Blood Red (32 page)

Her attempt to stammer a reassurance and a good-­bye is met with a stern “Tell me. Now.”

“You're in the middle of a meeting.”

“Right, and if you don't tell me now, I'm going to think the worst and I won't be able to focus on my presentations.”

“It isn't . . . the worst,” she tells him—­and reminds herself—­as she clutches the phone hard against her ear. “It's just something that happened a long time ago and it popped up again. Something bad. I should have told you back then, but you need to know now, because . . .”

“What is it?”

This is it. Confession time—­if she has the nerve.

T
he moment Casey heard that Detective Sullivan Leary is here in town, he had to hang up the phone. He could scarcely speak, overwhelmed by joy and temptation.

First things first—­he did send the screenshot she'd demanded. A deal is a deal, and how could he resist?

Then, of course, he left the area immediately, heading away from the business district, out to the strip malls on the highway. He pulled into a crowded Home Depot parking lot, where his van was one of many.

They won't be looking for it, of course, or for him. They have no idea what he's driving, or who he is.

He just needs a moment to blend into the scenery and collect his thoughts. It might be time to revise the plan yet again, but he doesn't want to make a rash decision. Things have been moving too quickly as it is.

He leans his head back against the seat rest, catches sight of himself in the rearview mirror, and grins.

Hey there, stranger.

The beard is gone. He'd forgotten all about that. He'd lathered up and shaved it off this morning before he left his apartment, using the freshly sharpened antique blade.

It was time. He'd started growing it over a year ago—­not deliberately, of course. He'd never been a fan of facial hair. But after someone you love slits her wrists with a razor blade, you don't handle one lightly.

No, not at all. Not on yourself.

He'd stopped wearing his contact lenses, too. When you've been through a loss like that, you find yourself crying at any random moment, and tears make contacts cloudy.

But today, Casey was finally ready to put all that behind him. He shaved off the beard, and he swapped the glasses for contacts.

Now he looks like his old self, the man he was one year, one week, and three days ago.

Hearing sirens, he looks up and sees a police car racing along the highway toward town.

Are they looking for him?

Or are they looking for Brianna?

He drove her up into the mountains and left her far off the trail. When the snow comes, it'll cover her. Chances are, they're not going to find her for a long, long time.

And they're never going to find me.

And Rowan Mundy and Sullivan Leary . . . what about them?

Imagine having them both at once: two beautiful redheads, one representing good, the other evil. Which would win in the end?

Neither.

I'm in control. I decide who wins and loses, lives and dies.

I decide how, and when . . . and where.

So. Maybe it should be right here in Mundy's Landing after all. Maybe two of them together will be enough, so exquisite that when all is said and done, he'll be satisfied at last.

If that's the case, why not stay?

Why not live right here among the locals? They'll never suspect that the most brilliant killer of their time is right there in their midst.

For all he knows, the Sleeping Beauty Killer did the same thing.

“D
o you remember Rick Walker?” Rowan asks Jake, her voice shaking as she says the name.

It's met with a moment of silence. Then a taut, “What about him?”

“He . . . I . . .”

Jake curses softly. “I knew it.”

“What? What did you know?”

“I knew you and he were . . . I
knew
it.”

“No! We weren't—­we didn't—­”

“Then what?”

She hesitates, hearing someone calling Jake's name in the background.

“It wasn't like that. It wasn't—­”

“It wasn't what? You didn't what?”

Now she can't find her voice at all.

“Did you sleep with that guy, Rowan?”

She swallows hard. “No. I didn't sleep with him. I stopped it before it went that far. He made a move on me, and I . . .”

“Slapped him across the face?” he asks. “Did you slap him across the face?”

“No.”

“And you didn't tell me so that I could slap him across the face, or—­” He breaks off to call to someone on the other end, “I know, sorry, I'll be right there.”

“Jake, listen—­”

He cuts her off. “How long did it go on?”

A little more than eight minutes.

Eight minutes, and I burned the cookies.

“It wasn't like that, Jake. It didn't go on. He made a pass, and I didn't stop it right away, and . . . it didn't go any further than that. I barely saw him again after that day.”

“But you did see him.”

“Not that way. The kids were friends. He lived next door. And after we moved away, I never saw him again . . .” Dammit. She swallows miserably before concluding the sentence: “. . . until last week.”

“You saw him last week? Where? Did you run into him?”

