their white flower petals to the breeze. On a hillside in the distance, Tom’s flock of sheep grazed, slowly making their way down toward their paddock as the day drew to a close.

Nowhere out there for Nelson or anyone else to hide. Rachel felt safe at home during the day. Night was a different matter. Even with the security lights creating an illuminated perimeter, someone—Nelson?—had dared to walk right up to the house and throw a gallon of blood on the front porch.

What had Tom found out from the mental hospital? Why hadn’t he called her? Rachel was supposed to wait for him to get back to her with news, but she couldn’t keep her hand away from the cell phone in her shirt pocket. She was fingering it when its ringtone startled her.

Certain Tom was calling, Rachel didn’t check the display before answering. “Hello? Tom?”

The caller chuckled, a low, derisive sound. “So sorry to disappoint you, Rachel, but it’s not your darling Tom.”

She balled her free hand into a fist, wanting to hit him, frustrated that she couldn’t get at him. “You won’t get away with this,” she said.

“Oh, but I will. I’ll see you soon, Rachel.”

He was chuckling again when he broke the connection.

***

Skeet Hadley lay on his bunk, hands clasped behind his head, glaring at the ceiling as if he had something personal against it. Stubble covered his jaw, and he still wore the clothes he’d been arrested in, although his mother had brought over a fresh shirt and pair of pants. Skeet didn’t look over when Tom spoke to him through the wall of bars enclosing the small cell.

“Your lawyer will be by to see you in a while, but I thought I’d let you know that your bail hearing’s tomorrow morning.”

That got Skeet’s attention. He jerked upright and jumped to his feet. “
Tomorrow?
I’ve been sitting here waiting all day. I’m not staying in this shithole another night.”

Tom shrugged. “Sorry. The judge has a busy docket. That’s the best he can do.”

Skeet brought up a fist and swung, but not at Tom, who was out of reach in the corridor. The punch smacked into an iron bar. Skeet yelped in pain and cradled the hand against his chest with the other.

“You ready to cooperate yet?” Tom asked. “We can wait and talk when your lawyer shows up if you want to.”

“Go to hell.”

“You’re up against some serious charges here.” Tom took a step closer and immediately regretted it. Skeet gave off a sour odor of perspiration and stale beer. “I’d advise you to start thinking about how you can make things go a little easier. I expect your lawyer will tell you the same thing.”

“You think you can find a jury in this county that’ll put me in prison for going after the Lankfords? It’s not gonna happen. Everybody despises them and their murdering son.”

Tom wasn’t in the mood to argue that point again. “I’m wondering where you got the idea to throw red paint on their porch and steps. Did you use up your whole supply of deer blood at my house?”

Skeet’s expression had turned wary. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“We both know you did it, so let’s stop playing games. Throwing blood and paint on people’s porches, spreading stinking garbage everywhere. That’s crazy behavior, Skeet. You know that, don’t you? Sane people don’t act that way. And shooting at the Lankfords, my god. Does that sound like a reasonable thing for anybody to do? You could be sitting here on double murder charges right now, and for what?”

“I wasn’t trying to—Ah, hell.” Skeet turned away, scrubbing a hand across his mouth. He took six steps to the far end of his cell, turned and paced back to the bars. He jammed his fists into his jeans pockets. “I was drunk, okay? We were all drunk. And I was mad and wanted to do something about it.”

“Is that your excuse for all the other times too?”

Skeet rocked back and forth on his heels, stared at the floor, and didn’t answer.

After every other crazy thing Skeet had done, Tom was more than willing to believe he was capable of murder. But if Skeet had killed Shelley, hidden her body for a month, then dumped it in a ravine, he hadn’t acted alone.