Scream (19 page)

Wiley crossed the room and hit the play button.

A man's voice came on. "Hey, Gin, it's Brandon. I missed you
tonight. Did you forget? Call me." His voice was slightly highpitched, almost feminine, with a distinct lisp.

He hit it again. Same man. Same lisp. "Ginny, it's me again.
Are you there? Call me. I miss you."

Isn't that sweet. Again. "Ginny, you're worrying me. Call me
back as soon as you get in."

The next message was a woman. Masculine voice with a hard
edge to it. "Hello? Ginny? Where are you, girl? Bonnie's ready
to blow her top. I hope you get here soon."

He hit the button again. The woman. Smokey voice. "Ginny.
It's Jody again. What are you thinking just not showing up
today? Bonnie's ready to kill you, girl. Call me at home."

Wiley snorted. Lispy Brandon and smoky Jody should
exchange voices.

The next two were more of the same. One was from Brandon
with the woman's voice, one from Jody with the man's voice.
Both wondering where dear Ginny was.

Wiley stepped outside the bedroom and paused in the hall.
A faint tingling started at the top of his head and moved down
his spine. He could feel her here, calling to him. The photo in
the living room, her smell in the bedroom, the towels in the
bathroom. They spoke to him, reminding him that she was a
person, a living, breathing person with a life that would miss
her. It chilled him to the bone.

He made his way downstairs to the first floor then down to
the basement where a large family room, fully furnished but
apparently never used, and a small washroom waited.

Fifteen minutes later, he heard Jess call from the living room.
Stomping up the basement steps, he rounded the corner. "Tell
me something, how does a single woman hair stylist afford a
house like this?"

Jess shrugged. "Beats me. Maybe Mommy and Daddy helped
her out. Maybe she won the lottery."

Wiley glanced around the well-furnished living room. "Find
anything interesting?"

Jess held her trusty notepad in her right hand. She pointed
her thumb in the direction of the colonial. "They're an elderly
couple and said they go to bed around nine-thirty and didn't see
or hear anything Thursday night. They've seen the new boyfriend
a couple times, but that's it. Never talked to him and didn't talk
to Grisham much. Said she was real quiet, reclusive."

She pointed in the direction of the rancher to the left. "They
heard Grisham's car door shut just before ten. Said that's what
time she normally came home. Now, here's something. They also said about forty, forty-five minutes later they heard a couple
car doors shut and an engine start. They didn't think anything
of it at the time. The husband said he talked to the boyfriend
once while they were working in the backyard. Said he seemed
like a nice guy."

Wiley grunted. "Aren't they all. There's seven messages on
the answering machine. Four from Brandon, three from Jody.
The co-worker?"

"Yeah"

Wiley looked around the living room. "Well, it looks like
we're stuck with nothing again. Except another suspicious
boyfriend. Put the pressure on this Brandon fella and grill him
good. I want to know where he was Thursday night between
ten and eleven. And if he wasn't with Grisham, he better have
a good alibi."

Jess cocked her head to the side. "You think we have a serial
thing going on here? Or just coincidence."

Wiley shoved his hands in his pockets. "No. I don't think
this is the work of a serial. Heck, we don't even know if these
two were abducted. They may have just run off somewhere. No
one's gotten any ransom calls; we've got no leads. This Mann
case is turning out to be a real dead-ender. No doubt this one
will too." He dipped his chin and pinched his brow.

Jess had that look on her face. Pursed lips, tight jaw, dimple
between her eyebrows right above her nose.

"You don't agree?"

Jess straightened up and brushed a few loose hairs out of
her face. "I got an awful feeling this is a serial and there'll be
more. I think we should treat it like it was. If we're wrong, we're
wrong, but if we're right, we're one step ahead."

Wiley paused to think, combing his mustache. The whole thing made him sick. No good would come of it. "Why don't
you like to talk about your personal life?"

Jess gave him a sideways look. "What personal life?"

"Exactly."

"I have a personal life."

Wiley lifted his brow. "Really? You mean when you go home
you don't sleep in your uniform and dream about catching Jack
the Ripper? You need a man in your life."

"I have a man in my life."

Wiley feigned surprise even though she had caught him off
guard. Deputy Jessica Foreman never talked about her personal
life, let alone her love life. She was reserved, introverted, and
thoughtful. Exactly why Wiley liked her. "You have a man? All
this time I've been riding you about finding a boyfriend, and
you already have one? What's his name?"

Jess turned her eyes to the living room and propped her
hands on her waist. "Did I say he was a boyfriend? Can we get
back to the case?"

"No. What's his name?"

Jess shot him a look that warned change the subject. "Are
you gonna treat this like a serial or not?"

"What's his name?"

"Jesus. Happy?"

"Jesus? Like the Son of God Jesus?"

"The very one."

