The Prettiest One: A Thriller (48 page)

While medical professionals had been evaluating Caitlin’s mind, law enforcement and legal authorities had been examining the facts of her case. There was no doubt that Caitlin Sommers had been a victim. But there was also no doubt that she had killed not just one man, but two. The second could be justified easily under the circumstances. She had been abducted and been forced to stab a man to protect her husband. The accounts of two of the witnesses supported that. And even though both witnesses had reason to lie to protect her, seeing as they were her husband and boyfriend, respectively, the facts supported their statements.

The death of the first man Caitlin had killed, though—Michael Maggert, aka Michael Bookerman—had proven to be more troublesome for the authorities. They had it all on video, which Sommers herself had urged her boyfriend and husband to give to the police—along with half a dozen robotic prosthetic hands. Despite the fact that her victim had been a rapist who had stalked her and tried to abduct her, there was considerable doubt as to whether she had committed premeditated murder. And Sommers, unable to recall the incident, couldn’t give a statement shedding light on her frame of mind or her intentions. Though the naked woman in the video looked glassy-eyed and all but unaware of the events unfolding around her, she gave a statement to the police in which she claimed to have believed at the time that Maggert was about to attack Caitlin. Of the officials who viewed the video, some believed Caitlin shot Michael Maggert in cold blood. Others seeing the same footage swore that Maggert had started to make a move toward Caitlin and she’d had to pull the trigger to protect herself and the naked woman handcuffed to the sofa bed. Still others had no idea whether Caitlin had been forced to pull the trigger but didn’t blame her one iota either way for doing so.

For what it was worth, Detective Hunnsaker, who had worked the case and made the arrest, wasn’t anxious to see Caitlin prosecuted after learning all the facts. What Hunnsaker didn’t know, though, what no one but Caitlin knew—though she wondered if Bix suspected—was that Hunnsaker was the main reason Caitlin wasn’t going to spend most of the rest of her life in prison . . . because Caitlin had indeed decided to kill Darryl Bookerman. She was going to shoot him where he was, lying on the floor. It might have been morally wrong, but Caitlin wasn’t even positive about that. He wasn’t human. But with the clarity of hindsight, she knew that under the circumstances, if she had shot an unarmed man to death with three cops as witnesses, a jury would have had a difficult time not convicting her.

But because Hunnsaker had arrived in time to stop her from killing him, Caitlin wasn’t going to stand trial at all. In the end, the prosecutor who drew the case decided not to file charges against her. The suspect was sympathetic, the victim was far from it, and his and his entire family’s history and recent criminal activity involving her would have made it a tough case for the prosecution. So when Caitlin was released from the hospital, she was allowed to go wherever she wanted.

Darryl Bookerman wasn’t so lucky. He may have had only two months left to live now, but because he had violated the terms of his release agreement by conspiring to kidnap Caitlin Sommers, he was going to spend every last second of that time in prison. Caitlin wondered what was the worst thing for Bookerman—his cancer, being back behind bars, his sons being dead, or Caitlin escaping from him again. She knew it didn’t matter, though. They would all make what little remained of his life a living hell, and she couldn’t make herself give a damn. And if millions of people in the world were right, he’d be in an even far greater hell before long.

With a small bag of her clothes and toiletries hanging over her shoulder, Caitlin walked to the parking lot to where her husband was leaning against the door of his car, which he had parked near the main entrance in a no-parking zone. Once Josh had been allowed to see her, he had visited almost every day.

As she approached, he smiled, though sadly. She thought her smile probably mirrored his.

“I’ve been looking forward to seeing you walk out of there,” Josh said.

“It feels good.”

“You’re a free woman. In more ways than one.”

She nodded, thinking about the divorce that would be final in a few months.

Josh looked at his shoes for a moment, then raised his eyes. “And that’s it, then? Nothing I can say?”

“No, Josh.”

“Seven years together, six years married, one mistake, and it’s over?”

