The Scum of All Fears: Squeaky Clean Mysteries, Book 5 (8 page)

“So, you’re saying you are Milton Jones, the deranged serial killer
who escaped from prison?” Bill’s voice was full of disbelief.

“That’s right. I’ve got a message I’d like for you to share.”
The man claiming to be Jones had a scratchy voice. Yet there was an underlying confidence there that made nausea roil in my stomach. This was a man with a plan.

“What’s that? You want everyone to listen to my show?” Bill obviously wasn’t taking this call too seriously.
His voice lilted. Was he amused? Entertained? Maybe he just didn’t believe this was Jones.

“I want you to tell your friends
that I’m coming. I’m coming,” Jones repeated, his voice low and raspy. “You know who you are.”

On second thought, maybe giving in
to my fears and hiding away at some remote location
was
a good idea.

Too bad it wasn’t an option, though.

Five, Six

Getting my kicks

As if the phone call from Milton Jones hadn’t been bad enough, the officer had found a message for me inside the crime scene. The police had come . . . again.

We’d stayed around for the usual questioning, and then Clarice and I had made it to another crime scene. This one had no messages waiting for us. Maybe one a day was this killer’s quota.

We’d finished
that job, I’d dropped off Clarice, and I’d made it back just in time for the cookout.

Right now, a
s I stood on the lawn, I couldn’t help but put all the rhymes together in my head.

One, Two

I’m coming for you

Three, Four

I’m hungry for more

Gabby St. Claire

Are you ready for gore?

Five, Six

Getting my kicks

How sick was this guy? What I didn’t understand was why he was leaving these messages. He’d never done something like this before. What had changed?
Had he nothing better to do in prison than plot ways to torture Riley? Or was this truly a different crime? What were the odds that two killers were taunting me?

“You okay?”

Riley’s voice pulled me out of my thoughts. I snapped back to the present. “I’m as okay as possible, I suppose.”

I soaked in the cookout. A ratty picnic table that had seen better days had been covered with a
mauve and blue flowered tablecloth. Rose had even bought some balloons that she’d tied to the branch of a live oak, to the handle of the grill (uh, yeah, that one had to come off), and a parking meter.

“
The police been able to trace that phone call yet?”

Riley
shook his head and flipped another burger on the grill. “Nope. It was too short. They have some equipment hooked up to Bill’s phone in case he calls again.”

“Milton Jones will probably know that and not call back.”

“The man could be brazen at times. He just might.”

I
turned from Riley and looked at everyone around me.

Bill was here, of course. He was in radio talk show heaven. Suddenly, reporters from all over
the country were calling him and wanting the inside scoop. This would definitely boost his show’s ratings and maybe even make people forget about that bad thing he’d said about a state senator.

Adding to Bill’s delight was the fact that
Rose was here, and she giggled at his every word. Bill was eating it up. His chest seemed more puffed up than usual.

Mrs. Mystery
had joined us, all 75 pounds of her. She sat at the wooden picnic table with her laptop, tip-tapping away at her new book. This was her idea of being social—writing with other people around her.

I wished Sierra was here
, and I couldn’t wait for her honeymoon to end so we could talk. She was a great sounding board for me. Besides, I had some questions for her about her spur-of-the-moment wedding.

Then there was
Riley and I. Riley had agreed to man the grill. Waves of heat poured from it, and the 90 plus degree weather didn’t help the miserable state of being outside. It was summer at its finest. Mosquitoes were out early in their quest to be annoying and flies had decided to dive bomb the potato salad and baked beans on the table.

Meanwhile, the rookie cop was
nearby. Apparently, Adams had assigned him to remain stationed either outside of my apartment or at the crime scenes I was cleaning. The order was twofold: both for my safety and for the possibility that Jones might appear, allowing the police to catch him. Thank goodness he wouldn’t have the officer following me everywhere. A girl needed some privacy, especially when she was snooping.

I’d found out
the officer’s name was Bobby Newell, he’d been on the force for a year, and he had a very anxious girlfriend who worried about him doing police work. He had closely cropped hair, a shiny complexion, and a Roman nose. We’d offered him a burger. He’d accepted, but he’d sat in his car with the AC on to eat. Smart man.

As everyone got lost in
his or her conversations (or their computers), I turned to Riley, realizing we might have a moment alone to talk. “So, how did the task force meeting go?” I’d been dying to know.

Riley flipped another burger. “I’m not sure I learned anything new, per se. We’re on a deadline
. We have a ticking time bomb, if you will.”

“What do you mean?”

“Jones always gave his victims six days to live. That was more than enough time to . . .” Riley shook his head, as if realizing he didn’t need to spell it out. “Anyway, Nichole was taken yesterday. We have to find her before he kills her.”

“You sound pretty confident it was Jones.”

“We’re operating on the assumption that it was, that somehow he got to Virginia. The details of how he got here aren’t as important at this point as finding Nichole is.”

“How was she abducted?”

He closed the grill. Sweat sprinkled across his forehead and wet the back of his T-shirt. “In her bedroom. He somehow unlocked the door, snuck into the house, and grabbed her.”

“No one heard anything?”

“Not a sound.”

I lifted up a prayer for the woman and her family. What an awful man to encounter. What an awful situation to live through . . . or die because of.

I shuddered.

I remembered talking to Jones on the porch of that house.

I remembered his voice on the radio.

I
remembered the articles that had detailed what he’d done to his victims.

I wasn’t one to get easily creeped out, but I was feeling a little freaked right now.

“Anyone know how Jones managed to make it across country?” I still couldn’t wrap my mind around it. “I mean, I know you said those details aren’t as important as finding Nichole, but could he have really done that without help?”

