The Kill (16 page)

Olivia wouldn’t look at him, and that angered him more. She stared straight ahead, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, like a prim librarian. The only sign that she was even mildly disturbed was the slight tremor in her body, as if she were shaking and doing her utmost to stop.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. Too calm. Too composed. “If you would like to file a report with my superior, I’ll—”

“Oh, fuck that!”

He wrenched the car door open and slammed it shut, walking as quickly as possible to the edge of the water.

He stared out at the lone fisherman sitting in a rowboat on the far side of the small lake. The sun was beginning its descent; he’d lost track of time.

He took deep breaths, staring at the still water, regaining his composure.

Something was up with Olivia St. Martin. Everything he’d seen since she arrived yesterday afternoon told him she was a professional through and through. She’d been upfront about the information she had and didn’t have. She shared more than he’d expected. He’d been so impressed with the way she handled the interviews with Laura Adams, Tanya Burgess, and Sean Miller. Everything until that tirade directed toward Mrs. Davidson.

He replayed the scene in his mind, thinking back to what had set her off. There was something, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. Was it when the little girl walked into the room? But—she hadn’t been there when Olivia was lecturing. Where had she gone?

“Do you know where your children are?”

“Of course I do. They’re upstairs.”

But the little girl wasn’t. Amanda Davidson had come downstairs. And something about her appearance had upset Olivia.

Zack was determined to find out what, but first he had to control his anger.

He took a deep breath and remembered the first time he’d lost his temper on the job. He’d been a rookie, not even six months out of the Academy, a beat cop. He and his partner, an old, wise, black cop named Kip Granger, were called out on a domestic violence case in the economically depressed Central District. The guy had been pummeling his wife into the ground with a dozen bystanders gawking.

Zack reacted on instinct and rushed the guy. The husband had a knife. Zack almost got himself killed.

He rubbed his arm where he still bore a scar from that night. He’d learned the hard way to not let his temper control his actions.

Zack sensed Olivia’s presence before he heard her footfall. His anger was only part of the complex emotions that were assaulting him. While he didn’t completely understand Olivia and what had happened at the Davidsons’, he had a strong suspicion something very specific had set her off.

What she told him was far worse than he imagined.

“I told you last night that my sister was murdered.”

Her voice was quiet, but it had lost the soothing quality from earlier, when she’d spoken to the girls. She now sounded defeated and scared.

He didn’t say anything, didn’t turn to face her for fear she’d not say another word, but his heart quickened as his temper cooled and his compassion warmed.

“I was five. Missy was nine. I was there when she was abducted. I couldn’t stop him. He just—picked her up. I—I ran home.”

Olivia’s voice cracked and now Zack did turn around to look at her. For the first time he saw raw pain in her eyes, as if an invisible shield had evaporated to reveal her soul. The unspoken pain angered and moved him in ways he could only grasp ethereally. Some unknown bastard had killed her sister and affected Olivia so deeply it still haunted her. Had this pain been buried for so long, only to be brought out by this investigation? Or were her feelings always simmering beneath the surface, unknown to anyone who looked at her because she was so good at keeping up that protective guard?

“My parents never got over it.”

He waited for her to say something else, but she didn’t. Her silence didn’t fool him. There was more, Zack thought. So much more. He could tell by the quiver in her chin, her pale complexion, the tears in her eyes. Tears. He didn’t think she cried much. And they didn’t spill over, just formed a light sheen to brighten her gaze.

“And?” he prompted.

“They forgot about me.”

Her voice was so little, she sounded almost like a child herself.

“Olivia,” he whispered as he ran a hand through his hair. He took a step toward her, desperately wanting to take her into his arms, to protect her from her personal demons. But dammit! She’d crossed the line, and no amount of understanding or compassion could make him forget what had happened at the Davidsons’.

“I’m so sorry. But just because your parents couldn’t get beyond their grief doesn’t mean Michelle’s parents will neglect their children. You can’t treat the living victims that way.”

He saw a hint of understanding and guilt in her eyes.

