Dear Killer (Marley Clark Mysteries) (26 page)

At four p.m., I rebelled. Prior attempts to badger Braden
into taking a break had failed. He belonged to the finish-before-you-relax
school. Our first incompatibility issue. I could not last six or seven hours
without a caffeine and carbohydrate fix. If I skipped lunch, I invited one
humdinger of a headache. My noggin now felt like a bowling ball being drilled
for new finger holes. So I refused to use my magic security pass again until I
was issued crackers and a Diet Coke.

My snit fit delivered us to E.T. Grits. Braden, who insisted
on saving his appetite for an early T-bone, slouched against a pillar at the
front of the convenience store while I speed-walked to the refrigerated cases
at the back. I grabbed a Diet Coke and started downing it as I made my way to
the junk food display. While gazing longingly at a king-size Butterfinger, I
felt eyes boring into my back. I spun and spotted an elderly lady one aisle
over. Her angry brown eyes, magnified by thick glasses, lasered me. I felt like
a bug.
Was my blouse unbuttoned? Did she think I wouldn’t pay for the pop?

A second later, she moved on. I watched her hunched back as
she scurried away. Her gray poodle hairdo swayed from side to side as she crab
walked down the narrow aisle.

By the time I reached the checkout, the disgruntled oldster
was out the door. Sheila, the check-out clerk, tallied my debt. “Do you know
the woman who just walked out?” I asked.

“No. She’s not a regular. But I saw her with Sally last
week. Why—should I know her?”

I waved off Sheila’s puzzled look. “No. The lady just looked
at me as if I’d farted and tried to shift the blame her way.”

Sheila laughed. “Probably needs to eat more prunes. Maybe
she can’t fart.”

Braden sauntered over. “Happy now? Can we get a move on? I’d
like to finish our little exercise in futility before the sun sets.”

***

“What the heck is that thing?” Braden asked.

We were en route to the twenty-second house on our list, a
mushroom-like villa on Blue Crab Point, the last of four homes sprinkled along
a slender wedge of forest that protruded into the marsh. A rickety wooden
bridge linked the marooned point to the island proper. The desolate spot was as
remote as you could get on Dear.

The end villa had not aged well. Separated thermopanes made
the glass walls look milky, like the sides of dirty fish tanks. Our long-term
rental was secluded and eerie.

“If Hugh wanted a setting to discourage guests, we’re here,”
I said as we parked. Untrimmed oleanders crowded my Mustang and shrouded the
cave-like entryway. Braden rang the bell. Once. Twice. No answer. Big surprise.
We hadn’t seen a car or lights. No sign of occupancy.

He unlocked the warped front door. It funneled visitors
directly to a circular staircase that led to the living quarters above. I
shivered. The tubular entrance was damp, clammy. “Braden, I’m getting a bad
feeling. Maybe we should call for backup?”

He laughed. “For mold? Go back to the car if you want. I’ll
take a quick look. We only have two more houses to check. I want to finish up.”

I didn’t turn back. The stairway proved too narrow for a
side-by-side ascent, so Braden took the lead. For some reason, he decided to
show off his stair-climbing speed. In contrast, my recently battered legs stuck
in low gear. He disappeared from view as I chugged up the stairwell’s last
spiral kinks. A minute later, I heard his disembodied voice. “All clear. No
criminals except the decorator. The rug’s an orange shag.”

Relieved, I stopped a minute to catch my breath. Then I
heard Braden’s voice again—“Oh, sorry ma’am”—followed by a loud thud.

“Braden,” I yelled. “You okay?”

Silence. I drew my gun and crept up the last two stairs, my
back tight against the slender banister. “Braden?” I yelled.

My call echoed, unanswered, in the hollow stairwell. My
heart raced. What’s happening? Had some lady beaned Braden with a frying pan,
thinking she’d surprised a burglar?

Indecision immobilized me. Should I call for help? Oh no,
Braden had the radio, not me. You have a gun, I told myself. So did Braden, my
alter-ego answered. Yeah, but he wasn’t expecting an ambush.

