Death Angel (2 page)

Slow.
There’s a car ahead. Turn your head as you pass.
 

His brain issued commands and his body
obeyed.
 

Don’t
speed. Turn right. Slow for the light.
 

When he left the forest preserve and
entered the suburban streets, the tension began to ease. The grid-patterned
streets brought him a sense of balance and, with each turn, he could feel the
muscles of his neck and shoulders relax. His breathing deepened, no longer
shallow or gasping. He drove with no destination in mind, aware of a gnawing
sense of urgency to distance himself from the forest preserve.

No
one must know. No one must know, no one must know, no one!
 

The words crescendoed in a jumble of
unintelligible sounds until the noise made him sick to his stomach. He opened
his mouth, inhaling to dissipate the nausea.
 

Gas
station. Slow.
 

He pulled the car against the side wall
of the building, away from the front windows, which had a floor-to-ceiling view
of the gas pumps. He shut off the engine and hurried toward the restroom. His
movements were wooden, his knee joints frozen in an effort to keep his body upright.
As he eased inside the bathroom, he risked a quick look around but there was no
one in sight. He shoved the bolt across to secure the door.

Bile rose, burning a pathway up his
throat. He made it to the toilet just in time, bending over as the vomit spewed
from his mouth and his nose. His stomach convulsed and he gagged, fighting to
catch his breath before he threw up again. He wrapped his arms around his
torso, hugging his body against the force of the spasms that ripped through his
abdomen.
 

Afterwards he struggled across to the
washbasin. He turned on the tap and scooped up water to wash his face and rinse
away the bitter taste. When his mouth began to feel cleaner, he cupped his
hands and lapped at the water with his tongue, gulping and slurping to quench
his raging thirst.

He never should have stopped, but the
urges were strong. Just one touch had ripped away his control and by giving in
to impulse, the ending was inevitable. He couldn’t change what he’d done. What
mattered now was that he get away.
 

Hunched over the sink, he rested on his
arms, letting the water run over his fingers. His eyes were closed and he
rocked back and forth, willing his body to pick up the strong cadence of his
heart.
 

He heard a metallic clink and froze. He
raised his head, but the sound was not repeated. As he leaned forward, he heard
it again and looked down. A short length of gold chain was caught on his jacket
and struck against the porcelain with the light tinkle of a string of bells. In
his mind, small hands pushed against his chest and he sucked in his breath at
the instant reminder of the body squirming against his own.
 

Disentangling the child’s bracelet, he
cradled it in his hand where it glistened against the wet skin. The clasp was
broken, the opening bent at an angle, but the gold charm, a winged angel, was
still attached.

Holding the bracelet between thumb and
index finger, he placed it in a paper towel and rubbed it free of fingerprints,
then wadded it inside the paper and pushed the bundle down among the other
trash in the wastebasket.
 

The moment his fingers lost contact with
the bracelet, he was struck by such a strong sense of loss that he rooted
through the rubbish until he found it again.

He knew the danger of keeping such an
object. The bracelet was physical evidence that could destroy him, but perhaps
it would be worth the risk if he used it as a reminder that he must never again
give in to impulse. The gold links would become a sacred ring. His talisman.

Sliding the bracelet into his pant’s pocket,
his fingers rustled among the empty candy wrappers until he found a full one.
His thumbnail forced its way beneath the cellophane to push the candy free. He
pulled it out and pushed it between his lips, coaxing it into the center of his
nested tongue. He sucked it, the pervasive butterscotch flavor banishing the
acrid taste in his mouth.
 

He straightened his back, dropped his
shoulders, and blew out two steadying gusts of air, like an athlete preparing
for an event. His hands were steady as he unbolted the door.

When Kate heard the key in the front door,
she remained in her chair. From the living room, she watched as the door opened
and Richard stepped into the hall. For an instant she clung to her belief in
miracles hoping that Jenny would appear behind his tall, slim figure.
 

“Kate?”
 

Richard’s deep voice broke the spell
that immobilized her, and she sagged against the back of the chair with a sigh.
The sound caught Richard’s attention, and he flipped the light switch beside
the door.
 

“What are you doing sitting in the
dark?”

Although it was still light outside, the
house was shadowed with the approach of evening. He dropped his briefcase
beside the hall table and entered the living room, turning on lights as he came
toward her. When she didn’t speak, his expression changed to one of alarm.
 

“What is it, Kate? What’s wrong?”

“Jenny’s missing.”

“What do you mean missing?”

In short, blunt sentences Kate told him
about searching for Jenny, finding her watercolor, and calling the police.

“Dear God, Kate, why didn’t you call
me?”

Kate flinched at the tone in his voice
then realized part of his anger was fear. “I tried calling you. Your cell phone
was off.”

Richard reached into the pocket of his
jacket and jerked out the phone, eyebrows bunched together as he stared down at
the display. “I don’t remember turning it off. I’m so sorry.”

He crossed to her, pulled her out of the
chair, and wrapped his arms around her. She rested her forehead against his
chest squeezing her eyes shut as if she could block out the world. She felt a
tremor in his body and pushed away before she lost any hope of composure.

“Tell me what’s happened. Start from the
beginning.”
 

His voice was hoarse as he eased her
back into the chair and he pulled up the ottoman so he could face her. When she
finished, he rubbed her hands between his as if he sensed the chill that
invaded her body.

“She must be playing somewhere,” he
said. “This has happened before. You need to impress on her again that she
needs to follow the rules. Independence brings responsibility.”