“No. I got a package in the mail, and I thought it was from him.”

“Why?”

“Because it arrived on the exact day that he . . . you know. The anniversary.”

“So you remember the exact date, after how many years?”

“Fourteen. How could I forget it? I was so upset after it happened. It was horrible.”

“Yeah. I'll bet.”

“Jake—­”

“So you didn't see him for fourteen years, and then out of the blue, he sent you a gift on your anniversary.”

“I don't have an anniversary with him, Jake. It was
the
anniversary. And it wasn't a gift. It was something stupid that he knew would remind me of him.”

Mercifully, he doesn't ask what it is. She can't stomach the thought of painting a vivid verbal image involving the smoke alarm and burnt cookies.

“So you saw him . . . when?”

“Saturday.”

“Saturday,” Jake echoes, and she can sense the wheels turning. “So you lied about going shopping? You were with him instead?”

Oh, how she wishes she could lie again.

Those days are over. Own it, dammit. Own what you did. Ask for forgiveness.

“I really did go shopping. But I saw him, too. Only to find out why he'd sent the package and to tell him to leave me alone.”

“And did you?”

“He didn't send it.”

“Yeah. Sure.”

“I know. I don't believe him, either. I mean, I didn't. Now I don't know what to believe. I've gotten two other weird packages since then, and if they're not from him, I don't know who they're from.”

She waits for the logical follow-­up question:
Who else did you tell?

But he doesn't ask it. She can picture him sitting there outside some hotel conference room, trying to process it all. If he weren't there—­if they were together, alone, at home—­would he be so quiet? Or would he be ranting at her? Walking out on her?

“I'm so sorry I didn't tell you what happened, Jake. I was afraid to. I was afraid you'd think the wrong thing. I was afraid of losing you. But you have to believe me—­what I've just told you is the entire truth. I have nothing else to hide. Please believe me.”

Silence. And then: “How can I ever believe you again, when you kept something like this from me for all those years? How could you?”

“You were never around back when it first happened, and I—­”

“Because I was working to keep a roof over our heads, just like I'm doing right now,” he says over someone calling his name in the background, “so if you're trying to blame this on me—­”

“I'm not. I'm blaming it on myself. It was one hundred percent my fault. But what you asked me was how I could have kept it from you, the answer is that it wasn't very hard.”

She pauses.

Silence, interrupted after a few moments by “I'll be right there, sorry,” but he isn't talking to her.

“Jake, remember how it was back then? You were gone for days on end, and nights, too. When you were around, our time together and with the kids was either so hectic or so precious that I could never find the right moment. I knew we wouldn't have had time to heal something that huge. Was that the right decision? No. I'd never make that decision now. But I was a different person back then. We both were.”

“I've never lied to you. Never. ”

She absorbs that. “If you had ever come right out and asked me if something like this had happened—­back then, or in the years since—­I wouldn't have lied about it.”

“How would I know to even ask something like that?”

“You wouldn't. I'm just saying—­”

“I get it. I have to go.”

She wants to protest, needs to keep talking until they've found resolution, until they've healed.

Well aware that it's not going to happen right now, or today, or maybe even soon, she says only, “I'm so sorry. Please forgive me. The last thing I'd ever want to do is hurt you.”

“But you did.”

“I know, and I'm sorry, and I love you.” She waits for him to say it back.

He doesn't. Not this time. She hears only a click as he disconnects the call.

 

From the
Mundy's Landing Tribune
Archives

News

July 15, 1916

Sestercentennial Festivities to Resume

Memorabilia Chest Will Be Buried

The spate of inexplicable murders over recent weeks put a grisly halt to the merry celebration of our two-­and-­a-­half-­century-­old village, which will recommence tomorrow.

“The tragic and mysterious deaths of three anonymous schoolgirls notwithstanding,” Mayor Cornelius Holmes said from his office in Village Hall, “we ought not ignore our first settlers, who courageously arrived in Mundy's Landing 250 years ago and deserve, upon this momentous occasion, to be fêted in a grand manner befitting their tenacity.”

Gently reminded that the first settlers arrived a year prior, the mayor returned that the village has perennially recognized its official birth date as 1666.

Indeed, it was then that the vast majority of our forebears arrived on an overdue supply ship from England, only to discover that nearly all members of the existing colony had succumbed to starvation over the course of their first treacherous winter in the New World.

