Devil's Playground (21 page)

She staggered to bathroom, fighting the swelling nausea that rose within her. Icy sweat frosted her skin, causing her to shake uncontrollably.

A sharp pain knifed through her gut and she fell to her knees, then to the floor, rolling onto her side, clutching her abdomen. Acid bile climbed into her throat, searing it, but she fought back the urge to vomit.

The room spun. Her vision dimmed and narrowed.

As she sank toward unconsciousness, she saw a finger of crimson blood trickle down her inner thigh. Then, everything faded to black.

Sam’s eyes fluttered open, revealing the white tile bathroom floor, which stretched before her like a Siberian winterscape. It felt like hard, frigid pack ice against her cheek. As her vision cleared, she saw Scooter curled in the doorway, paws folded beneath his chest, staring at her with his Sphinx-like face.

She twisted her neck, then rolled up on all fours, taking inventory of her body parts in the process. Head, neck, shoulders, back, everything ached as if she had wrestled a bear and lost. Slowly, she stood, her legs heavy with fatigue, then wobbled as a wave of nausea and dizziness swept through her, causing her to clutch the sink for support. Steadying herself, she stared at her reflection in the mirror.

Sanguineous eyes, sunken deeply into an ashen face, blinked back at her. An icy chill lanced her, orange-peeling her flesh. She realized she was naked.

Her mind struggled to answer the questions that fluttered around inside her head like a flock of frightened birds. What happened? Why was she laying on the bathroom floor? Where were her clothes? Then, it all came back---the dream, Garrett, blood.

She looked down. A rivulet of dried blood extended down the inside of her left thigh to her knee. Images of the Garrett/serpent’s violation reformed in her clouded brain. Closing her eyes, she suppressed the nausea that wrenched her stomach, surged upward, burning her throat. She turned the cold-water tap on, cupped her hand to catch the flow, and drank deeply, hoping to quench the fire in her belly.

She splashed cold water on her face, welcoming its bracing shock, then soaked a washcloth and wiped the crusted blood from her thigh. With inquisitive fingers, she poked her lower abdomen, then gently explored her most private recesses. Nothing. No pain. No blood.

She shuffled to her bed, glancing at the bedside clock, 2:30. She considered calling Cat Roberts, but decided it could wait until morning. Besides, the warm bed folded her into its clutches and she didn’t resist. She pulled the covers beneath her chin, shivering against the cold sheets. As if nothing was amiss, Scooter staked his claim to half the pillow and began his purring-bathing routine.

Once warmed, she tried to return to sleep, but couldn’t. Each time she dozed, she would snap back to wakefulness, fearful the dream would recur. All the while, his words echoed in her head:

Samantha, you are the one.

I need you.

Come to me.

At 5:30, she gave up. She sat on the edge of the bed, massaging her neck, twisting her torso one way and then the other, attempting to loosen the knot that gripped her spine. She felt like a used piñata.

With great effort, she showered and made a pot of coffee.

Sitting in her bay window, sipping coffee, and stroking Scooter, who curled next to her, she attempted to make some sense of her dream, but the incessant pounding in her head prevented any logic from taking hold. The dream was from stress and fatigue she told herself. She hadn’t slept well in weeks and her head was so full of questions without answers, no wonder she had a bizarre dream. Yet, the intensity of it scared her.

“What do you think, Scoots?” she said to the cat, which twitched an ear but didn’t bother to crack an eye. “Is your mommy going crazy?”

Scooter lifted his chin, expecting a scratch. Sam obliged. His sonorous purr rose a notch or two.

Her mind raced over the events of the past few days. Connie Beeson’s death, Juan and Carlos’ murder-suicide, and Walter Limpke. Did he really kill Roger and Miriam? And Roberto? Did he turn Garrett’s knife on himself? How did he get the knife from the evidence lock-up? Why? Was the death of three members of the Garrett jury a coincidence? Not likely. Where did Garrett fit in to this madness? Did he have an accomplice? Was it Walter?

She could find no answers. It seemed as though some unspeakable malevolence had ripped the fabric that separated Earth from Hell and slithered into Mercer’s Corner. What else could explain this insanity? This town was peaceful, quiet, boring. Its two most notorious residents were the Rodriguez brothers, who were mostly harmless, merely rambunctious, and now, they were dead.

