Chasing Darkness (38 page)

She
thought about the woman who cleaned the house twice a month. Perhaps the binder
had fallen while she was dusting and the pages had come loose. Maybe the
cleaning lady had tucked them in the other book because she didn’t know where
they went. Or one of the boys could have knocked it down or even looked through
it. It wasn’t as though she kept it locked up. The buzzer sounded on the
washer, and she went to forward the wash into the dryer.

The
wet clothes hung heavy in her arms as she lifted them toward the dryer. The
smell of detergent filled her nose, and she thought how nice it would be to
take a hot shower after her run was over—maybe even a bath. She loaded the
dryer, added two softener sheets, and set the timer for an hour. Then, turning
to Rob’s pile, she began the process of sorting through his pockets.

She
tossed the whites in one corner to be washed with Derek’s and pulled the darks
into the washer as she emptied the pockets. She found seventeen cents in one
pocket, two bottle tops in another—one for a beer. She frowned and set them on
top of the dryer. In a shirt pocket, she found a felt-tip pen without a top. Thankfully,
the shirt was dark denim. She set the shirt aside to soak before washing so it
didn’t stain the rest of the clothes with black ink. In one pair of jeans she
found an unused condom.

“Jesus.”
She wished she knew what to do with Rob. If the alcohol wasn’t
enough . . . She stopped herself. At least he was being safe. He
was sixteen. A lot of kids probably carried condoms. It didn’t mean he was
using them—or so she told herself.

She
felt around in his sweatpants and pulled out something small and sharp.
Catching it in her fist, she shook it and then opened her palm. In her palm was
a broken piece of metal from a mechanical pencil or something and a couple of
leaves. She wondered how on earth the boys collected things in their pants like
that. She pulled it all out and dropped it on top of the dryer. As she pushed
her bangs off her face, she caught a subtle smell on her hand. It made her
flinch.

Eucalyptus.
She wondered how long it would be before that smell stopped representing this
case. She knew she would never forget it. It was always that way. She turned
back to Rob’s laundry and lifted a flannel shirt off the pile. As she did, she
caught sight of something on the sleeve. She pulled it closer and saw that the
sleeve was ripped. But there was something else. On the rim of the tear, she
saw a dark spot. She rubbed it between her fingers and the red stained her
skin. Blood. She looked back at the eucalyptus leaves and then down at the
blood.

“Holy
shit.”

She
ran for the phone.

Things
had seemed better for Gerry over the past few days after talking to Sam. He’d
called the police and spoken to a woman officer, so he’d known the officer
wasn’t the guy who attacked him. She’d pressed him for his name, but he’d
refused. He wasn’t that dumb. She’d told him the information he was offering
was very valuable, and she’d made him feel very good.

Gerry
could feel Jane behind him almost all the time now. He looked forward to the
fall when she went back to school. When he spotted her, she’d shriek and run
off like it was all a big game. But she would never be gone for long. He’d
shooed her away for days, but he longed to talk to her, to talk to anyone, for
that matter. Bobby was too busy, and Martha only grunted and growled at him. He
knew if he talked to Jane, though, he might as well have died in that alley.

He’d
finally gathered the nerve to ask Bobby for some books. Bobby had brought him a
whole stack, but most were Martha’s romance novels, and he read through them in
no time. He hated to ask for more, so instead he read them again until he could
remember each of the seven stories inside and out. He wasn’t sleeping much,
despite the warm bed. He still missed Wally and the prison.

He
found a stack of playing cards in the pantry and laid them out for a game of
solitaire in his room in the barn. He’d been playing for two hours straight
when he heard the squeak of the door. He looked up, saw nothing, and returned
to his game. A minute later he heard it again. Dropping the cards on the table,
he walked to the door and pulled it open. Jane looked up at him wide-eyed, then
backed away from the door.

He
stepped into the barn and waved her off like a stray dog. “Get on out of here.”

She
moved back a few steps and stopped. “Are you a monster?”

The
sound of her small voice touched him, and he longed to say no. He pressed the
heel of his hand into his chest and nodded. “Yes.”