The aghast newcomers determined that two of the surviving quintet—­James and Elizabeth Mundy—­had butchered and cannibalized their fellow settlers. After their parents had been executed for their dastardly crimes, the ­couple's three children were mercifully allowed to stay on in the home their father had built. Charity Mundy passed away in her teens, but Jeremiah Mundy and his sister Priscilla lived well into their dotage after marrying and raising children of their own.

Many of their descendants live and work among us to this day—­most notably, Horace J. Mundy, one of several prominent American financiers who met with J. P. Morgan and the late Senator Nelson W. Aldrich on Jekyll Island, Georgia, to draft legislation for the new Federal Reserve System that was subsequently signed into law by President Wilson. Although he passes the winter months in Georgia, Mr. Mundy summers at his Prospect Street mansion and shall preside as honorary chairman of tomorrow's festivities as planned.

At two o'clock in the afternoon, a parade featuring the award-­winning Dutchess Fife, Drum, and Bugle Corps will step off from the Mason Street schoolhouse and march to the Village Common. There, Miss Etta Abrams will deliver a noble oration covering the town's history. Mrs. Mildred Haynes, president of the Ladies' Aid Society, will then step forward to close the treasure chest containing pertinent vestiges of our time. Surely, just as we would regard the relics of 1816 as quaint antiques, so shall our progeny view the assemblage of items deemed representative of our life and times in the year 1916.

The handsome metal chest, donated by Westerly Dry Goods Co. of Market Street, will be sealed at precisely midnight and lowered into its temporary tomb, not to see the light of day again until our ancestors unearth it on the sixteenth of July in the distant year 2016.

 

Chapter 18

S
teve Lindgren has been trying unsuccessfully to get in touch with the doorman who was on duty in the Weehawken high-­rise from early Monday evening through Tuesday morning. Now, in a small office adjacent to the room where he'd spoken with Rick Walker's son Kurt, he's hoping to have better luck with the building's security camera footage.

Artie Vance, the brash, middle-­aged building manager, operates the remote control as they work their way through the past forty-­eight hours. They're watching it on fast forward, pausing it every time someone enters the building, looking for anything out of the ordinary.

“Whoa, whoa, stop,” he says, yet again, and Artie freezes on a hooded figure entering the lobby.

“Nah, that's Bobby Shaw,” he tells Steve. “He lives here.”

“Okay, keep going. Sorry.”

“Hey, this is a lot more exciting than what I'd be doing if I were at home right now with my wife. This is how she watches those stupid reality shows she tapes on the DVR. She keeps stopping them, backing them up, playing them, stopping them—­” He interrupts himself to freeze the footage, exclaiming, “There! Look at that! That's him!”

“That's who?”

“That's Richard Walker, just coming in the door, see?”

Steve leans in to get a better look at the video monitor, noting that the time stamp is Monday evening at 8:17 p.m.

That's Richard Walker, all right. And he isn't alone.

I
mmediately after Sully received the text message from Richard Walker's phone, Mundy's Landing police officers were dispatched to the location at the edge of town.

“What did they expect?” Barnes mutters to Sully after Colonomos received the call that they'd found nothing out of the ordinary. Now he's down the hall, summoned by one of the detectives, leaving Sully and Stockton to mull things over.

“It's not like this guy was going to be standing by the side of the road flagging them down,” Barnes says. “You know?”

“But he's here someplace.”

“Only if the GPS screenshot was legitimate.”

“You think he faked it?”

“It wouldn't be all that hard to pull something like that together.”

“But in a split second? He couldn't have known I was going to ask him for a GPS location screenshot ahead of time. And he couldn't have known I was going to be in Mundy's Landing. I didn't even know it myself until twenty minutes before we left New York, unless . . .”

“Unless what?”

“Do you think he followed us up here?”

“No.” Barnes is decisive. “There's no way. Half the time we were on the road, there was no one behind us at all.”

“Okay, but if this guy was responsible for Brianna Armbruster's disappearance, he might have expected us to tie it to Julia Sexton's and assumed we'd come here to investigate.”

“Or maybe he's been here all along.”

“He lives in New Jersey,” she reminds Barnes just as her phone rings again. She hesitates only a moment before answering it.

Jin Kim again: “Are you ready for this?”

“I doubt it. What's up?”

“We found Rick Walker.”

She sighs in relief. “Thank God. You traced the call? He was down there after all? Barnes and I were just trying to figure out how—­”

“No, wait, back up. That's not what I meant. I just got off the phone with the New Jersey police. Rick Walker's dead.”