She could sense the fear that soaked into the community, and into her. It permeated the town, spreading like a puddle of blood beneath an autopsy table, creeping outward, staining the floor inch by inch. The entire town was on edge, waiting for the next disaster, the next death. No wonder Betty McCumber and Marjorie Bleekman were scared. If she had been one of the jurors, she would be, too.

Of course, their fears played right into Lanny Mills’ hands and he would undoubtedly use it to his own advantage. How? When? She had a feeling she would find out soon enough.

Worse, the town didn’t yet know that the most recent murders may have been committed by one of their own and not some psychopathic outsider. How would they react when they found out that Walter Limpke was a murderer? That he was, like Garrett, infected by some madness that defied understanding, that had no name?

The approaching dawn lightened the sky, revealing a cast iron lid of clouds, which settled over the town as if trying to contain and concentrate the fear that choked the community. At least it wasn’t raining.

Sam pulled her knees beneath her chin and wrapped her arms around them. She lay her head on her arms and rocked gently. Scooter stretched, did a 360, lay down again, yawned, and drifted back to sleep.

She didn’t consider herself an experienced investigator. Training at the Los Angeles Police Academy, followed by two years with LAPD, opened her eyes, taught her a great deal, but not enough. Then, her mother’s losing battle with cancer brought her back home. That’s what she told herself anyway.

Her mother’s death had been painful, slow, gut-wrenching. Yet afterwards, she stayed in this sleepy little corner of nowhere, working for Charlie, when her job awaited her in LA. Why? Because she hated LA. Feared LA. A city that could consume you in so many ways. Drugs, gangs, violence, corruption could steal your soul and your life.

Mercer’s Corner, on the other hand, was not exactly a hot bed of criminals. Traffic accidents, petty thefts, and an occasional domestic dispute or drunken fight represented the sum total of illegal activity.

But, now, all the horrors of LA had followed her here. A full-fledged multiple homicide stared her in the face as if down a gun barrel. Inadequate, unprepared, ill equipped were words that came to mind.

Don’t take it personally, she told herself. Stay detached. Be professional. But, how could she? She knew these people, had known them for years. All her life. Connie Beeson was her third grade teacher, her mother’s best friend, and her own pillar of support through her mother’s ordeal. She went to high school with the Rodriguez brothers. And Walter Limpke for Christ sakes. How could she stay detached?

These people depended on her to know, to understand, to solve the riddle. They expected her to punish the guilty and protect the innocent. Yet, she could do none of these.

Sure Garrett was locked up and Walter Limpke was struggling for survival in the hospital, but this was far from over. Her gut told her there was more to come. She didn’t know what or when, but it was out there and it was coming.

Her frustration and fear settled upon her like a lead shroud, weighing her down, sapping her energy, like the heavy bag she pounded at the gym each day. No matter how ferociously she jabbed or hooked or slashed, it remained upright, unblemished, taunting her, daring her to continue the attack. Like the bag, the murders stood as a monument to her inadequacy.

She downed the last of her coffee, scratched Scooter behind the ears, and walked to the kitchen. After spooning up fresh food for the spoiled cat, she retreated to her bedroom to dress.

She stood before the mirror and applied a dab of make-up and a blush of lipstick, realizing an entire makeover couldn’t repair the damage of last night’s nightmare. Finally, she gave up, sat on the bed, and called Cat Roberts, who told her to “get your tail over to my office right now.”

*

Sam sighed with relief as Cat removed the speculum.

“OK. You can get out of the saddle and get dressed,” Cat said.

Sam extracted her heels from the metal stirrups and sat up, pulling the sheet around her. She had told Cat about the bleeding but not the dream or the nap on the bathroom floor. She felt guilty and a little afraid for withholding this information, but didn’t want Cat to think she was a nut, which she might very well be.

“Everything looks good,” Cat continued. “There are several possible explanations for the bleeding.”

“Such as?”

“Stress.”

“Stress?”

“Our menstrual cycles are very complex, involving several hormones, which must act in perfect concert. If not, everything screws up. It’s a miracle anyone is ever regular. Stress can cause the entire process to go to hell in a hand basket and you have the pleasure of an unexpected period.”