The door to the living room canted slightly ajar. I kicked
it and rushed inside, my gun arm leading the charge. At first, I couldn’t make
sense of what I saw. Braden was on the floor, propped in a sitting position. A
small rivulet of blood meandered down his forehead. His eyes were closed. A
woman crouched behind Braden, shielded by his body. All I could see were a few
wisps of frizzy gray hair and the gun she held tight to his temple.

“Hello, Marley,” a voice boomed. “You don’t have a shot.
Might as well drop the gun. Otherwise I’ll kill lover boy.”

Kain’s amused voice.

Oh, God. He’d slipped back on the island in drag. Why?
He’d been home safe.

“Everyone’s so nice to old ladies,” Kain said. “We’re so
disarming
.”

Sweet Jesus, he was actually enjoying himself. I took a deep
breath and considered my options. Kain’s assessment was correct. I had only one
clear target—Braden.

We were dead. I couldn’t shoot Kain without hitting
Braden. And Kain could take me out any time he wanted. Why hadn’t he?

“Marley, did you hear? Listen up. Put your gun on the floor
and kick it over. I’m serious. You’ve got one minute or I’ll kill him.”

Though terrified, I was beyond anger and felt mulishly
stubborn. If I had to die, so be it. I was going to take this scumbag with me.

“Not a chance, Kain.” I was pleased to discover my voice
didn’t quaver. “If you shoot Braden, I can shoot you. No way am I giving up my
gun.”

I hoped Kain would pop his head up to argue and give me a
clear shot. He didn’t. I felt as if I was conversing with the Mad Hatter or a
demented puppeteer hiding behind a live prop.

After a moment of silence, Kain answered in a reasoned
manner—though the macho voice floated up from a pile of gray curls. “Normally
your assessment would be quite accurate, Marley. You lose the gun; I kill you.
But there are extenuating circumstances. I need your help. It’s in my best
interest to keep you and your detective alive. I want your cooperation.”

“Why?” I infused my voice with sarcasm and tried to
anticipate his answer. Did he want help getting off the island? Did he need
transportation? A hostage? Was this another perverted trick? A new game?

Kain sighed. “I see you’re skeptical. I’m not any happier
about the circumstances than you are. Hugh left me in a quandary. After he
learned the twins tailed him from Sunrise Island, he phoned to say he was
afraid they might have followed him to this rental, too. He promised to find a
safe place to relocate some of my, shall we say…property previously stored
here.

“Unfortunately, the stupid ass got himself shot before we
could speak again. I hoped he hadn’t had time to move the items. Instead, I
found a note. Hugh knew my fondness for word games, so either he was trying to
impress me or confuse the police. Regrettably, his note makes no sense. I
assume I’m missing a clue—probably related to Dear’s landmarks or inhabitants.
That’s where you come in, my dear colonel. I need an interpreter, a linguistic
sherpa.”

I actually laughed. Talk about your unholy alliances. “Oh,
Kain. Even if I believed you, what’s the point? As soon as you claim your
property
,
Braden and I are dead. You’ll shoot us both.”

“Gentleman’s honor, I won’t. No matter what you think, my
offer buys you time. I’m sure that overactive brain of yours is already
figuring ways to outsmart me. Maybe you can. It’s your only chance.”

Damned if he wasn’t right. I
was
frantically plotting
ways to thwart the sucker. But, at the moment, I wasn’t even certain there
was
a note. Maybe the note was a creative lie.

“Where’s the note? I want to see it.”

“Look at the door.”

I glanced sideways at a note Scotch-taped to the back of the
door. The printing was large and childlike: THE KING’S HOME. COLD CASH.

I lowered my gun. Kain was right. He needed help, and I
needed to buy time.

I yanked frantically against the handcuffs as I screamed at
Kain. “You lying bastard. You want my help? Forget it. You can go straight to
hell.”

Across the room, Kain chuckled. “My, my, such language. Calm
down. Is this any way to talk to your new partner? I didn’t tell a single lie.
I said you could buy time. I didn’t say how much. And I promised I wouldn’t
shoot your cop. I haven’t, and I won’t. This little incendiary device is set to
go off at midnight. Almost seven hours away. If you’re efficient, and we find
Hugh’s hiding place before then, you can untie him before this glass silo goes
boom.”

