The Night Is Deep (A Liam Dempsey Thriller Book 2) (18 page)

It was fear.

Fear was driving him. Fear of the darkness, because he knew what waited there. And when it came for you, there was no fighting it. Fear was pushing him beyond his moral constraints, turning the panic he felt, every time he imagined finding Valerie’s lifeless body, into anger that blazed white-hot. It was the fear of who he transposed when he saw her, because it wasn’t her face anymore that reflected the pale light of death, it was Dani.

“No,” he whispered, and placed his fist against the tiles, pushing hard enough to feel his skin sink into the channels between them.

When the image blurred and faded enough for him to concentrate again, he washed himself and stepped from the shower. He dried off and dressed in fresh clothes that felt soft enough to sleep in. Sleep. The word nearly sent a shiver of pleasure through him but his stomach twisted again with hunger and when he left the bathroom he made his way to the kitchen to find Owen picking at a limp chicken salad.

“Any more of that around here by chance?” Liam asked.

“There’s a whole bowl in the fridge. Help yourself.”

Liam dished a heaping amount of chicken, lettuce, and cheese onto a plate and sat at the opposite end of the counter. As he began to eat he noticed his handgun resting on top of two file folders partway down the breakfast bar.

“Perring left that for you. She stepped outside to speak with the chief. He dropped by to see how things were going.”

Liam nodded. “He’s a friend of yours?”

“Everyone’s your friend in politics.”

“Thought it was the other way around.”

“Not when you’re trying to get elected.”

Liam began to eat and opened the first folder.

A mug shot of Marshall Davis stared out at him, the man’s hooded eyes still fogged with whatever substance he was abusing prior to arrest. The edge of a silver crucifix peeked from the top of his collar, only Christ’s anguished face and pierced hands visible. Liam scanned the man’s legal history. Nearly every charge had to do with some type of illegal drug. Whether it was selling or buying, Davis was an addict through and through. He set aside the folder and opened the second. An array of information on Alexandra’s death met him. He chewed slowly as he read, turning page after page of evidence, statements, and finally pictures.

The pictures were always the hardest. At home in his office he kept crime scene photos in a locked drawer for fear of Eric stumbling upon them by accident. The last thing he wanted was for the boy to unintentionally flip through a full-color leaflet depicting crushed skulls, clotted stab wounds, or broken and misshapen bodies of children his age.

Alexandra’s pictures were not as gruesome as some he’d seen, but the disturbing air they gave off was, nonetheless, unsettling. There was a collage of shots of her face, close up, her eyes half-lidded and hazed with a film of death. Her lips, no longer red and full of life, were parted, white teeth behind their shrunken slit. She lay on her back, one arm twisted beneath her as if she were caught midway in an attempt to rise. Her neck was broken, distended in a way that nearly made his gorge rise, and a halo of blood spread around her on the cement. He sometimes grew angry at death’s portrayal in television shows and movies. A dead body was typically arranged in dramatic fashion with little damage to the victim’s face.

In truth there was no beauty or grace in death. It was a cruel, messy, and sometimes violent departure from the world of the living.

Liam sifted through the pictures, setting one aside from time to time as he finished his meal, oblivious to his surroundings until Owen spoke.

“How can you fucking eat while you look at those?”

Liam lifted his head and saw the utter disgust etched on his friend’s face. Owen stared at him, upper lip curled, hands smoothing the fabric of his shirt over and over.

“I’m sorry. You get used to it after a time. Callous. I’ll bring them in the living room.”

“Don’t bother,” Owen said, brushing past him. A moment later Liam heard the distinctive sound of the liquor cabinet being opened. He sighed and arranged the information back into a pile and shut the folder, the facts and forensic readings all in line with a conclusion of suicide, no apparent discrepancies leaping at him from the pages.

He stood and brought his dishes to the sink, washing them quickly before setting them to dry on a towel beneath one of the windows. He heard someone enter the room behind him and readied another apology, but instead of Owen it was Perring.

“Good, you found those,” she said, motioning to the gun and folder.

“Yeah. I guess I’m clear as far as the city of Duluth goes?”

“For now.” She gave him a tired smile and leaned against the counter. “They dropped your truck off outside too. The keys are in it.” She glanced in Owen’s direction. “It really upset him that you asked for Alexandra’s file.”

“I gathered that, and I understand.”

“Find anything of interest?”

“No. Everything seems in order, nothing amiss.”

“You still think this has something to do with Alexandra’s suicide?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I can’t say. Maybe it’s the photo of Valerie and Owen upstairs in the hall. It’s the most recent I’ve seen of her. She’s staring at the camera and looking right through it like it’s a window and she’s seeing something on the other side. On one hand there’s no getting over something like the death of a family member, but on the other, there’s never moving on from the moment it happens. I think Valerie never moved on, and when you don’t move on, the past catches up with you.”