“Great.”

“Also, your work-out schedule may be part of the problem. Women who exercise at high levels, like marathoners, or boxers, can develop irregular periods. Sometimes they stop all together.”

“Will this happen again?”

“Maybe. Maybe not. With all the stress you are under, I wouldn’t be surprised. But, if it does, call me. There are a few things we still haven’t ruled out.”

“Like what?”

“Lots of things. Let’s not worry about them unless it recurs.”

“Let’s hope not. I can’t afford the down-time right now.”

After leaving Cat Roberts’ office, Sam drove to Millie’s. She gave Millie her order, then joined Lisa and Charlie who sat in their usual booth.

“You look like hell,” Lisa said as Sam sat down.

“Thanks. I sure feel better now.”

“No. I mean you look tired. Rough night?”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“How’s Mrs. Blumenthal?” Charlie asked. “Did the bogey man get her last night?”

“I wish,” Sam said. “It was a tumbleweed this time.”

Charlie laughed. “Was it armed?” 

Sam shook her head. “Someday she’s going to have a real prowler. Of course, she’d invite them in for cake and coffee.”

“What kind was it last night?” Charlie asked.

“Chocolate. I declined, but she insisted. It’s sitting in my fridge at home right now.”

“Any word on Walter?” Lisa asked.

“No,” Sam said. “I spoke with Cat Roberts this morning. She said she would give me a call after she saw him on morning rounds. Hopefully, we can interview him later today.”

Millie placed a stack of pancakes in front of Sam. She drenched them with syrup and dug in.

“I wish I could eat like you,” Lisa said. “But, I’d weigh two-fifty.”

“Take up boxing. Or run in your sleep all night.”

“Good morning.”

Sam recognized the voice before she looked up into Nathan’s eyes. She felt a warm blush of embarrassment rise in her face. Of course he couldn’t know about her dream she told herself. It didn’t help. She still felt uncomfortable, like new lovers awakening in the morning next to each other.

“Good morning,” she managed to mumble.

Lisa eyed him, and then raised an eyebrow at Sam, who kicked her under the table and gave her that not-a-word-from-you look.

“Have a seat,” Lisa offered.

“Thanks, but I’ve got to run.” He looked at Sam. “I saw your Jeep out front so I stopped in to let you know Reverend Billy has arrived.”

“Great,” Sam said. “I thought I could at least finish breakfast before the day turned to shit.”

“Who’s Reverend Billy?” Charlie and Lisa asked in unison.

*

By the time Sam drove the half-mile to town, the gray clouds had thickened and were heavy with the threat of rain. Like a billowy comforter, they smothered the wind and took the chill off an otherwise dismal day.

Main Street was choked with activity, so that she had to park a block short of her office. Four buses, each emblazoned with Reverend Billy’s likeness and messages of Heavenly praise, lined the street. A crowd had gathered in front of the bank, across from Garrett’s Groupies’ corner hangout. The throng, mostly reporters and cameramen, but also shopkeepers and others who happened to wander by, blocked the flow of traffic.

Sam walked up the street, her mood souring with each step. She herded the crowd onto the sidewalk so that the only traffic jam in the history of Mercer’s Corner could clear, then milled toward the back of the group to prevent their drifting back into the street.

A man ascended the steps of the bank and turned to face the crowd. He was large and square--a square head, atop a block body, supported by two Doric column legs. Even from where Sam stood, she could see that his thick black beard covered an acne-ravaged face, pocked and cratered like the dark side of the moon. He stood passively, his meaty hands dangling from sleeves that were two inches too short.

A woman climbed the stairs and stood beside him. She was statuesque, once beautiful, now aged from years of sun worship that peeked through impeccably applied make-up. She wore large gold earrings and a designer chic dress. Her dark hair reflected her demeanor, pulled back, taut, controlled, not a strand out of place. Severe was the word that came to mind. Intelligent green eyes sat above high cheekbones and a surgically thinned nose and gazed over the crowd as if eye contact was beneath her station.

The crowd fell silent.

“A great evil has befallen this community,” the woman said. “An evil as old as creation and as black as the darkest night, the deepest cave. But, God has not abandoned you. He has sent the instrument of your salvation...Reverend Billy Thibideaux.”