Death Angel (26 page)

She stopped at the door of the master
bedroom, unable to cross the threshold. Her mind was flooded by thoughts of
Richard. She was not strong enough to sleep alone in their room. Not tonight.
Perhaps never.

Turning her back, she walked down the
hall, past the closed door of Jenny’s room and snapped on the overhead light in
the guest room. The room had little personality and for that Kate was
grateful.
 

The air was stale from disuse. She
opened the window, letting in some fresh air. After the hermetically sealed
atmosphere of Chessy’s apartment, even the humidity smelled good.

A stranger in her own house, she placed
her suitcase on the luggage rack and unpacked her nightgown and toiletries. She
used the guest bath, the nightly rituals helping to restore her sense of
security. At the last, she took a sleeping pill.
 

Once under the covers, she shifted
around in the unfamiliar bed. She recited song lyrics to keep from thinking and
waited for the muzzy feeling to steal over her as the pill took effect.
 

The shrill ringing woke her.

Kate struggled upright, clawing away the
sheets as she tried to orient herself. In the humid night air, she was sticky
with sweat. Bright moonlight streamed across the bed, falling on the bedside
table.
 

The telephone rang again.

She didn’t know what time it was, but
she knew it was late. She was paralyzed by fear, and it took her a moment
before she could reach out a hand. Finally, she grabbed the receiver and raised
it to her ear.

“Hello?”

“Don’t worry, Kate, I’m safe.”

Nineteen

 
K
ate pressed the receiver to
her ear.
She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to bring the voice into
sharper focus. “Who is this?”
 

Silence was the answer and she panicked.
“Please don’t hang up. Just tell me who this is?”

“I’m safe.”

The words were whispered, and then she
heard the click as the call was terminated.

“Don’t do this to me. Damn you! Damn
you! Damn you!”
 

In frustration she banged her fists on
the bed, punching the soft surface over and over. The force of the blows
exhausted her. She sat cross-legged in the center of the bed, bent forward so
that her head touched the rumpled sheets.
 

She lay still, listening to the rhythms
of her body. Her muscles were free of tension and her teeth weren’t clenched.
For the first time in three weeks, she felt relaxed. It was incredible. She had
fought so hard to be strong, afraid she would fly apart if she let down her
guard, yet instead of weakening her, the outburst had somehow made her
stronger. It had broken through the paralysis that possessed her mind.
 

It appeared that she had two choices.
She could sink back into the numbed state of mere existence until she withered
away, or she could use her anger to motivate her survival.

“Damn! Damn!”
 

The bedclothes muffled the words, part
sigh, part sob. She raised her head and straightened her back, each movement an
effort. Sitting upright in the middle of the bed, she made her choice.

The killer was still free. She had to
survive. She had to live long enough to witness his destruction.
 

Having made her decision, she considered
the phone call.

The voice had been so low it was
impossible to guess the identity of the caller. She had been so positive that
Richard was dead. Could she be wrong? If he was alive, he had faked his death
in order to put an end to the investigation.

“Richard did not kill Jenny. Richard did
not kill Walter Hepburn. So Richard had no reason to run away. Therefore the
call was not from Richard.” She recited the words like a logic theorem. Perhaps
she was blinded by loyalty, but if she conceded that Richard had faked his own
death, she would have to reevaluate his role in Jenny’s death. She couldn’t do
that. Richard’s innocence was the one fact she had to believe in. Without it,
she would not have the will to live.

Could the call have come from the person
who’d made the calls after Jenny’s death? The person she thought of as the
Witness?

So few words had been spoken that she
couldn’t be sure, but she didn’t think so. The other phone calls had terminated
with the jogger’s death, and she had always wondered if Walter Hepburn had been
the caller. When she’d finally mentioned it to Leidecker, he confirmed the
fact. According to Carl, Hepburn had been killed when he attempted to blackmail
Jenny’s killer. Naturally, his assumption was that the jogger had been trying
to blackmail Richard.

This call wasn’t like the Witness calls.
This call had a specific purpose. It was meant to confuse her, torture her with
the suggestion that Richard was alive.
 

Her heart gave a jolt as she wondered if
it could be something else entirely. What if it was the murderer?
 

She felt very alone in the empty house.
She swung her feet over the side of the bed. The moonlight was bright enough
for her to navigate the stairs. She didn’t want to turn on lights. She felt
safer in the dark.

In the kitchen, she heated water in the
microwave, then, still in the dark, she curled up on the couch in the family
room with her mug of tea. She took several small sips, waiting as warmth flowed
to the outer edges of her body. She began to feel less frightened.
 

Now that she was able to think more
clearly, she realized there was absolutely no reason to believe Jenny’s killer
made the call. It was more likely to be a card-carrying member of the lunatic
fringe.

Oh,
God, I can’t stand this. Please help me. I’ve prayed and found no answers.

What was she going to do? Where did she
start in planning the future?

It had been comforting to be fussed over
by Mike and Chessy, to hide away from friends and neighbors and to permit
others to concern themselves with her finances and status, but now it was time
to take control. As always, she wished she had family to rely on.

All her life she had been controlled by
the men in her life. First her father and then Richard. And as much as she
appreciated their support, if she permitted it, Mike and Chris would take over
her life.
 

