One Scream Away (10 page)

“Did not,” said Justin. “You were snoring until Rich was right on top of you.”

“Smart aleck,” Neil said. He went for the back of Richie’s pants, intending a memorable wedgie, until Shawn lost his balance and tightened his arm on Neil’s throat. He flipped Shawn to the floor, and the wrestling match got going again. It drew Maggie to the guest room like a magnet.

“All right, stop it,” she said. “If you’re going to kill each other, do it outside.”

They untangled themselves, managing a few pushes and shoves as they reclaimed their limbs from the pile.

“Are you coming, Uncle Neil?” asked Justin.

“Sure, for a few minutes,” he said, rubbing a hand over his face. “Just let me get some breakfast first.”

“Breakfast,” Shawn said, tagging the others down the hall. “It’s twelve o’clock!”

Neil’s brows went up and he glanced at the window. Sure enough. It was pretty bright outside. He lumbered to his feet.

“What time did you come back last night?” Rick came up behind Maggie, a mug of coffee in his hand. He handed it to Neil.

“I dunno,” Neil lied. “Late.”

“Anything happen with Denison?”

You mean, did I lose my mind and kiss her?
“Not that I saw. She worked most of the night down in the basement.” He sat on the edge of the bed and sipped the coffee, a little embarrassed that he’d bothered staking out Beth Denison’s house. What had he expected? That Gloria’s murderer would knock on her door? That Evan’s BMW might stay all night? That she might put on something sexy and invite Neil to come chase away the nightmares?

Christ.

“This sounds like cop talk,” Maggie said, excusing herself. She slipped through the doorway past Rick, not touching him.

Neil arched a brow. “Did you stay here last night?”

“Nah. I went back to the station.” He shifted, looking down the hall after Maggie. “It’s where she says I want to be, anyway.”

“You two… You gotta get it back together, man. If you two don’t make it—”

“Yeah,” Rick said, his eyes giving away the pain even if his words didn’t. “Look, I gotta get back. I’m in court today. You got something on the agenda?”

“Gloria’s parents. I need to talk to them.”

“Oooh,” Rick said, shaking his head. “That’s one conversation I don’t envy.” He contemplated his shoelaces for a minute. “Listen, Neil. There’s something else you should know. Heather called.”

Neil’s heart might have jumped a beat.

“Not about you; I mean, she does it now and then. Calls Maggie. Not very often.”

“How is she?” Neil asked, almost afraid to hear the answer.

“Married again. Third time, I think. She can’t seem to get pregnant, or at least carry to term. She’s had a couple of miscarriages, I guess. You can ask Maggie.”

Neil walked over to the mirror. Ellen Jenkins had been right: He looked old. For a minute he wondered what the years had done to Heather, if she was still slender and creamy-skinned and freckled, with red hair like Maggie and Evie. Given what she’d been through, life had probably left her looking pretty beat-up, too, but he preferred not to think of her that way. Especially since he was responsible for a lot of it.

“Sometimes you gotta let it go, man,” Rick said.

“And sometimes you don’t,” he said, looking Rick right in the eyes. “The job’s not worth sleeping alone, Rick. I oughta know.”

“Yeah.”

Rick left and Neil sat down, a world of hurt seeming to lay its hands on him. Heather. Rick and Maggie. Beth Denison. The family of Gloria Michaels. The families of Lila Beckenridge and the women who were missing, even the family of Anthony Russell.

His brother, Mitch, and thirteen people who died in an explosion Neil hadn’t even tried to stop.

He pulled out his cell phone, dialed a whole bunch of numbers, and waited. The voice at the other end was that of a stranger. “Yes?”

“This is Neil Sheridan,” he said. “I want to speak to my brother.”

Indianapolis, Indiana
593 miles away

T
he woman who was next to die had entered the shopping mall three hours earlier, alone, hauling a purse the size of a suitcase. Tall and lithe, she had blonde hair clipped high on the back of her head, too much makeup, and bright red Kewpie-doll lips. She’d been dressed for summer, wearing a short skirt and sandals that showed off good legs. Great legs, actually.

Legs to die for.

Chevy leaned back against the driver’s seat of his car, stretching as much as he could manage. Wait, wait, wait. That was the problem with the mall: A woman could stay inside so long the waiting alone was murder.