“Regardless, I don’t see an avenue for weaving Alexandra’s death into the investigation.”

“It’s at the very center of this. I can feel it.”

Liam ambled away from Perring into the living room, leaving Alexandra’s folder on the kitchen counter. He hesitated beside a chair across from where Owen sat nursing a full glass of whisky.

“I’m sorry about reading the file in front of you. That was insensitive of me,” Liam said quietly.

Owen surveyed him over the rim of his glass then waved the air with it as if shooing an insect. “It’s okay. No harm. I just don’t see why you keep going back to Alexandra when Valerie’s the one missing.”

“I told you—”

“And I told you, my concern is for my wife, not her sister.” Owen’s voice was sharp and laced with alcohol. His eyes shone and Liam held his gaze blinking slowly.

“I’m sorry, Owen. This is how I work. Don’t think for an instant that I’m more concerned with Alexandra’s suicide than I am with finding Valerie.”

“You have a funny way of working.”

Liam was about to reply but knew the drunken barrier Owen had built around himself was woven with nothing but anger and resentment. There would be no getting through to him tonight. Instead he sat down and reached forward, drawing Alexandra’s diary from the tabletop to his lap. Owen made an agitated sound and got up to cross the room to the windows even though there was nothing to see but darkness beyond them. Liam ran his fingers over the cover of the diary. How many times had Alexandra opened and closed the journal? How many times had she run to it in the grip of utter happiness or despair? It had been a confidant that would not betray her or judge her for her actions or thoughts. The secrets within were her own, precious and unknown in their truest sense even to those who read them.

Liam turned the diary over again, tracing the curving design that flowed across its cover with a fingertip, the embroidered flare upraised but smooth from time. It ended at the spine abruptly and he stared at its edge, a thought flaring into light in the recesses of his mind.

They probably could have passed as twins Alexandra’s senior year.

“Twins,” Liam said, bringing the diary closer to his face.

He ran his hand over the design.

Half
of the design.

“What?” Owen said, not looking at him.

“It’s a heart,” Liam said, holding up the diary. “On the cover. Half a heart. By itself it just looks like a swooping line but it’s not. It’s one of two books.”

“What are you talking about?” Owen asked finally turning toward him. Liam heard someone approach from behind and a moment later Perring appeared on his right.

“This diary is one of two. If you put them side by side the design on the front would create a heart. They’re a pair, one for each sister.”

Perring squinted at him and took Alexandra’s diary from his hand as Owen came closer.

“Did Valerie have a diary like this?”

“Not that I ever saw.”

Liam thought for a minute. “You said Caulston kept next to nothing of Alexandra’s, right?” he asked Owen.

Owen shrugged. “I guess. That’s what he told us anyway.”

“I’m sure anything he did keep, he stored away, maybe in the basement or attic, but he would have known if something as important as her diary was missing if he ever looked, right?”

“Maybe.”

“And from judging the man’s temper, I’m almost sure he would’ve been furious at Valerie for taking it. So maybe she was forced to leave her own diary in its place.”

“But why would she do that?” Perring asked.

“Maybe at first it was just to keep a connection to her sister, but after a time I think she may have been searching for something.”

“For what?” Owen said.

“For the reason Alexandra killed herself.”

The room was quiet as Liam glanced from Perring to his friend, gauging their reactions. Owen swayed in place, a thoughtful sourness coating his features while Perring continued to study the pink book.

“I think you’re reaching,” Owen said, his words slurring into one another.

“Maybe Valerie going to the jewelry store was part of it,” Liam said.

“Don’t give me that,” Owen said. “I know my wife and she wasn’t leaving this house. Whoever you talked to was wrong.”

“Owen—” Liam began.

“He was wrong!” Owen’s jaw set to an edge that cut at the flesh of his face. “This is a wild goose chase you’re starting, Liam. You need to focus on Valerie.”

“I am,” Liam said, his own voice rising. He met Owen’s intoxicated stare. “If I’m right, Valerie’s diary might have some information that could point us in the right direction. If she had a theory about why Alexandra killed herself, it could tie all the loose ends together. I think Alexandra and the men that were killed in the last couple days have a connection, and Valerie might have known what it was. It might even be the reason she was taken.” Liam glanced at Perring. “Who has the keys to Caulston’s house?”

“They’re at the station, locked up with the other inmates’ belongings.”

“Can you get me them?”

“No. Liam, I don’t think your theory warrants entering Caulston’s home.”