Kain gave an exaggerated shrug. He was still in drag and
looked harmless, almost silly in his Q-tip wig and pink velour leisure suit.
Now that I knew it was Kain, I couldn’t believe I hadn’t recognized him in E.T.
Grits. I had to hand it to the guy, he knew his costumes. In addition to the
wig, he’d donned brown contacts and thick glasses. He was also decked out with
a prosthetic bra and leg padding that made his thighs look like an ad for
anti-cellulite cream. The get-up helped him perfect a waddling gait. A slouch
disguised his true height.

“Marley, are you listening? I really don’t care whether he
lives or dies. My only concern is getting my property back and escaping this
sandpit without a police escort. The bomb, well, it’s an added inducement for
you not to drag your feet. For me, it’s insurance. If I don’t find anything, I
want to make sure no one else does either. The fire will offer a little
distraction for the cops and security while I make my getaway.”

Perhaps twenty minutes had elapsed since I’d surrendered my
gun. Once that power issue was resolved, Kain used my own handcuffs to secure
my arms around a pillar that served as a ceiling support. No way could I pull
free. I’d watched helplessly as he trussed Braden. Sturdy rope. Expert knots.
When—if—Braden regained consciousness, he would never be able to untie himself.

Up to the moment Kain returned from the kitchen with his
homemade bomb, I figured faked cooperation could at least save Braden. My plan
revolved around luring Kain a safe distance away from Braden before staging a
last-ditch insurrection.

The bomb, sitting five feet from the detective’s body,
changed everything. The device appeared homemade and not terribly
sophisticated, but I assumed it was serviceable. Kain showed me the timer. Made
sure I saw the midnight setting.

Heaven help me. What had I done? I should never have
given up my gun.

Kain glanced my way. “It’s dark now, almost time to start
our treasure hunt. I hope you’ve been thinking real hard about ‘the King’s
home.’ Any bright ideas? If your efforts appear insincere, I’ll kill you. No
gun. I’m a man of my word. But you’ll die wishing I
had
used a gun. And
once you’re dead, you must realize your lover’s chances to survive are gone,
too.

“You have ten minutes,” he added. “I need to change clothes.
When I come back, you’d best have a brainstorm.”

Repeating Hugh’s word puzzle over and over in my mind hadn’t
helped. I was stumped. For decades, a King family had owned a home on Dear. In
fact, it was only a few doors from the Cuthbert estate. However, using the King
name seemed way too obvious—even for Hugh. Could I gain anything by suggesting
the place? Maybe. The house would be empty. The family only visited in summer
and never rented it. Kain would be distracted while he searched.

My captor’s reappearance rattled me. Somehow he’d seemed
less menacing ensconced in pink velour. He’d ditched his drag disguise in favor
of camouflage fatigues. With his spine uncurled, his bearing became military,
menacing. The icy blue eyes were back, cruel as ever. He radiated evil.

“Time’s up,” he said. “Do you have an idea or do we end it
here?”

I shared my thoughts about the King family abode.

“How dumb do you think I am? I looked in the Dear Island
directory. There’s no listing for a King.”

“True,” I replied, licking my lips. “That’s why you need me,
Bozo.”

My one psych class in college hadn’t offered advice on how
to talk to megalomaniacs. However, knowing Kain got off on people’s fear, I
figured a little attitude might put him off balance—or earn me a quick ticket
to eternity. His face registered shock at my hubris. Then he smiled. “My, my.
You do plan to entertain me, don’t you? Let’s hear it.”

“My last name is Clark, but I don’t live in the ‘Clark’
house. I live in the ‘Sherman’ house—my mother-in-law’s name. It’ll be another
decade before it’s the Clark house. Island etiquette. Jack King’s daughter
inherited the family vacation house. Her married name is Winchester.”

He nodded. “Okay, I get it. Let’s go. Hugh’s dumb. It
wouldn’t surprise me if that’s the best he could do. You’d better rev up your
gray matter though. You’re the one on the clock if this doesn’t pan out.”