She
shook her head. “You don’t look like a monster.”

“Well,
I am.”

“Maybe
you’re like the Beast,” she said, rolling on the balls of her feet with her
hands tucked behind her back.

She
looked so sweet, he had to look away. “I am. I’m like the beast. You should
leave.” He felt so pathetic, looking into her wide eyes and telling her to go.

“You’re
like the Beast in
Beauty and the Beast
.” She looked around and then
started again. “See, he’s really a prince, but he got turned into a Beast by a
wicked queen. All he needs is someone to love him and then he turns back into a
prince. Maybe you’re like that.”

He
shook his head, but the idea that she thought he might be a prince in disguise
brought tears to his eyes. He shook his head again and covered his face. “No.
I’m not a prince.”

He
felt her hand on his arm. “It’s okay, mister. You don’t gotta cry.”

Her
voice made him cry harder and before he knew it, he was wracked with sobs and
sinking to the barn floor. She didn’t even know he was her uncle. His own
brother was so ashamed, he was hiding the truth from his little girl. He
covered his face and sobbed.

She
patted his back and rubbed in little circles, and he thought he might die right
there. He wished he could will her away, but he couldn’t. “It’s okay,” she
whispered, her breath like a feather at his ear.

She
wrapped her arms around him and squeezed.

He
didn’t move, feeling himself stir and wishing he were stronger. He just cried.
God, please help him.

“Shh.
It’s okay.” She rocked slightly as she hugged him.

He
felt himself melt. Instead of pulling away, he tucked his head against her
chest and she continued to hold him, innocent as to the terrible thoughts that
were brewing inside him.

She
lifted her head and dropped her hands, turning her ear toward the door.

He
pulled back. If Martha found them, he was dead. He put his hand over his crotch
to hide the bulge. This was his niece. What was he thinking? He wasn’t strong
enough to live. He couldn’t be strong around her. “What is it?” he whispered.

“Dunno.”
She headed for the door and peered outside. “Wow!”

“What?
What do you see?”

“Two
police cars.”

Gerry
panicked. They knew. He’d barely touched her, and already they knew. He ran out
the back door of the barn and through the field and kept running and running.
He wondered if they would take him back to Wally. He shook his head. No. They’d
take him somewhere new. He couldn’t handle being new again. The lies. The huge
men who wanted him. The threats. Without Wally, he’d never survive.

He
ran and ran until he came to his oak tree. He sat down beside it to catch his
breath and wondered how soon they would find him. He couldn’t be found now. He
couldn’t face Bobby when he found out. Couldn’t handle seeing Martha. Couldn’t
hurt little Jane with the truth. He thought of her angelic face and started to
climb the tree toward the rope, hanging high above. When he reached it, he lay
on his back on the branch and tied the rope tight around his neck. He closed it
with a knot and wondered if it would stay. He’d never been a Boy Scout, so he
wasn’t good with ropes.

He
suddenly wished he owned a gun. It would be so much faster with a gun. He could
hear voices in the pasture, and his name carried toward him on the wind. He
wondered if they would be able to save him. Or if they would even try. He
thought about his mother. She was the only person who still loved him, and even
she couldn’t stand the sight of him.

Rolling
off the limb of the tree, he prayed. The rope tightened around his neck with a
wrenching pull, and he felt the back of his head slam against the tree. Then he
saw his angel’s face.

Nick
headed down the hall toward his office. The lab was processing Gerry Hecht’s
prints, but so far they hadn’t matched anything from either of the crime
scenes. Nick hadn’t expected Hecht to be involved, but it was worth a shot. Sam
had picked Hecht out from more than one hundred feet away at the funeral. He
shook his head. She was good.

“Thomas.”

Nick
wiped the smile from his face so he didn’t look like an idiot.

Paul
McCafferty ran to catch up with him. “I’ve been looking all over for you. You
heading to your office?”

Nick
nodded. “I was.”

“I
wanted to, uh, warn you.”

“Warn
me what?”

“There’s
someone waiting in there.”

“In
my office?”

He
nodded.

“Who?”