Wiley didn't say anything. Jess had succeeded in rendering
him speechless. Either she was having some fantasy affair with
the Holy One, or she was one of those born-again fanatics, the
type he'd grown up with. Either way, it sure explained a lot. Jess
never went to the bar with the other cops, never drank even a
beer at the station summer picnic, never cussed, never laughed
at the crude jokes that floated around the station, and never responded to any of the advances of the other deputies. He was
beginning to wonder about her sexual orientation, but now he
understood. All too well.

Jess was staring at him. "The case, sir. Can we get back to the
case? Serial or not?"

Wiley ran a hand along his jawline, ending at his chin, and
shook his head. "Sorry, Jess. Can't do it yet. The minute we
declare this thing a serial, we'll have the Feds breathing down
our necks, taking over the investigation, yappin' about what
they need and what they want, telling me what to do in my own
house. Not to mention the resources and expenses involved. I
have to be sure before I go that far."

"Well, it's your call. I'll go along with whatever you decide;
you know that."

Wiley smiled. "That's why you're my number one."

T WAS A DAMP, LIFELESS EVENING. A STARLESS SKY HUNG
overhead like a black blanket. A light mist drifted in the
air, specks of shimmering dust in the lamplight, chilling to
the bone. The campus of Frostburg State University was almost
deserted. Barren sidewalks wove through manicured lawns,
lighted only by the occasional light post dropping a tent of soft
light on the darkened walkway. Benches sat wet and abandoned.
Even the air was still and silent.

On the first floor of the Compton Science Center, a three-story
brick structure, two windows glowed brightly. One Monday
evening class, Chemistry I Lab, would soon be dismissing,
and sixteen students, if judge had counted right, would exit
the double glass doors and go their separate ways, making a
swift retreat to their dorm rooms. And if he planned correctly,
Shelley Kurtz would be the last to exit, alone, and make her way
to Westminster Residence Hall on the other side of campus,
alone. And if he timed it right, she and he would cross paths at
a particular spot along the sidewalk behind Tawes Hall, where
there were no light posts and a sprawling maple cast a black
shadow over the ground.

He would take her out there and drag her down the hundredfoot grassy slope, where his car would be waiting.

If he planned it right. And, of course, he had planned it right.

Judge glanced at his watch and pushed the light button. 9:55.
Five more minutes. Unless Professor Ngyun dismissed early.

Three minutes later the first threesome pushed open the
glass doors, followed by a couple holding hands, a group of five
college joe types, three girls huddled under one bright pink
umbrella, and one middle-aged woman, toting a professionallooking briefcase. Let's see, fourteen in all. Seconds later the
door swung open again, and out came Shelley. Short, pudgy,
loner Shelley.

Fifteen? Had he miscounted? Apparently he had, or someone
had pulled a no-show. Shelley was always the last one out. She
was as predictable as Mother's Sunday dinner-roast beef,
mashed potatoes, cooked carrots, and dinner rolls.

She stopped just outside the door, turned her face toward
the sky, squinting at the mist, then pulled out a pack of cigarettes. After tapping the pack on the palm of her hand, she slid
a cigarette out and shoved it between her lips. Cupping a hand
around the tube, she flicked her lighter and held it close. The
glow of the flame illuminated her chubby face.

Judge tugged the brim of his Stetson a little lower, pulled the
collar of his jacket up around his neck, and took off. He had
to move quickly to get ahead of her. Fortunately, Shelley didn't
move real fast.

Exactly one minute later he rounded the corner of Tawes Hall
and waited for her familiar form to appear heading right toward
him. There. That gait was unmistakable, sort of a hunchbacked
waddle, ugly duckling style. He could even see the orange glow
of her cigarette, hovering five feet off the ground like the first
lonely star of night. He shoved his hands in the deep pockets
of his coat and pulled out a white rag and the vial of ether.
Dousing the rag with the chemical, he placed the vial back in
his pocket and took to the sidewalk in long, even strides. This was almost too easy. To his right, the lawn sloped down a steep
embankment and there, at the bottom, sat his car. He could see
the shine of a faraway light post reflecting off the glossy hood.

When he was within thirty feet of her, he slowed just a little
and spread the rag out in his right hand. He'd wrap her from
behind with his left arm and press the rag to her face with his
right. He'd visualized it at least a hundred times.

Twenty feet. She looked up and spotted him for the first time.
He diverted his eyes and picked up the pace.

Ten feet. She slowed and blew out a puff of smoke.

Zero feet. As soon as he passed her on the left, he pulled up
and began to turn to his left, lifting the rag. He had to make
it quick.

"Hey, Shelley!" a woman's voice called and startled him.

Shelley spun around.

He dropped his hand in his pocket.

She looked at him, bewildered, then they both looked at the
source of the voice. A thin Asian girl approached in a shuffled
jog, a carryall draped over her shoulder. "Wait up."

He cursed to himself. Number sixteen. She must have
lingered behind.

Both Shelley and the Asian girl looked at him as if waiting
for an explanation. He forced a nervous laugh and smiled. "You
startled me. Sorry." Then he turned to make a quick departure,
cursing his carelessness, Shelley, and the Asian.