“
They’re trying to follow his trail now. Apparently, and I know this sounds cliché, but he somehow jumped on a train. From what authorities can tell, he got off in Colorado and stole a car. He drove all night. Stole someone’s wallet and cell phone in Missouri. He kept driving until he got here.”

“As soon as he
escaped, he came right for you.” Another shudder trickled down my spine. “It sounds like ya got trouble in Norfolk City.”

“A
Music Man
reference? Now?” His eyes sparkled with amusement.

I shrugged. “I know. But musicals always trump reality.”

Riley took the burgers and dogs off the grill, placed them in an aluminum tray, and dinner began. We all settled down at the picnic table, trying our best not to get splinters, and piled our plates high with food.

Rose
seemed to take her role as host very seriously. She told us about how she’d moved here from Florida and that she’d lived in this area as a child. She rambled on about her collection of spoons. Then she talked about building her own snorkel so she could dive into Lake Drummond as a child. Apparently, her family spent time boating there and she’d been bored out of her mind.

I knew about two of her ex-husbands, how she hated anything with celery in it, and
how she once followed the Grateful Dead for a summer. She also told us that she flipped houses for a living. I was actually grateful that she was carrying the conversation, because I didn’t feel like doing it. Thankfully, no one brought up Jones.

But as we were cleaning up, Bill
pulled me aside and slipped me something.

A gun.

“What’s this for?” I asked. I glanced around, making sure no one else was looking, before sliding it into my purse.

“I’ve got several. I thought you could use one.”

I wasn’t sure how I felt about guns. I’d never owned one before. I’d never even shot one. Normally, I might argue and say I didn’t need it.

But, with Milton Jones on the loose, maybe I did need it, I realized.

I nodded “thank you” and continued to clean up.

***

After the cookout, I stopped by The Grounds again to get one of Sharon’s chocolate chip cookies. Riley grabbed a butterscotch scone and retreated to a corner table to do some paperwork, so I leaned against the counter to talk to Sharon.

“Clarice is staying with me tonight,” she muttered. “Apparently, she and her mother had a disagreement.”

“Aren’t you lucky?”

Sharon shook her head. “I know way more about designer clothes than I ever wanted to know.”

“She’s not all that bad, you know. We all put on fronts sometimes, wear our little masks that we think should fit us.”

Sharon paused and cocked an eyebrow. “That’s a change of heart.”

I shrugged. “She’s just trying to figure life out. Most of us did at her age.”

Sharon nodded toward Riley and lowered her voice. “What’s the word on your job?”

This was not a subject I wanted to talk about. I had to tread carefully. “The interview is tomorrow.”

“You’re going to take the position
if they offer it to you. Right?”

I pulled up my shoulders, which felt stiff and tight. “I don’t know yet.”

“I’m telling you—you’ll regret it if you don’t.”

I leaned closer. “Why are you so sure about that?”

She shrugged this time. “Experience.”

Now that she mentioned it, I really didn’t know that much about her past. Mostly, I’d just knew her as the pink haired lady who owned The Grounds, gave me free lattes
, and offered a listening ear when I needed it. “Someone really hurt you, huh?”

She frowned, and I knew I’d guessed correctly.
“I was married once. I gave up everything to be with him. In fact, that’s how I got to this area. I grew up in Seattle, but my ex got some IT job out here that was supposed to secure a financial future for us.”

“What happened?”

“He started working all the time. Then his new job didn’t pan out. He was unemployed for more than a year.”

“What were you doing?”

“I started working as a secretary.”

“A secretary?” I blurted. Of all the things I could see Sharon doing, being a secretary wasn’t one of them. She was too unconventional.

“It’s true. I had been working as a graphic artist. I tried to get my old job back so we could move to Seattle again, but the position had already been filled. My husband and I ended up getting divorced, I worked that lousy office job for five more years. Finally, I decided to open this place.”

“How’d your sister get out here?”

“Her husband left her too, so she moved out here to be closer to me a few years back.”

I looked around The Grounds. “At least you had your happy ending, right? You have this place.
”

She
locked gazes with me. “I remember feeling small. I remember feeling like I was a second-class citizen in our relationship. No one should ever feel like that. That’s why I feel so strongly that you should make the decision that’s best for you, not the one that’s best for your relationship. I still resent my ex to this day for making me come out here.”

I bit back another sigh.
I did not want to end up resenting Riley. Were Sharon’s words true?

I hoped not. I really hoped not.

**
*

I checked all of my locks several times before finally going to bed. I made a mental checklist as I laid in bed.

Locks latched? Check.

Windows secure? Check.

House phone under pillow? Check.

Gun in nightstand? Check.

Officer stationed outside of apartment? Check.

I had no reason not to sleep. Every base was covered.

Right?

Now my body was demanding rest.

Back when I
first started cleaning crime scenes, I would have worked all day and all night if I had to. But I still needed a vacation from my vacation the week before. This whole psycho-killer-on-the-loose thing was wearing me down emotionally. Then there were the messages at the crime scenes and a potential second crazy person out there.

So, against all odds, when my head hit the pillow, I was out.

Until I awoke with a start.

Something had been tugging at me from my tumultuous dreams. Some
kind of feeling that something wasn’t right. Some fear that started in my gut and rose to my brain with the force of a puck flying upward toward the bell after a strongman smashed into the lever.

My
eyes jolted open. Sickly fear invaded my every pore. Sweat covered my forehead.

S
omeone was on top of me. His hand covered my mouth. His other hand restrained my arms, pinning me down. His body straddled me.

Slowly, surely, a face came into focus.

Milton Jones.