“You have impunity now that he’s in custody. You can okay entry without a search warrant.”

“That may be, but I can’t leave with no one to pass responsibility to here. There’s too much to do before the exchange tomorrow evening.”

“Then let me go. Call the station and okay the release of the keys to his house.”

“No. No matter what you come up with in that house, it still doesn’t change the fact that you’re not a cop. I’d lose my job by giving you permission.”

Liam stood and looked up at the ceiling. “Then I’ll go without your okay.”

“Liam, you can’t do that.”

“You know I’m right,” he said, coming closer to her. “Look at me and tell me I’m not.” He waited, watching her waver. There was a tipping in the depths of her eyes. She sighed.

“I don’t know anything about this,” she said.

“This is not why I asked you here,” Owen said, setting his drink down.

Liam placed a hand on his arm. “It is though. If I can find Valerie’s diary it might give us enough of a lead to locate her. We still have time to get her back before the exchange. We have time to beat this bastard at his own game.”

Owen’s mouth worked without forming words, the critical lines on his forehead relaxing. “Okay. Do what you can.”

“Thank you,” Liam said, reaching to gather his coat.

“And you don’t have to break in,” Owen said, pulling a ring of keys from his pocket and peeling one off. “This opens the front door.”

Liam smiled, drawing his friend into a rough embrace before taking the key. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“I’m going to lay down before I fall down. I think I overdid it,” Owen said, giving them both a half smile. “Wake me if anything else happens.”

They watched Owen move through the hallway, disappearing from sight on the stairs.

“He’s strained to the breaking point,” Perring said as she walked him to the entry. “Make sure you don’t push this further than he can handle.”

“I won’t.”

“Don’t do anything stupid.”

“Never.”

“And if you get caught, I know nothing about this.”

“Of course.” He was about to step into the night when Perring spoke again.

“Liam? Be careful.”

“Always,” he said, closing the door behind him.

CHAPTER 20

Liam swung out of the fast food drive-through and back onto the highway, accelerating to keep up with the late traffic.

The salad had only been an infuriation to his stomach, so when he spotted the arrow promising burgers and fries, he let his hunger guide the car into the parking lot.

He devoured the burger, barely tasting the greasy meat and melted cheese mingling with the flavor of fried onions. The fries followed suit, disappearing in a few handfuls that left his mouth filled with salt and parched beyond belief. By the time he reached the city limits his medium drink was empty and his stomach felt as if a basketball had been transplanted there.

“Shit’ll kill you,” he murmured as he watched the GPS for the turn that was coming up in less than a mile.

Straiford Heights Road materialized out of the darkness on his right and he swung the truck onto its cleanly paved path. Even with the city only a mile behind, the houses on the street were hemmed in deeply by trees and layers of brush that flared fall colors in the headlights. For every mailbox there was a quarter mile of unblemished land growing untamed. The sight of windows glowing through the shivering tree branches gave him some sense of reality and assurance that there was simple and organized life going on nearby.

The GPS notified him that he had arrived and he nearly missed the driveway in the dark. Caulston’s house sat on a rise behind a row of short jack pine. As Liam turned into the approach, the headlights washed the two-story home, giving him a sense of barely contained grandeur. The siding was white, trimmed with dark shutters and long overhanging eaves. An attached garage was positioned on the right while the entryway was built outward into the turnaround, its sides lined with wide windows. Several dormers jutted from the roof, onyx glass within each face.

Liam pulled to a stop and shut the truck off. He sat for a moment in the darkness, watching the house and its corners, the surrounding tree line, the windows. All was still. He stepped from the vehicle and put a hand to his back, reseating the holster and gun before moving up the walk. The key Owen had given him fit the dead bolt, and with a twist the door opened before him.

The entryway was empty save for a wooden bench and a bare coatrack. The grit on his shoes whispered against the clean tile and he wiped them on a rug emblazoned with a word he couldn’t make out in the gloom. He shut the door and moved forward, pausing at the junction of the entry and kitchen. The air inside the house was cool and smelled faintly of cedar. Possibly from the sauna where Alexandra had traded her virginity with Dickson’s. Liam found a light switch on the kitchen wall and flipped it on.

A grand dining room spread out to his left complete with an enormous hutch lining almost an entire wall as well as a table that would’ve easily accommodated a dozen people comfortably. A newspaper hung over the back of one chair and a tobacco pipe sat in a small stand on the kitchen counter.