Still, he had to be careful now, even though the clock was ticking. If he finished at a reasonable hour this evening, by tomorrow he’d be home—back to that hellhole of a little town in eastern Pennsylvania where he and Jenny had grown up. And from there, well, Arlington was only a stone’s throw away. The thought sent a ripple down his spine.

So he waited, even though Jenny was antsy and Chevy was hungry. Miss Legs was worth waiting for. The right woman in the right time and the right place.

Or wrong, depending on your perspective.

A little security truck with the mall logo on the side rolled up in Chevy’s driver’s-side mirror. He frowned. It was the second time in the last half hour the guard had tooled this way.

“You’re in trouble now,” Jenny said, and Chevy pushed her back down into hiding.

“I’ll handle it. Keep quiet.”

He pulled a gold band from the car ashtray and slipped it on his fourth finger, wiggling it down into place. He tugged at the collar of his shirt and pulled down the visor mirror. Practiced the benign smile he’d perfected in college for the role of Jim in
The Glass Menagerie
.

Just as the oversize golf cart passed again, he got out of his car and waved a hand at the passing security guard. “Excuse me,” he called out, and the little truck rolled to a stop.

“Can I help you, sir?” the guard asked, leaning across his seat toward Chevy. The guard puffed up his chest a little, suddenly important.

“Well, I hope so,” Chevy said. “I’ve been waiting for my wife for half an hour—she just got a job this week working at the food court—but her shift’s been over now for twenty minutes.” He scratched his chin, using his left hand. Nothing like a wedding band to lend a man the air of respectability.

The security guard peered around Chevy into the front seat of his car, but Chevy knew all he could see was a gym bag and a dark jacket covering a lump on the floor and an empty cup from Burger King. “Did she say she’d come out the public entrance?”

“Public entrance? Is there another one?”

The security guard snapped his fingers, having solved the problem. “Most of the employees use the entrance around that corner. Your wife is probably waiting for you there.”

Chevy managed to look embarrassed. “Oh, thanks. I think she did say something about—” Then, from the corner of his eye—Miss Legs. There she was, emerging from the mall with her enormous purse and three shopping bags, walking a little more slowly than before.

Adrenaline shot to his toes.

He tossed a smile at the security guard. “Oh, man, she did tell me that. Well, that would explain it, then.”

“Yup. You can just pull around that way,” the guard said, pointing.

Chevy was already in the car, turning over the engine.

“Hey,” the guard said, and Chevy tried to look at him and at the same time keep an eye on Legs. If she got to her car before the jackass security guard got out of sight, the whole day would be lost. Chevy couldn’t stay in Indianapolis. Beth was waiting.

“What?” he asked.

“I see your plates are from Washington. You a Seahawks fan?”

“No.”

“You know, they were close these last couple years, and I keep thinking if the draft goes right and the Seah—”

“I said I wasn’t a fan.” Chevy revved the gas, rage swelling in his chest.
Get the hell away from me
, he chanted inside and had to clamp his jaw together to keep from saying it aloud. The guard had already placed Chevy’s tags as Washington and had a conversation that just might be memorable. “I don’t follow football. But thanks for the tip. I gotta go find my wife now.”

“Yeah, okay. Good luck.”

The guard settled back into his cart and tooled away as Chevy pulled out to intercept Legs. Her car was fifty yards in front of him, cutting right then left around aisles of parked cars. Chevy found two empty parking spaces head-to-head and cut through, saving himself going to the end of the aisle, but she’d gotten ahead of him and was nearing the traffic light at the exit. He gunned the gas, heart thundering, and wheeled too fast around the end of the next aisle. A car backed out and Chevy slammed on his brakes.

He smashed the heel of his hand against the steering wheel. “Fuck!” he said, then hit it about five more times. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

The singing began. Mother’s voice.

“Shut up!”

“Chev?”

Jenny. She must have heard Mother, too. That incessant la-dee-da-ing, senseless lyrics floating from her lips.
Who killed Cock Robin? I, said the Sparrow, with my bow and arrow…

He caught his breath, trying to block out the song and deal with Jenny, but he couldn’t take the time to help her up into the passenger seat. The driver he’d almost hit was trying to maneuver out of the way; Chevy laid on the horn, backing up.

“Hold on,” he said to Jenny, gunning the gas.