“They
killed
him?”

“No. He died. In his apartment. Yesterday, maybe the day before. And it's looking like a homicide.”

“But . . . if he's dead, then who the hell just called me?”

“I don't know, but he's nearby. Watch yourself, Sully.”

P
lease, please, please let him call me back . . .

She clings tightly to her phone inside her coat pocket, willing it to ring. With blatant disregard for Miss Abrams's restriction, Rowan left her cell phone powered on after the conversation with Jake.

It vibrates with an incoming call just as she's leading the class back through a curtain of falling snow to the bus.

But it isn't Jake.

Frowning, she steps away from the class to answer it, ignoring questions from the kids and blatant disapproval from Bari, who makes a comment about teachers who make a “big stink” about rules but don't follow them.

“Rowan?”

“Yes . . . ?”

“This is Joe Goodall.”

Joe is the principal of Mundy's Landing High School. Close to retirement age now, he was a student teacher at the middle school back when Rowan was in eighth grade, and had moved on to teaching science at the high school by the time she graduated. She never had him for class, but he was a hall monitor who handed her quite a few cut slips back in the day. They've laughed about it since but it's always a little strained on her part, even though she's long since redeemed herself, and Braden and Katie were stellar students.

“What's going on, Joe?” she asks nervously.

“I need you to come over here as soon as possible.”

O
nce Noreen has crossed the Whitestone Bridge from Long Island to the Bronx, traffic is surprisingly light.

She makes it to Mundy's Landing in record time, speeding the whole way, despite the snow that starts falling north of the New York City suburbs.

It isn't that she's eager to get to her hometown so much as she's eager to leave her life behind for a little while.

Funny—­that's the opposite of how she used to feel driving back to Long Island after visiting Mundy's Landing when her father was still alive and ailing. She could never get home quickly enough to Kevin and the kids.

Now Kevin is leaving, and Sean is gone most of the time, and soon Shannon will be away too. The younger girls aren't all that far behind.

What then?

She's never lived alone in her life; nor has she ever wanted to. It was never part of any plan.

Her mother's words, the ones Noreen had repeated to her son on his commencement day, echo in her head as she passes the chamber of commerce billboard welcoming her to Mundy's Landing.

It's easier to say good-­bye if you focus on what lies ahead instead of what lies behind you.

For once, Noreen isn't so sure she agrees.

B
eing summoned to the high school by the principal can mean only one thing.

Rowan's heart sinks as she stands in the falling snow, clutching the phone to her ear. She's lost track of Mick and his grades in the past ten days. He must be failing something. Maybe everything.

“I'm on a field trip with my class,” she tells Joe Goodall, “but we're right here in town and—­”

“When can you get here?”

“We're on our way back to the school now.”

“Rowan, listen, you need to come as soon as possible. This is serious.”

“I know it is,” she says glumly. “I've been trying to make sure he studies, and I know there was a chem lab last week that he—­”

“It's not about academics.”

“What? What is it?”

“Mick has gotten himself into some serious trouble. I tried Jake's cell, but it went straight into voice mail.”

He must have turned off his phone after he spoke to her. He never does that, even when he's in a meeting.

“Did Mick cut class or something? Did he get into a fight?” It must be serious if Joe tried to reach Jake before her. He knows Jake doesn't work right here in town.

“It's—­the police are involved.”

She closes her eyes.
Dear God, no. Please, no. Please don't let it be drugs, or theft, or . . .

What else could it be? What could he have done?

Come on, Rowan. Who knows better than you what kind of trouble a hotheaded, impetuous high school kid can get into?

“Okay,” she tells Joe resolutely. “Okay, I'll get my class back over to the school and find someone to cover for me. I should be there in fifteen, twenty minutes.”

It isn't until after she's hung up that she remembers, with a flicker of apprehension, the missing girl.

A
s Noreen drives through the outskirts of Mundy's Landing, she tries to recall the last time she was here. Two years ago? Three, maybe?

She didn't make it here for her niece or nephew's graduations, even though her sister was in Oyster Bay for Sean's.

That's different
, Noreen remembers telling herself at the time. Rowan wasn't nearly as busy as she was, and visiting Long Island didn't mean confronting childhood memories at every turn.

