Disturbed Mind (A Grace Ellery Romantic Suspense Series Book 2) (13 page)

(
S
unday Afternoon
; The Guardian Inn, Room #403)

I WAS TOO ARROGANT.

I let my emotions cloud my judgment.

I never should have killed on whim. Bryce’s death would never be connected to me because I had it all planned on my head. I was angry with Zach. Angry at the times he made fun of Grace, angry with him for mocking me when he scared me by knocking on the sliding glass door…that was my mistake when I attempted to kill Grace, too. I let my emotions take over and control my body. I can’t allow that to happen again.

I pace back and forth in my hotel room. It takes me seven seconds to walk from one side to the other. I don’t know if I can trust Steve to be able to get me out of having a conversation with the police—Steve was persistent, but police could be downright bullheaded. If they decided I was guilty, I’m sure they would plant evidence on me to prove it. I could cut my losses and disappear.

No. Disappearance wasn’t acceptable. I’ve come too far and I’m so close to getting Grace right where I need her to be that walking away would be a sign of cowardice.

What would Deke Cochrane do in the same situation?

It’s strange, I admit, to take inspiration from a dead messed-up kid—one that failed in his mission—but I can’t help but admire his tenacity. According to the news media, he tried to kill her three different times. He may have been stupid and reckless, but he was persistent. They say he was looking into becoming a soldier, specifically part of the U.S. army, and I suppose the motto fits:
be all you can be
. If all you can be is a killer, at least try to be a good one.

I continue to pace. I could try to kill the detectives involved in the investigation, but that would only cast more suspicion and apply more pressure on finding the killer. I could try to get someone to be my alibi, but I would have to trust someone to not turn against me when the police question him and I don’t trust anybody. I wouldn’t even trust anybody to sit in this room with me, much less provide a false alibi.

I hear an engine sputtering in the parking lot. It takes me the seven seconds to walk back to the window. I see a black Toyota Tacoma parking in front of the hotel.

It’s the same vehicle that Grace drives.

A woman gets out of the truck, her dark-blond hair flipping over her shoulder as she takes out a backpack.

It’s Grace.

Am I hallucinating?

Is she checking in?

Is this God's way of telling me that I’m on the right track?

Or maybe it's Deke Cochrane's.

I sit down on the bed. A plan begins to formulate in my head as if every skill, memory, and knowledge I have is a puzzle piece and they are all falling into place. I stand up, grab my hotel key, and slip out of the room. I walk out of the hotel through one of the back doors, go to my truck, and grab a toolkit from the bed.

I’m not being arrogant this time or emotional.

I’m confident and tactical.

I also know exactly where to plunge a knife to cause the most pain and where to slice to cause someone to quickly bleed out. I intend to use both on Grace.

(
S
unday Afternoon
; Sam’s House, Murray, Virginia)

I TAKE THE LAST SIP
of whiskey in my glass. Alicia taps the bottle with her red, manicured nail.

“Do you want some more?” she asks. I shrug. She opens the bottle and pours more into the glass. I take it, the gold liquid splashing inside, and drink from it. Alicia sweeps her brown bangs out of her eyes. “So, can I ask you what happened with Grace?”

I shake my head. “I must be bad at relationships. I keep trying to do the right thing, but Grace isn’t happy with anything I do. I just want her to be safe, but she thinks I’m trying to control her. I mean, there has been back-to-back murders…one of them looks like suicide, but I’m pretty sure Zach was murdered. And the more brutal murder—my John Doe—has connections to Ohio. Do you know who came from Ohio? Grace. Do you know who else came from Ohio? Francis Tate, the guy who tried to kill her before.”

“Did you tell her all of this?” she asks. The smile on her face tells me that she already knows the answer to her question. I suppose I am predictable.

“I’m not certain it’s Francis Tate,” I tell her. “I don’t want her to lose all of the progress she’s made since the attack because of a suspicion.”

She shrugs. “Maybe she will realize that she’s being a little crazy and that you’re just trying to protect her.”

“Do you really think so?” I ask.

She smiles. “No…Grace seems like a stubborn girl, but I can hope for you, can’t I?”

“I need more than hope,” I say. “I’m going to die alone.”

“I don’t think you’re going to die alone.” She leans so close to me that I can smell her white musk perfume. “I think you’ll have a white picket fence, a wife, and three kids in a couple of years.”

“Two kids,” I say. “Three is more than I could handle. I don’t even know if I can handle two. I’m not entirely sure I can handle myself.”

“That’s all right,” she says. “I can handle you.”

(
S
unday Afternoon
; Lobby, The Guardian Inn, Murray, Virginia)

THE FRONT DESK CLERK
—a short, curvy brunette—is batting her eyelashes at a burly, grease-smeared man that has a T-shirt on that states:
Tom’s Towing Truck Service.

“You look tired,” the clerk says. “Are you late because you were partying without me last night? I kept trying to call you, but you never picked up.”