Kain proved exceedingly careful with his gun when he freed
me from my pillar embrace and recuffed my hands behind my back. He nudged me
with the pistol as I stole one last look at Braden. Except for the ropes, he
looked peaceful. Like he was sleeping. Kain hadn’t even bothered to gag him. No
need. No one could hear him if he screamed.

I didn’t fare as well. When we walked outside, I figured
we’d head to a car—mine or Kain’s. Then he told me to turn right, away from the
driveway and my Mustang. The absence of a car in the drive had been one reason
for the ambush’s success. Overgrown bushes concealed the golf cart.

“Your car’s too recognizable. We’ll take the golf cart. I
liberated it from the Cuthbert house after I tied up at their dock. Didn’t
figure anyone would miss it with Grace, Hugh and the twins gone.”

Kain ordered me to describe our destination then instructed
me to sit—an awkward position with my hands locked behind me. My discomfort had
only begun.

“I’m not taking any chances.” Kain tightened a noose around
my neck and tied it to a roll bar at the back of the cart. “Don’t want you to
get any ideas about jumping free or screaming for help.” That’s when he stuffed
a rag in my mouth.

How the hell does he plan to drive around the island with
me gagged and hog-tied?
He’s crazy to risk someone’s headlights.

He wasn’t crazy. He pulled a tarp over me and tucked it
securely in place. Now if anyone saw the cart moseying down Dear’s dark, quiet
streets, the tarp would blend into the shadows. A passerby might notice a shape
on the seat next to Kain, but it was unlikely to arouse suspicion.

“Comfy? Ms. Bozo?”

I was getting my comeuppance.

He threw the golf cart into reverse and the noose sawed into
my neck as I bucked on the seat. Under the tarp, I was virtually blind. Using
my arms to brace myself proved impossible. It would be a rough ride. The
graveled roads in this interior section sprouted potholes every few yards.

Each time we hit a rut, my body shot forward, then recoiled.
With every bump, the coarse noose sliced a little deeper into my flesh.
Suddenly the ride smoothed. The cart swung right. Kain had turned onto Dear’s
main boulevard.

We were headed south, toward the King house. We bounced over
something sizeable and the whiplash tightened my choke chain. I wheezed in a
breath.

I guessed we’d left the road and jumped the grass median
separating the street from Dear’s leisure trail. After a few smaller jolts, the
cart leveled and shot forward. We were tooling down the walking path, avoiding
the main road’s traffic and headlights. Though motorized vehicles aren’t
allowed on paths, we’d be invisible at night, especially if he kept his
headlamps switched off.

We were minutes from the King’s, and what I felt certain was
a dead-end. Minutes for me to manufacture a new lead.

***

Kain flung off the tarp. I gulped in fresh air, relieved to
be free of my sweltering hothouse. I shivered as a cold ocean wind buffeted my
sweat-soaked limbs. I glanced about. He’d driven the cart behind the King house
where it couldn’t be spotted from the street.

He left me tied in the cart while he picked a backdoor lock.
I had no illusions about Kain’s forced entry setting off an alarm. Ninety
percent of the islanders believed alarm systems were a waste in a gated
community complete with roaming security guards. My only hope rested with a
security patrol. When properties were placed “on watch”—listed as vacant—guards
periodically strolled around the house and rattled its doors and windows. Of course,
the odds of security showing up at this precise moment were slim to none.

“You’re coming inside.” He led me like a dog by my hemp
leash. Inside, he tied the rope end of my noose to a refrigerator that anchored
one end of a galley kitchen. As soon as he ran up the stairs to search the top
floor, I made a stab at getting a weapon. The rope gave me a three-foot radius
to open and rifle kitchen drawers. Since my hands were locked behind me, I
couldn’t look and grab at the same time. Besides it was too dark to see. Kain
used a penlight to search, eliminating the need to turn on any house lights.

Damn, damn, double damn.
My fingers scrabbled around
in the first drawer I opened. Fabric, quilted. It was stuffed with hot pads.
Great weapons.

I pushed the drawer closed with my butt and groped for the
next handle. I slid a new drawer open.
Aha, silverware. Much more promising.
Unfortunately the knives I fingered would have made safe toddler toys. They
were duller than Bea.