The eerie feeling of being in another person’s home uninvited stole over him. He tried brushing it away but it clung to him like a massive spider web. Walking soundlessly around the dining room, he found himself in a great room. A huge suede sectional dominated the floor plan flanked by two overstuffed easy chairs. An enclosed entertainment center stood against the opposite wall. A rectangle of darkness waited beyond the couch and Liam went to it, seeing that it was the basement door after cracking it open an inch. He crept downstairs on the carpeted treads and found a cinema room with rows of stepped seating before a blank digital screen taller than he was. Three doors opened off of the main area and after checking each of them to find only guestrooms, he made his way back upstairs. In the living room again he stopped in the basement doorway.

A sound had met his ears, indistinct and muted.

He stepped to the closest window looking out to the front yard and saw the sweep of headlights fading past the driveway. He stood for a moment, gazing around the dimly lit dining room before continuing through the kitchen to an ascending stairway. Alexandra’s possessions must be here, and since there was no storage in the basement, that left the rooms above.

The stairway turned once and emptied out on a landing that held four closed doors. The first revealed the master bedroom and Liam spent only a few seconds glancing at the wide bed and low clothes dresser before moving onto the next door. The second was a bathroom while the third was another guest room, though by the looks of it one of the sisters had definitely occupied it at some point. It was spacious with a generous bay window overlooking the yard and a walk-in closet that would have housed his pickup without trouble. Besides the made bed and two nightstands, the space was empty and held an air of desertion.

The last door opened onto the past.

Liam stepped inside.

The room was laid out nearly the same as the prior space, but where the first had lacked any sense of life, this one was drenched with it.

A few items of clothing were stacked neatly beside a tall white dresser topped with a mirror, a faded picture of Alexandra sitting arm in arm with several friends, on its top. A four-poster bed without a canopy rested in the center of the room and a thick cushion lined the bay window making it a perfect spot for reading or napping on a rainy day.

Liam stood there, gazing around at a life interrupted. The feeling that Alexandra could walk in from the hallway at any moment was so pervasive his eyes kept flicking back to the open door. He moved to the dresser, seeing its top littered with numerous knickknacks and folded notes. A dried corsage attached to an ivory band dangled from a hook on the side of the mirror. It looked as if it would turn to dust if touched. A corded phone sat on the bedside table along with a water glass holding only a dried stain at the bottom, but it was this that gave him the longest pause.

Not only had Caulston been unable to face the memories associated with his daughter’s belongings, he hadn’t so much as touched an item. Liam was sure that within the dresser drawers he would find clothes folded and waiting, perhaps a pair of shoes beneath the bed.

The room was a ghost’s tribute.

He crossed the space and opened the walk-in closet. Rows of clothing hung on hangers and several shoe boxes were stacked below, the fashion undeniably that of a young woman transitioning out of her teens. He moved deeper into the closet, opening an odd box or shifting garments to peer behind them. At the very back was a file box that clashed with every other item around him. It was a police evidence box, the side marked with black ink and the top fastened down with tape. Liam knelt before it, drawing it closer. Two strips of tape at the front had been peeled back and then refastened but they’d given way over time, their initial hold broken. With a fingertip he lifted the lid and looked inside.

A set of clothes was wrapped inside a sealed plastic bag and he recognized them, after a beat, as the garments Alexandra had been wearing at the time of her death. On top of the bag was a sterling silver wristwatch, a black purse, and a set of car keys.

Tucked against the rear of the box was a pink diary.

Elation surged within him as he reached out and grasped it. It felt the same as Alexandra’s in his hand and he studied the design on the front, its pattern curving the opposite way of its copy at Owen’s house. He tentatively opened the cover, half expecting the pages to be blank, but dark ink met his eyes instead.

He shut the diary, clutching it tightly as he closed the evidence box and slid it back into place. As he shut the closet door, movement flickered out of the corner of his eye and his heart bungee jumped in his chest. He spun to the window, eyes scanning the darkened yard below for what had drawn his attention. Something had moved out there, though he couldn’t say what. It had almost been like a blink of light close to the house, perhaps the swing of a flashlight or a reflection off the glass of his truck, there and gone in an instant. He watched for a full minute before stepping away from the window. If there were someone outside, he would be an easy target illuminated behind the glass.

He turned lights off as he moved downstairs, returning to the glass-fronted entryway. He drew out his handgun, making sure a round was chambered before shutting off the last light. His pulse accelerated as he gripped the doorknob and turned it as quietly as he could.

The rattle of dying leaves met him as he stepped outside. Liam kept close to the side of the house, watching for stray shadows to move when they shouldn’t. When no attack came and no sound rose above the wind’s insistence, he stepped down off the cement stoop and began walking toward the dark form of his truck.

There was a click and the Chevy’s headlights sprung on, blinding him in whiteness.