“Nah, of course not,” he says. “Those parties wouldn’t be fun without you. I’d tell you where I’ve been this week, but…the police wouldn’t be too happy if I did.”

“The police?” she asks. “Oh my God, you didn’t get arrested did you? They didn’t find our little pot farm in your basement, did they?”

“No, no! Nothing like that,” he says. “I had to help the police out on Thursday. Some teenagers were swimming around in Neabsco Creek and they saw a Honda Civic was deep in the water. I was called in to take care of it.”

“Really?” the clerk asks.

“All of the police forensics folks were climbing all over it and they still needed me to tow the car.”

“Why were the police there?”

“Oh? I didn’t mention that?” the man asks with a sly smile. “There was a body in the car. Or at least…it
was
a body. The face was all messed-up and the medical examiner was saying that the killer must have busted it up to make it hard to identify him.”

“Holy shit,” she whispers.

“I’m telling you, whoever that guy was that was murdered…it was brutal,” he says. “I about near puked when I saw it, and I didn't get nearly as good a look at it as Dr. Meadows. I’m pretty sure he puked.”

“Dr. Meadows?”

“Oh. He's my dad's cardiologist. He's also the county medical examiner,” he says. “He’s a pretty chill guy. Not that talkative though.”

“Wow,” she says. “So…are you involved in the case now?”

“Maybe,” he teases. “Maybe I’m 007 now and I need my hot babe to help me investigate.”

She blushes, turning away from him and noticing me for the first time.

“Oh, hey, Bryce. Sorry, I didn’t see you there. Can I help you?” she asks.

“Um…” My brain is reeling. What is the chance that a guy who was on the scene of my crime is here the same time that Grace is here? It seems more likely that she is bait for a poorly planned trap, one set because I hadn’t been so eager to meet with Sam Meadows, who probably has my mugshot from prison just waiting to compare with “Bryce’s” face. This wasn’t God’s or Deke’s miracle. It was the police trying to set up Judgment Day for me.

“Bryce?” the clerk asks again.

“You…you…wouldn't happen to have a roll of quarters, w-would you? I need to go do some laundry,” I say.

“No, sorry, I gave my last roll to the restaurant in the hotel,” she says. “I could exchange four quarters for a dollar.”

“I only have a ten dollar bill,” I tell her, recomposing myself. I can’t slip into my old pattern of stuttering. “Thanks, anyway.”

Time for a new plan.

The medical examiner was saying that the killer must have busted it up to make it hard to identify him.

I didn’t get nearly as good a look as Dr. Meadows.

He’s a pretty chill guy.

I just couldn’t get Sam Meadows to stop invading my life and the fact that he was with Grace…

I’ll kill him. He seems to be the one investigating me—a detective should have called me if the police were suspicious—and it will hurt Grace in a way that she never even imagined.

I’ll tear both their hearts out except with Grace it will only be metaphorically.

(
L
ate Sunday Afternoon
; Sam’s House, Murray, Virginia)

I AM IN THAT
strange stage of drinking where I know I’m drunk, but there is still plenty of denial over the level of inebriation I’m at.

Alicia made stuffed shells and she spilled tomato sauce on her blouse. She has taken it off and she’s scrubbing it in the sink. She’s standing across from me in her black lace brassiere.

“Your blouse was such a nice color on you,” I tell her. “I’m sure it looks nice even with the stain. Whatever shade of orange it was—not the tomato, the tomato was more of a tomato red…does that make sense? But the blouse was more of an orange cream color but not like an orange Creamsicle, and maybe you’d look good in orange Creamsicle, too, but I’m not entirely sure I’ve ever seen you in that color—”

“Sam,” she interrupts. “Stop rambling. You do this every time you’re drunk.”

“I’m not drunk,” I grumble. I definitely am.

My phone rings. I grab it off the kitchen island and answer it.

“Hellooo?”

“Sam?”

“Who is this?” I ask, looking at the screen. Oh. John Seoh. My buddy. “John!”

“Hey, Sam…are you drunk? Is this how early people without kids get drunk?”

“Oh, God, I think I am drunk,” I say. “Grace is really mad at me. But not because I'm drunk, for other reasons which are reasons that I don't understand and I don’t think I ever will…and Alicia is here. I think Alicia's trying to get me back. And I want to get married. Yeah. Really bad.”

“Married?” he asks.

"Married,” I repeat. “With the church and the wedding and the living together in matrimony forever. All of it.”

“To Alicia?” he asks.

“No, to Grace, you idiot. But now I realize I’m willing to wait until she’s ready—” I hear something slam against the counter, I look over to see Alicia glaring at me with her blouse clenched in her fist. I ask her, “What?”

“Seriously? She storms out on you and she doesn’t care that you’re trying to keep her safe and you want to
marry
her?”

“Yeah,” I say, alcohol dulling my ability to think rationally. Fortunately, John is sober.

“Sam,” he hisses. “Get out of there. She is about to flip out.”

As if I were watching a scene in slow motion, I watch Alicia grab the wooden spoon off the stove. The first blow hits me across the face. I drop the phone and it slides across the kitchen tiles. The second blow hits against my ear.