I heard Kain padding down the carpeted stairs and palmed a
fork. Slightly more lethal than a butter knife, it was the best I could do. I
slid it under my waistband. Knowing my luck I’d fork myself in a kidney before
I could stick it to Kain.

I scooted the drawer closed with my bottom just before my
nemesis rounded the corner and walked over to threaten me with hot garlic-laced
breath. “There’s nothing here. So do I get to kill you now, or can you postpone
your death a little longer?”

He looked at his watch. “Six hours left for Deputy Do-Right.
Tick, tick, tick. What’s your answer? Any more bright ideas?”

I think it surprised him that I had one. “‘The King’s
h-house,’” I stammered. “It’s usually a palace, right? Well, one street over is
a house with white marble walls and a turret. Islanders think it’s pretentious.
They call it the palace.”

I was jabbering too fast and forced myself to slow. Mom
always said she could tell my fibs—I sounded like a record played at the wrong
speed. And I
was
fibbing.
Yes
, there was a white marble house
with a turret.
No
, I’d never heard it called a palace.

Luckily, Kain lacked my mother’s sensibilities and bought
into my whopper. A scooch more time purchased.
Hang in there, Braden. I’m
trying.
I prayed the “palace” was unoccupied. This time of year, it tended
to be a weekend getaway. I had no desire to drag innocents into danger.

Kain allowed me to climb into the golf cart on my own. I did
so with careful posture to avoid a poke in the back from my pilfered flatware.
He reinserted my gag and threw the tarp over my head. Back in the dark. But not
for long. The “palace” sat right around the corner.

***

My heart sank when Kain peeled back the tarp. The palace was
flamboyantly occupied. Though blinds were drawn, light oozed from every window.

“Guess someone’s home, so we play it differently. You’re the
one in uniform so you’ll do the talking. Tell ’em someone saw a burglar
sneaking around their house. Say we need to check their place to make sure it’s
safe. I’ll stay glued to you.

“Remember, I’ve got the gun. Do anything to raise suspicion
and I kill you
and
them. Understand?”

This time, he angled the golf cart behind a dune near a
beach crossover. He yanked the gag from my mouth so I could answer. My mouth
was so dry my “yes” sounded like a squeak toy. He was super-cautious as he
removed my noose and handcuffs.

“You know what I’m looking for, right? A blue cooler with a
white lid.”

“I figured that. But I don’t understand. I’ve seen how you
live. Crime pays, and you’re good at it. So what’s fifty thousand cash to you?
A week’s profit?”

“Not even that.” Kain snorted at the insult. “I could care
less about the money.”

Oh. It was beginning to make sense. That cooler held
something more.

“What are you after?” I asked.

“Move it.” Kain shoved to emphasize his point. I staggered
and the pilfered fork slid down my pant leg. At least the loss was quiet. My
captor never noticed the utensil poking from the sandy soil. The mansion had
his full attention.

Built in the last year, the dwelling’s living quarters
floated on piers positioned the required fourteen feet above sea level. That
meant we had to mount an acre of steps to reach the front door. With every
tread, I tried to think of a feint, some way to take Kain down without
endangering strangers. But my Tae Bo moves were more defense than offense. Even
if I were Jackie Chan, I’d give the odds to the guy with his finger on a
trigger. Kain made sure I knew his gun was in his jacket pocket, cocked, and
ready to fire.

I pushed the bell. Kain crowded me. The tip of his gun poked
my ribs.

A reed-thin girl flung open the door. Blaring music
assaulted our ears. Flickering images from the living room TV replayed in
miniature on the front door’s glass inset. The girl, fourteen at most, looked
anorexic and bored. I started my spiel. She cut me off.

“Mom, someone to see you,” she shouted and shuffled back to
her music video.

For a moment, we stood orphaned in the hall. Then a
middle-aged woman rushed to meet us, apologizing for her uncouth teen. While I
recited my load-of-crap story, the lady ignored me, preferring to offer Kain a
come-hither grin. She liked what she saw and repeated her name, Sherry. Three
times she mentioned she was alone with her daughter, a respite from a nasty
divorce.