His arm came up instinctually to cover his eyes as the engine keyed on and roared, the truck leaping forward. The instant in which he might have moved was lost in the twitch of his muscles as the truck’s grille loomed, shining like hungry teeth.

The impact was explosive.

Everything was pain.

It was as if his atoms were suddenly detonating, beginning with those in his chest and stomach and flowing outward. He was moving backward, the motor growling into and through him, vibrating his fillings. There was a split second of stillness, then he was airborne.

He exploded through the entry windows, their crystalline shattering like ice picks in his ears. He landed on his back and skidded on broken glass, with an exhalation of air that tasted of copper. Caulston’s kitchen ceiling was above him, the dead light fixtures spinning, cabinets and stools twisting. He sucked in a breath of air and breathed out again, pain seizing the center of his chest like nothing he’d ever experienced before. He put a hand to his heart, sure that he would feel its raw touch in his palm, as the Chevy’s engine flared again outside, the smell of coolant and exhaust noxiously sweet. His chest was whole beneath his coat and as he braced himself with one arm, the kitchen’s sickening spin began to slow. He blinked, swallowing a mouthful of blood.

The front entryway window beside the door was gone. Beyond was the looming curve of his truck’s hood, one headlight peering inside the house like an enraged eye. As he watched, the engine revved and the truck shuddered but moved only inches before settling once again.

It was lodged on the front steps.

Liam looked down at his legs, ready for the sight of splintered bone winking at him through torn flesh, but besides several tears in his jeans that drooled blood, they seemed intact. He pushed himself up, the agony in his chest and stomach coming down a notch from before.

He had to get up.

If whoever was in his truck decided to come in after him he’d be easy prey. If he were hemorrhaging internally he’d die on his own. Either way if he stayed where he was, he was dead.

With a final shove, he got his feet beneath him, feeling like he was on the last hour of a daylong vodka binge. The floor swayed and he caught himself on the edge of a counter. The truck’s RPMs screamed their indignation, then fell lower and lower until silence replaced them completely.

The car door opened.

Liam searched the glittering floor for his gun but it was gone, dropped in the impact along with the diary. He skidded to the corner of the kitchen cabinet, muscles spasming as wetness ran down his back. Something clunked in the entry followed by breaking glass.

They were inside the house.

Liam reached out, grabbing the first thing his hand encountered and pulled the six-inch knife from the cutting block, its blade the brightest thing in the room. He hobbled away from the entry as the crunch of glass came from behind him. Ahead the darkness deepened and he shuffled into a hallway, spitting blood as he felt ahead for hindrances. His fingers brushed the cold steel of a door and he turned the knob.

Liam stumbled down two steps into the attached garage, his feet scratching on the concrete floor. He bumped against a long, low shape in the dark, felt the smooth, cold steel of the car beneath his shaking palm. Gaining his bearings, he sidled around the end of the vehicle, hoping his assumptions were right because if they weren’t, there would be no escape.

He crossed the open space of the second empty stall and met the wall lined with garbage cans, several garden tools, a folded tarp.

Where was it?

Where was it?

His fingers scraped against the Sheetrock as careful footsteps treaded down the hall behind him, their stealth barely audible. Liam moved farther to the right, his hand finally finding the side door he hadn’t been sure was there. He yanked it open as a shot rang out, a loud bark of sound in the enclosed space. Particles from the wall peppered his face and he lunged forward into the night.

The ground was soft from the rain and he nearly fell, the pain in his legs and chest a constant throb in time with his heart like a lighthouse signal. He ran to the wall of trees lining the yard and plunged into their welcoming darkness, hearing his pursuer exit the garage behind him. His feet were engulfed in fallen leaves, their dried forms pinpointing his location in the dark. He ducked beneath the reaching arms of a pine and began to slide downward as the land dropped away. Small rocks kicked up beneath his shoes, quickening his descent down the hill. He grabbed a small poplar, slowing himself and turning to the left, a semblance of a trail appearing as a lighter shadow in the night. He hobbled down the narrow blade of open ground, fewer leaves crunching with his progress. Chancing a look back, Liam saw a thin line of light sweep the area above him, its glow weak but there.

Coming toward him.

Liam hurried onward until the path twisted in on itself, eating its own tail and ending in a low stand of bramble and towering pines. He turned, gazing up at the hillside but there was no easy route to circumvent the person behind him—he would be heard immediately. The only option was to his right, through the stand of brush and farther down the slope. He pushed into the reaching hands of the thicket, fingernails of thorns clawing at his clothing, holding him back, feet crushing leaves to announce his presence. The woods seemed to want his death as much as his pursuer. He slashed at the brush with the kitchen knife before stooping over, a detonation of pain flowing from his midsection.