“You are a bastard, Sam Meadows!” she shrieks, continuing to beat me with the spoon. “I was with you for nearly four years and you never even tried to commit to me. You never tried to love me! I can’t believe I ever loved you! You’re an asshole!”

I manage to grab her arm, stopping her attack.

Her right leg swings up and hits me straight in the nuts.

I crumple onto the floor. She storms out of the kitchen and I hear the front door slam shut. I should go out and apologize for
something
, but it's just more comfortable to lie on the cool tile floor in a semi-fetal position.

“Sam?” I hear.

“John?” I call out, in the general direction of where my phone went.

“Sam?”

I spot my phone. I inch closer to it.

“John,” I say, when the phone is closer. “You were right.”

“That is music to my ears. What was she hitting you with? It sounded brutal.”

“A wooden spoon,” I say. “And then she attacked the family jewels.”

“That sounds like Alicia,” he says. “It sounds like you’re going to need some help, especially if she comes back wanting to take out more of her frustration on you…and you probably need some ice. I’ll come bail you out once we get home from the zoo. Try not to get yourself killed in the next couple of hours, okay?"

“The zoo?” I ask. “Do you have animal patients now?

"Lexi's going to do something with Photoshop that violates the laws of nature."

"Dad!" I hear in the background.

"Or maybe just physics.” He laughs.

“Thanks,” I tell him. “I’ll be here. On the kitchen floor. The door is unlocked. Just walk in because I’m not sure I’m going to be able to move anytime soon.”

“I’ll get there as fast as possible,” he says. “But that’s not saying much because nobody skips the big cat exhibits at the zoo.”

“It’s fine. I don’t think she’s coming back…though she might have gone to burn down my office.”

“I’ll drive by and check. Stay strong, Sam.”

“Thanks, John. You’re a good friend.”

“Don’t say that so soon. I’m going to tell this story to everybody,” he jokes.

“Dad!” I hear Lexi in the background again. “Look! It’s peacocks!”

“I gotta go, Sam. It’ll be an hour or two. Try to stand up at some point and get some ice.”

“Thanks again, John. See you later.”

“Bye.”

The phone beeps as the call ends. I curl up into a tighter ball, thinking about how I should start wearing a cup in case I see Alicia in the future.

The
Jaws
theme song begins to play. What if the county police department is trying to call me? I suppose I should get up to see what they want, but if it’s another dead body, then I don’t want to know.

I inch closer to my phone and grab it. It’s not from the county police and it’s not a phone call. It’s the regional forensics lab in Manassas. I should really change my ringtone to something different for them. Maybe the theme song for
The X-Files
.

I stumble to my feet and shuffle over to my laptop in the corner of my kitchen, my privates still feeling like they’re on fire. I sit down and click
enter.
My screensaver disappears and my desktop—filled completely with icons—flashes on. I click on the e-mail icon and all of my messages appear. I click on the newest one.

Sam,

So, I looked into any other recent homicides that were similar to this one, but I didn’t find any, even when I expanded the search to nearby states. BUT when I looked into recent deaths that occurred while the victim was in their vehicle (since part of the killer’s MO seems to be getting rid of evidence using a vehicle), I found one that may be connected. It happened Friday in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania. It wasn’t ruled a homicide because the car exploded after it landed in a ditch and the investigation team assumed that something had malfunctioned or broken in the car. It could be nothing. There isn’t any evidence of foul play. I tried to get the homicide police there to investigate it, but they seemed reluctant. After some prodding, including threatening them by telling them I would call the FBI to intervene, I got them to check it out. It turns out that the couple who died had two children—a son and daughter. The daughter is thirteen years old and was at ballet practice when her parents died. Their son—who was known to have arguments with his parents and there had been a rift between them recently—hasn’t been seen in town for a while, but the neighbors say that he and his parents had an explosive argument before he left. He seems like a good suspect. He kills his parents in revenge and kills a car thief so he has a getaway car. I’ve attached his driver’s license.

Respectfully,

Dr. Bridget Carter

So, it’s not Francis Tate. I sigh in relief. It feels like concrete that had filled in my lungs evaporated. It’s just some kid, angry at his parents. But how does a kid become so angry to bash in some stranger’s face? Was there more to the story?

I click on the e-mail’s attachment.

Pennsylvania

Driver’s License

Ballentine

Bryce, C.

1499 Country Road

Bethlehem, PA, 18015

DOB: 10-08-96

Sex: M Eyes: Br Ht: 5-09

I know that name, but I don’t recognize the kid’s face. Where do I know his name?

I hear footsteps. My heart skips a beat. But it can’t be Alicia. Those aren’t high heel stilettos. I turn my head.

A muscular man in his mid twenties looks down at me. He has short, dark hair and eyes that seem void of anything.

“Who are you?” I ask.

“You know me as Bryce Ballentine,” he says. “But your girlfriend knows me as Francis Tate.”