“Name’s
Marge Allen. She lives down the street from Sandi Walters. Hansen and Bernadini
talked to her during the neighborhood sweep. They got nothing back then. She
came in today claiming her stepson, who’s back from the Midwest somewhere,
knows something about the Walters case. Said he saw a guy who was hanging
around on a motorcycle the day she was killed.”

“A
motorcycle.” He looked back toward his office. “And?”

“We
went through the pictures with the kid, but he didn’t recognize the perp.”

“What
about Williams?”

“First
picture I showed him.”

Nick
scratched his face. “Damn.” Who the hell had been on that bike if it wasn’t
Williams? “Set the kid up with a police artist.”

“I
suggested that. The kid’s deaf.”

Nick
shrugged. “So what? Have the mother translate. Or get Michelle Halloran to do
it. She signs.”

McCafferty
nodded but didn’t speak.

“What?”

“She’s
in your office.”

“Why?”

“Said
she wanted to talk to whoever’s in charge directly. Made a stink.”

“Damn.”
Nick rubbed his face. “What’s her name again?”

“Mrs.
Allen. The kid’s Randy—Randy Allen.”

“Thanks.”
Nick marched toward his office.

From
the hall, he could see a woman with red hair too bright to be natural. The
curls were pulled into a tidy ponytail with two loose ringlets on either side
of her head that gave the look of bright red springs attached to her ears. She
wore a button-down striped shirt in teal and pink and cotton stretch pants in a
matching aqua. Her feet were in white house sneakers that looked too large for
her. Her hands were crossed over her purse in her lap, and she stared blankly
across the room. Next to her a little girl mimicked her gestures. The boy sat
on the floor, making loud noises that were off pitch. The mother didn’t seem to
notice him.

Nick
entered the room, stopped beside the woman, and extended his hand. “I’m
Detective Nick Thomas. You must be Mrs. Allen. I understand your son had some
information for us.”

The
woman nodded but didn’t speak.

Nick
sat on the edge of the desk and waited.

“Isn’t
there someone who needs to interview him?” she finally asked. “You haven’t
solved the murder yet, have you? My son is a witness.”

“Actually,
we haven’t solved the murder, and we do appreciate your son’s help,” Nick
answered, gritting his teeth. “What we do is have him look through some books
of faces, see if he recognizes anyone. I believe he did that already, did he
not?”

The
boy was now driving an imaginary car up Nick’s wall, and the buzzing sound had
increased tenfold.

The
woman merely spoke louder. “Yes, but Randy didn’t see the man in those
pictures.”

Nick
nodded and had started to speak when Randy threw his car into high gear. He
glanced at the child and then at Mrs. Allen, but she remained silent. “The next
step would be for Randy to work with a police artist. Do you think he could
describe the man he saw?”

Mrs.
Allen looked at Randy for a minute and then nodded. “Of course.”

Randy
quieted the car and began to drive behind Nick’s desk and up his chair.

“Great.
Let me make a call and we’ll set up a room for him. We certainly appreciate you
coming forward with this information.”

Mrs.
Allen nodded primly. “Randy is very excited. When we told him he would be
identifying a murderer, he could hardly wait to get down here. He really loves
the police.”

The
little girl nodded, too.

Nick
picked up his phone and dialed McCafferty’s desk, trying not to think about
what a waste of time this probably was. “We’re set for an artist now,” he said
when Paul picked up.

“Got
it.”

He
put the phone down and turned back to Randy’s mother. “Does Randy need an
interpreter?” He knew some parents of deaf children didn’t know sign language.

“I
can do it,” she said.

He
nodded. “Someone should be down in a few minutes.” As he started to explain the
process, Randy let out a piercing scream.

Even
Mrs. Allen flinched and stood up.

Nick
saw that Randy was holding a picture frame that he had picked up off Nick’s
desk. Nick reached for the boy’s hand, sure that he’d cut himself.

Randy’s
eyes widened and he dropped the picture.

Nick
let the plastic frame fall to the ground and kept his hands on Randy’s. He
pulled open the tight fist the boy had clenched and looked for blood. There was
none. “What’s wrong with him?”