Kate pressed back a spurt of anger at
his comment and spoke firmly. “This is different, Richard. Jenny wouldn’t leave
her backpack on the ground and she never would have left her watercolor.”

“You’re right,” he conceded. “This whole
thing scares the hell out of me. What are the police doing? When did you talk
to them last?”

“About an hour ago. I think it was five
thirty or five forty-five. They said they’d call as soon as they knew
anything.”
 

“Have you called her friends from
school?”

“Yes. I even called the school and
checked with the bus driver. He said she got off the bus, but doesn’t know what
happened after that.”

“Did you call Bethanne Peters’ house?
They always walk home together.”

“Yes. Bethanne was sick today and didn’t
go to school. I called all the houses on both our street and on Corydon. No one
saw Jenny.”
 

Kate’s voice broke. She pressed her fist
against her mouth to keep from screaming.
 

“Nothing could have happened to Jenny in
broad daylight. She’s got to be somewhere playing,” Richard said.
 

She stared up at him, stunned at his
refusal to believe anything else. One look at the lines across his forehead and
his tight mouth told her that despite his brisk assurances, he was as terrified
as she was. The light outside had taken on a red-orange tint, and she could
feel the chill of evening reach into the room.

“Look, Kate, I’m going to change my
clothes,” Richard said. “Then if Jenny’s not back, I’ll call the police again.
We’ll find Jenny.”

She followed him to the hall and waited
beside the newel post as he went upstairs. She stared down at her watch. It was
almost seven. Jenny had been missing since three-fifteen.
 

Walter Hepburn tried to pace his breathing
to the steady thump of his running shoes on the cinder path of the forest
preserve. Sweat trickled under the band at his forehead and slid down his
temple, leaving the skin tight and itchy. His glasses began to fog as each damp
puff of air rasped from his throat. He hated to stop when his rhythm was just
beginning to gel. He raised his arm in front of his face and squinted at his
wristwatch. Seven o’clock. A few more minutes and then he’d stop.

The toe of his sneaker stubbed on a tree
root. He stumbled and lost his balance. Throwing out his hands, he dropped to
his knees and fell forward. His glasses flipped off into the shrubbery as he
sprawled face down on the trail.
 

The breath was knocked out of him and he
rolled over on his back, gasping for air. Slowly he sat up and, still breathing
heavily, felt along his legs, relieved to discover nothing but bruises. If he
hadn’t been wearing running gloves, the gravel would have scraped the palms of
his hands.

He stood up, gingerly shook out his
legs, then bent at the waist. He wiggled his arms and turned his head slowly
from side to side. Bunched muscles eased as he rolled his shoulders and scanned
the edge of the trail for his glasses. Damn. Without them, he wouldn’t be able
to drive.
 

“And for Christ’s sake don’t step on
them,” he muttered as he cautiously parted the bushes beside the path.

He searched the ground in sections and
cursed at the thick undergrowth. The sun was low in the sky and the shadows had
deepened. He was afraid to move too quickly in case he overlooked the glasses
in his hurry.
 

Should’ve had orange frames. Should’ve
carried an extra pair. Should’ve exercised more and then he wouldn’t have
gained weight and been forced to jog to get the lard off.
 

He was about two feet off the trail when
he spotted a glint ahead. Amazed that the glasses had gone so far, he parted
the bushes, reached down, and grasped the plastic earpieces. He spit on the
lenses and rubbed them clean on the bottom of his sweatshirt. Putting them on,
he smiled as his blurred vision cleared.

The brilliant yellow color was stark
against the greens and blacks of the early spring woods. Curiosity drew Walter
deeper into the underbrush. His eyes focused on the bright material and grew
wide as he pulled aside the last branches.
 

She lay on her back, arms flung wide as
if she would embrace the sky. The plaid jumper was bunched up around her hips,
the image of innocent sleep marred by the smear of red on her inner thighs. The
side of her head was misshapen and blood mingled with the black hair that
covered her cheek. Her blue eyes were open, but the horror of her final agony
was not visible in the glazed expression.
 

Light ricocheted off the wall of trees as
the police cameras recorded the grim scene. The repeated flashes were like
strobe lights creating the illusion of movement where none existed. Muted
voices rose above the sound of snapping twigs as the photographers worked
around the body.

“It’s all yours, Jamison. I’ll do the
rest when the paramedics arrive,” the medical examiner said.

Patrolman Jamison watched as the doctor
moved away from the ring of lights. He nodded to the evidence technicians who
approached the body. Seven-thirty. Where the hell was Chief Leidecker anyway?
The M.E. and the crime scene guys had gotten here, so what the hell was the
hold up with the chief?

His eyes shifted to the back of his
squad car where the jogger was sitting, head resting against the back of the
seat.

“Did it have to be me he flagged down?”
Jamison grumbled.
 

When he’d called into the station, they
told him not to let the guy out of his sight. Until Leidecker arrived, he was
in charge, so he’d better do everything according to the book.

“Leidecker’ll chew my ass if I screw
this up,” Jamison muttered.

Two months on the force hadn’t prepared
him for violent crime. Speeders and addicts, that’s all he’d handled. But once
he saw the yellow windbreaker, he’d known it was the missing kid. His eyes
followed the movements of the two men working over the body. God, only
eight-years-old. He shifted his feet and coughed to disguise his shudder of
distaste as plastic bags were slipped over the little girl’s hands.

Richard paced, moving back and forth
between the living room and the kitchen then back again to the front door. Kate
remained in the living room, clinging to the arms of the upholstered chair. If
she let go, she knew she would lose any control she had over her emotions.