Even before Jenny’s death, she had felt
a sense of rebellion against Richard’s control. When she was first married, it
never occurred to her to question his authority. She felt loved and cared for.
Once Jenny was born, she realized that she wanted her daughter to be in charge
of her own destiny in a way that she had never been. Teaching Jenny to think
for herself had created a restlessness in Kate, and an awakening awareness that
her own life was not as rich as she had once believed.
 

Now circumstances had forced her to take
charge of her own life. The anger she had felt earlier faded at the prospect
that for the first time in her life she would not have someone to tell her what
to do. Although the thought was intimidating, she felt ready for the change.
She had lost everything that mattered, so now it was just a question of
building a new life for herself.
 

First she would need a job.

She couldn’t bear the thought of going
back to the library. People would be unfailingly kind, anxious to help her work
through the grieving process. And there would be speculative glances and
interrupted conversations when she was around.
 

If she wanted anonymity, she could sign
up with a secretarial agency. No one ever noticed temps. She had excellent
office skills. And if she used her maiden name and kept to herself, people
would see her only as a nameless, faceless worker.

Resolving to sign up in the morning,
Kate felt as if she had crossed a major hurdle. It wouldn’t be much of a life,
but it would give her time to recover some of her strength. She would need to
be strong to keep Leidecker from closing the case before the man responsible
for Jenny’s death was found.
 

Despite his antipathy toward Richard,
Carl was essentially a fair man. Much as she hated his doggedness, it was this
very quality that convinced her that he would search for the truth and find the
murderer. Then Richard’s name would be cleared, and he and Jenny could rest in
peace. She wanted, if not revenge, at least justice.

He cupped the bracelet in his left hand,
poking the golden links with the index finger of his right hand until he
uncovered the charm. She lay in the valley of his hand, arms spread wide, her
robe flared at the bottom as if she’d just twirled for his admiration. The
wings caught the light, flickering in simulated motion.

He rubbed the angel.

The heat transferred to his finger and
through his wrist, moving up his arm to the junction in his armpit. He pictured
it there, building up energy before it radiated out through the rest of his
body.
 

He only needed to touch himself with his
finger to feel the power. The intensity of excitement was agony. He could feel
himself expand and squeezed the bracelet to hold on to the pleasure. His skin
stretched to the limit and when the pain became unbearable he climaxed. The
release was so extreme it left him shaking.

That’s how it should have been, he
thought as he put away the bracelet.

He had tried the experiment again. It
had not been a success. The subject had been chosen on the basis of expediency.
He had not liked the choice, but felt if he was to ensure his safety it was
necessary. Passion was not involved. If anything, sadness was the predominant
emotion.
 

The COP had forced him to act. Always
snooping. Always asking questions. Couldn’t the bastard let it rest?
 

In some respect he enjoyed the challenge
of the game. He had not expected the COP to move with such speed, but he could
stay one step ahead of him. To do that it was paramount he remain in
control.
 

It was the COP’s fault the experiment
had been such a failure.

The need to hurry was a contributing
factor. He had planned with meticulous attention to detail, and the timing had
been crucial. No chance to savor. No opportunity to let the knowledge of pain
infiltrate the brain and shine with awareness in the eyes. Yes, he had seen the
eyes but they never showed any emotion other than surprise. He felt no more
than satisfaction for a job well done.

And the talisman he’d taken from the
body had been useless.

He didn’t know if the bracelet could
withstand the constant drain and still maintain its power. Now that he was safe
from discovery, he would have the time to analyze why the winged angel was so
important. Each time he held it in his hand, he was afraid he would find the
charm dark and lifeless.

If the talisman lost potency, he knew
where he could find another one. Perhaps the second angel charm would be even
more powerful than the bracelet.

Kate raised her face, closing her eyes
tightly against the sharp sting of the shower spray. She turned to let the
water strike her back, rolled her head on her neck, pulling her shoulders
forward to ease her morning stiffness.
 

After she toweled herself, she used a
corner of the thick terry cloth to wipe a circle on the fogged surface of the
mirror. She stared at her unsmiling face. There were no tears, only a
bone-weary sadness. She had not cried in the shower. For the third day in a row
she had not cried.

Since Richard’s disappearance she’d
tried to bring order back to her life. She ate, slept, cleaned the house, and
did the laundry according to a strict regimen. Her father, and then Richard,
had always stressed discipline. Scheduling her activities kept her in balance.
It enabled her to keep her emotions in check. Where there had once been
sadness, now there was only anger.
 

Staring into the mirror, she remembered
Mike’s words after Jenny died. “Once you get angry, you’ll begin to heal.”

It was strange that she could think
about Jenny’s death but still referred only to Richard’s disappearance. She
knew he was dead, but the lack of physical evidence kept her from any real
acceptance of the fact.

Richard had been missing for six weeks.
In all that time, his body had not turned up. Leidecker told her that it was
not uncommon. She tried never to think about Richard being trapped forever
beneath the surface of the lake, although her dreams were peopled with horrific
watery images.
 

Wrapping the towel around her body, she
brushed her hair into a wet ponytail, returned to the bedroom, and dressed in a
navy linen wrap skirt and a white blouse.
 

Downstairs the house showed the evidence
of her disinterest. The rooms were neat but unlived in. She spent her time in
the kitchen, family room, and the backyard. The rose garden had become a place
of solace. She resented the rainy days when she couldn’t sit outside after
work, surrounded by the sights and smells of the flowers. She opened the doors
to the deck for a quick check outside.