“But who’s thinking about Amanda?” she said, a lone tear sliding down her cheek. Zack watched it reach Olivia’s chin, quiver, then drop. She didn’t notice, and no other tears followed.

“Did you see her?” she asked urgently. “Really look at her? She tried so hard to blend into the background, her mother didn’t even notice. Didn’t notice she was in the room when her mom said her ‘perfect angel’ was gone. How did that make Amanda feel? That she isn’t perfect? That it should have been her? That she was the one who should have died instead of her
perfect
sister?

“Not one time did she acknowledge
Amanda
. Not once. Not one time did she touch her, hug her, tell her she loved her.”

“You don’t know that—”

“You can tell by the way she talked!” Olivia’s jaw tightened, her growing anger burying the deep sadness. “The house reeked of anguish. Brenda Davidson can’t see beyond her pain to those who are left. I’m sorry! I’m sorry I overstepped my bounds, but if I can spare Amanda Davidson a lifetime of neglect and guilt, then I’m glad I said something! If only someone had told my parents—”

Olivia stopped suddenly, her hands covering her mouth, her eyes wide with shock. “I didn’t—I—”

“What?” Zack wanted to know everything. He took a step closer, grabbed her by the arms, and shook her once. Voice low, he said, “Is that why you’re here? Because of your family? Your sister? Are you too close to this?”

He looked at her vivid eyes, her smooth complexion, her red mouth. There was so much here in this little package, so much depth and intelligence and need—she was a loner who needed someone. But dammit, he wouldn’t jeopardize the case because she was too emotionally involved.

“I promise. I’ll control myself. I don’t—I don’t know why—I never do things like that.”

He believed her. She didn’t do things like that because she suppressed her feelings. And it had taken six-year-old Amanda Davidson to bring it all to the surface. No, not all. There was more, and he was going to find out exactly what was going on.

She wasn’t telling him everything. He took a step closer, his hands on her shoulders. He tilted her face upward to look at him.

“Olivia,” he said, his voice soft but firm, “I believe you. But there’s more to this than you’re telling me. Right now, tell me the truth. Why—”

His cell phone rang. “We’re not done with this conversation,” he said as he flipped open his phone and took a step away from her. “Travis.”

“It’s Doug Cohn. I think I have something.”

“What?”

“It’s not much, but I talked to two lab directors who remembered the blonde girls. One in Austin, Texas, the other in Colorado. Both remembered the marks on the forearm. They e-mailed me photographs from the files. I think you need to see them.”

“Why?”

“They’re identical. I thought maybe they were made by something he used to transport the victims, something that had sharp edges. And even when Gil said it was a sharp object, I was thinking it was stationary. There didn’t seem to be a different pressure in the cuts, like someone was intentionally marking the girls. But now—I think it’s his signature.”

“He’s signing his name?”

“Not his name, but maybe his mark. Like ‘Z’ for Zorro. There are twelve marks. It must mean something. When I spoke to Massachusetts, the lab director told me two of the girls were marked, two they couldn’t see any detail because the bodies weren’t in good shape.”

“I’ll be right there.” He hung up and turned to Olivia, but he didn’t have to repeat the conversation. She’d heard enough.

Horror and disbelief in her voice, she said, “He’s branding his victims.”

The police were all over the woods, but they weren’t knocking on doors.

Yet.

He was cautious by nature, which had served him well over the years. He seemed to have a sixth sense about when to pull back. When to move on.

That odd sense started tickling the back of his neck. Just a light touch, and when he rubbed his head, it disappeared.

He couldn’t move on. He’d already seen the next angel he had to set free.

She was waiting for him.

He had work to do first. He hadn’t located a truck yet, but it was only a matter of time. If the police knocked on his door, it would only be to ask questions about the day the girl disappeared. He would tell them he remembered the news about it, but didn’t have any real memories of what happened on that day. He wished he could be of more help, but it was three months ago. Him? Well, he worked for a local restaurant, came here for the job well over a year ago. He’d met most of the people who lived on the island. He liked it here.