Legs made it through the light, out of the parking lot and into traffic. Chevy whipped his car around, hot on her trail, other drivers honking and a pair of pedestrians diving from his path as he swerved in and out to catch her. He pulled up to the same light as it turned from yellow to red and peeled through.

Just in time.

Neil drove to the little town near Harrisburg where Gloria Michaels’s family still resided, about an hour and a half from West Chester University. Gloria had been a senior there. She’d lived on campus, majored in broadcast journalism, and led a typical—if not pristine—college life. Partied a little too much, failed biology the first time she took it. Liked the boys.

Anthony Russell, a thirty-year-old auto mechanic who’d once fixed her car, was one of several boyfriends Neil had found, but none of the others had been serious contenders for her murderer. With all the earmarks of a crime of passion—she’d been stabbed sixteen times—Neil had ruled out every man he could put with Gloria.

Except Russell. Who finally confessed. While his attorney had orgasms.

Neil bit back that reminder and tried to ignore the spot on his thigh where Kenzie’s barrette seemed to burn through his pocket. If only Ellen Jenkins had been right about how Neil had handled the case: If only he
had
just fingered Russell then let the locals finish things up. But he hadn’t. When Neil got word that Russell was on the lam, he’d made a U-turn across the median of a highway and headed back to Chester County. Called Heather and told her he needed another day or two.

A day or two became three weeks. The end of three lifetimes.

He put away the memory and pulled up to a single-story clapboard house on a two-lane road, the nearest neighbors a few acres away. Pat Michaels opened the door while Neil was still in the drive. “Agent Sheridan,” she said.

Neil corrected her. “Not
Agent
anymore, Mrs. Michaels.”

“I know, we heard.” She stepped back and gestured for him to come in, careful not to let her eyes settle on his scar. It hadn’t been there the last time he saw them. Gloria’s father, Tom Michaels, stood deeper in the foyer, arms folded over a barrel chest.

“Thank you for seeing me,” Neil said and held out his hand. Michaels shook it, but reluctantly. “I know I was the last person you expected to hear from.”

“It’s fine,” said Pat Michaels, making a don’t-mind-him gesture toward her husband. She took Neil by the arm and ushered him into the living room. Floral sofa, matching armchair, a rocker, and a painting of a hummingbird hovering over an old upright piano. A set of family photos hung on the opposite wall. Gloria occupied most of it.

“She was a beautiful girl,” Neil said, looking at the spread of photos. He tried to focus on something more cheerful and pointed at a photo of a scrawny, eleven-year-old tomboy. She’d been precocious and sad, and she’d had a blatant case of hero worship for Neil all those years ago.

“How’s Sarah doing?” he asked, the conversation feeling forced. “I hate to think how big she’s gotten by now.”

“See for yourself.”

Neil turned, eyes widening. “Sarah?”

“I grew up, didn’t I?”

Neil chuckled. “I’ll say.” Blonde, curvy, legs from here to China. He glanced at her father, feeling a little like he’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar just by looking. He covered by giving her a brotherly tweak on the nose.

Her smile faded. “Let me guess: You’re not here because I’m old enough to date now.”

“No,” he said, and the light moment dissolved to nothing. “I’m here about Gloria.”

“I can’t believe it,” Pat said a few minutes later. “It isn’t over.”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Michaels.”

“So who do you think killed this woman in Seattle?” Sarah asked.

“I don’t know. But there’s a good chance he’s the same man who killed Gloria.”

“They’re alike?” Mrs. Michaels asked.

“Not entirely. There are some differences. The arrangement of the bodies, the—” He stopped. Gloria’s parents had enough gory images to last them a lifetime. “But the likenesses are compelling. The murderer even ate Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups.”

Tom Michaels paled, running a broad hand down his face.

“I just wanted you to know that I’m going to ask the FBI to look at Gloria’s case again,” Neil said. “I didn’t want you to hear it on the news.”

Michaels stood. The years had worked on him like gravity, weighing down his shoulders, dragging the corners of his lips into a permanent frown. He looked, Neil thought, like a man who’d lost a child.

“Don’t,” he said. “Don’t do this to us.”

“Tom,” his wife said, “we have to—”

“Anthony Russell killed my daughter. I don’t care what happened in Seattle. Anthony Russell killed Gloria.”