Noreen passes the deserted roadside stand where her mom used to buy homegrown tomatoes and corn every August; the site of the drive-­in movie theater that closed when she was in high school and was torn down shortly after; the barn where she took her first—­and only—­horseback riding lesson before her parents realized they couldn't afford it.

When I have a daughter
, Noreen decided then, reeling with disappointment,
she'll take riding lessons.

They did; all three of them. According to plan.

She drives past the turn that would lead her to Rowan's house, choosing instead to drive into town.
Not
according to plan.

The business district has perked up quite a bit in the past ­couple of years. Vacant parking spots along the Common are few and far between and the municipal lots are crowded. The ugly oversized vinyl candy canes that adorned the light poles every December have been replaced with simple green wreaths. Formerly deserted storefronts have transitioned into shops and restaurants. Just off the Common, the three-­story Dapplebrook Inn on Prospect Street, once the Gilded Age mansion of Jake's ancestor Horace J. Mundy, has been restored to its Victorian grandeur. The houses on neighboring streets are well-­kept, with only one or two in need of a paint job.

There's a noticeable police presence in town: plenty of cops patrolling the streets on foot and in cars.

Pulling up to a stop sign, Noreen flicks her turn signal to drive down State Street, past the house where she grew up. If you're doing the memory lane thing, you might as well go big or stay home.

She hasn't been back to The Heights since she and her sister packed their childhood into boxes and garbage bags.

She tried to keep a level head that long weekend almost two decades ago, but sentimentality kept seeping in, much like the damaging spring thaws that had infiltrated fissures in the foundation of their childhood home, only to later freeze and crack the stone.

She remembers warning Rowan that the house wasn't going to be an easy sell between the structural damage, the cosmetic issues, and the location. Rowan disagreed. Surprise, surprise.

“A lot of ­people want fixer-­uppers,” she said, and she was right about that. The ­couple who bought their parents' Dutch Colonial were planning a complete renovation.

Parked at the curb, Noreen can't tell what went on inside, but the outside looks exactly the same, other than having gone from white with black shutters to gray with dark blue shutters. She approves of the new paint scheme, but the maroon bow on the door wreath clashes, and the lawn is patchy even for December.

She sits staring at the house, lost in her memories of that final day there with her sister. Noreen had long dreamed of creating order from that household chaos, but when the time arrived, she was unexpectedly emotional—­and of course, frustrated by her sister, who was, well, chaos incarnate.

Standing on a wobbly chair in the kitchen, Rowan reminisced about every damned thing she pulled from the cupboard. She wanted to keep it all—­or wanted Noreen to.

“No room,” Noreen said to just about everything.

“You're kidding, right? Your kitchen is five times the size of mine. I'm the one who has no room.”

Rowan protested about everything she put into the discard carton, even a noticeably chipped red pitcher. “Don't you remember how Mom always made us homemade lemonade in that on hot summer days?”

“I remember her making it from a powdered mix in one of those.” Noreen pointed at a ­couple of dime store plastic pitchers they'd already tossed into the carton.

“That was later, after she went back to work. But when I was really little, she'd let me help her squeeze lemons and stir the sugar into that pitcher. I'll take it if you don't want it.”

“I thought you had no room.”

“I'll make room. Add it to my box.”

Rowan's box of kitchen keepsakes was already overflowing with everything from a stack of plastic cereal bowls that had been obtained by collecting cereal box tops forty years ago to an entire set of tin cookie cutters.

Noreen carefully wrapped the pitcher in several layers of newspaper as her sister went back to rummaging in the cupboard, saying, “Whoever would have imagined that this day would come?”

“It was inevitable, Ro. Parents pass away. We can't keep the house.”

“I know, but it breaks my heart to get rid of it. You'd think at least one of us four would have stayed here in town.”

“It's a dreary place. I'd never raise my family here.”

“Dreary? It's not dreary.” Rowan waved a hand around the kitchen, with the blue and white gingham curtains Mom had sewn and the old cabinets and paneling she'd talked Dad into painting white years ago, because they couldn't afford to replace or even refurbish them.

“I don't mean the house. I mean the town itself. The weather is crappy and everything is so shabby and there are no businesses left downtown and the schools are going downhill and there are no jobs . . .”

“Oh, you and your rose-­colored glasses,” Rowan quipped.

“Well, it's the truth.”

“Times are tough everywhere. A lot of towns are in the same boat. Things will turn around here eventually. Places can change, you know, just like ­people.”