Don’t talk too much, keep it conversational, a tad somber.

He’d done it before and no one suspected anything.

No, he couldn’t leave. Not yet. He had one more angel to free, then he would be at peace for a time.

He readied himself for bed. It was early, not yet nine, but he had the breakfast shift tomorrow. It wouldn’t do to miss a scheduled shift. Being late—because he was never late—could arouse attention. Not that he’d ever slept late. His internal clock woke him every morning at five.

His bedtime ritual was always the same. He showered. The thought of sliding into sheets with the filth of the day on his skin terrified him.

He always checked the doors and windows, even if he remembered securing them. Lights off, no nightlight, no bathroom light. Blinds down. He’d replaced the flimsy curtains in the cottage bedroom with shades that blocked all light.

He slept in boxers, his shoes next to his bed. He could slip into them instantly if necessary, a holdover from three years in the military.

In the dark, he could sleep. Sometimes.

And sometimes, like tonight, his mind couldn’t rest.

Sometimes, like tonight, he thought of
her
. Angel.

The ache in his heart spread until it became almost unbearable. He missed her so much. Her breath on his face. Her smile. He missed the way she smiled
just for him
.

And like always, when he thought of Angel before he slept, he remembered far more than he wanted to.

They were moving to Los Angeles, the seventh time they’d moved in his eleven years. But this time was different.

This time they left without his mother. She was dead.

“Suck it up, boy. Stop acting like a sissy.”

Bruce wasn’t his father, but he didn’t remember his father. His mother hadn’t married him, just like she hadn’t married Bruce. But, except for some isolated feelings that alternately disturbed and warmed him, he couldn’t remember a time when Bruce wasn’t in the house. He wanted him to leave. He wanted the time when he didn’t have to share his mother with anyone. When she let him sleep next to her in her soft, warm bed.

He missed his mother. But he still had Angel.

She was so beautiful. Her blonde hair, as white as snow when she was little, now had darkened to shimmering gold, natural white highlights shining in the sun.

She was his little girl as much as she was Bruce’s and his mother’s little girl. He loved her more, took care of her more. Bruce and his mother argued and then did things to each other that made his mother’s sheets smell funny. When she went to work and Bruce left him to go down to the bar on the corner, he would often lie on his mother’s side of the bed and remember what it was like to be held by her. He’d wrap himself with her blankets and pillows.

But it didn’t smell the same. It smelled fishy and dirty and more like Bruce than his mother.

Now, his mother was gone. First her scent, now her body.

On that long, long car ride to Los Angeles, Angel reached over and took his hand. Tears welled in her big green eyes. She missed their mother, too.

Or was she already scared of her father?

He leaned over and whispered in her ear. “I promise, I’ll take care of you. I won’t let him hurt you.”

She squeezed his hand, her face too old for her seven years. “It’s too late.”

Three years and nine moves later, she was dead, too.

It was after midnight and everyone in the conference room was exhausted. Zack, Olivia, Boyd, Cohn, and Detective Jan O’Neal had been reviewing every report Cohn had received from the labs in other states, plus the pages Nashville had faxed over while Zack and Olivia were talking with Mrs. Davidson.

“Okay, we all need to get some sleep,” Zack said, “but let’s run through what we have one more time and figure out what we’re going to do tomorrow.”

“We have a few more pages to go through, but we have six matches to households that own both types of trucks,” Boyd said. “Jan and I are going to check them out in person first thing in the morning.”

“Good work.”

“I have calls in to the other labs,” Cohn said. “I’ll follow up tomorrow morning. I’m pulling a couple of my lab techs into researching the marks. Maybe twelve signifies something, like in mythology.”

“We should contact the FBI and see if they have information about the marks,” Olivia said quietly, looking at Zack.

“Who? How can we expedite this?”

Olivia swallowed. She was going to be exposed; there was no way around it. “You should contact the Seattle bureau chief and ask for them to run the marks through the research unit, as well as the number ‘twelve’ to see if it means anything.”