“It was a big mistake,” Caitlin said, and Josh seemed unable to argue with that. He had tears in his eyes. Caitlin felt tears threatening in her own. It hadn’t been an easy decision for her. The doctors weren’t the only ones examining her mind over the last forty days; she’d been doing the same thing, trying to determine how she felt about everything. She’d searched every inch of her soul, and with respect to Josh, she kept coming back to a few thoughts. First, she doubted she could ever truly trust him again. She could forgive him, maybe, but she could never trust him. More importantly, if he could cheat on her, even one time, he just wasn’t the person Caitlin had thought he was. And equally important, Caitlin had learned that she wasn’t the person she’d thought
she
was, either. She had changed. And the new Caitlin, whoever she was, would never fit with Josh the way the old one did.

“Your neck’s looking pretty good,” he said.

“Thanks,” she replied, touching the two-and-a-half-inch scar where George Maggert/Bookerman had sliced her. The stitches were out, though the scar was still a bit bumpy. But she was alive.

After a moment of silence, Josh said, “I’m so sorry.”

“I know.”

He looked back down at his shoes for a second, then raised his eyes again. “Thanks for saving my life.”

She smiled wistfully. “Thanks for saving mine.”

“Bye, Caitlin.”

He turned and opened his car door. He slipped inside, started the engine, and drove away. Caitlin watched him go. She thought she saw his eyes in the rearview mirror, looking at her all the way until his car was out of sight.

She walked toward a black Ford Explorer parked in the lot’s first row. Bix was behind the wheel. His window was down and his elbow rested casually on the door frame.

“Hey, there,” he said. “Looking for a ride?”

While Caitlin had been locked up and sorting things out in her mind, she had reflected on numerous topics besides her relationship with Josh. She thought about all that had happened. And about Bix. And about who she used to be and how different she was now. She recalled how easily she had slipped into the persona of Katie Southard. How simple it had been for her to show a wilder side when she’d had to, almost as if that person had been inside her all along, hoping to step out of the shadows and into the light. She came to realize that not only was that person a part of who she was, but it might have been just as much the “real her” as the woman she had always thought she was.

All of her soul-searching made Caitlin certain of two things. First, it was time to figure out just who she was going to be. Not who she had been a year ago, or a month ago, but who she would be moving forward. She was starting a new life. And it wasn’t going to be in Smithfield. Or New Hampshire. No, wherever she was heading, it would be someplace she’d never been. And the second thing she knew was that as she embarked on the journey to discover just who and where she should be, she wanted Bix along for the ride. He may have some questionable acquaintances and a somewhat murky past, but she knew he was a good man at heart. He loved her. She knew that for certain, too. And she felt pretty good about her chances of one day loving him back.

“So what do you say?” Bix asked with a killer smile. “Need a lift?”

“Sure,” Caitlin said.

“Where to?”

Rather than walk around to the Explorer’s passenger side, Caitlin opened the driver’s door.

“I don’t know,” she said, “but move over. I’m driving.”

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I can’t do this alone, and I wouldn’t want to try. My first thank-you, as always, goes to my wife, Colleen, for just about everything. Thanks also to my sons for inspiring me and giving me time to write when I need it. I’m also grateful for the advice of criminal lawyers Susan Hankins and Brian Cullen. John Hankins earned my thanks by reading an early draft of the book and sharing his thoughts on it. I owe gratitude to my agent, Michael Bourret of Dystel & Goderich Literary Management, for everything he does for me. Thanks to sharp-eyed editor David Downing, who makes the editorial process enjoyable. I am deeply thankful to Alison Dasho for bringing me to Thomas & Mercer and for her steadfast support, and to Jacque BenZekry, Tiffany Pokorny, Gracie Doyle, and the rest of the T&M team for all the hard work they do for me and for my books. My final thanks goes to my family, my friends far and wide, and my wonderful readers, whose kind and unswerving support allows me to continue to do what I love to do. Thank you all. One final note: I invented Smithfield, Massachusetts, so I think I got the facts about it right, but if there are any other errors in this book, the blame is mine.

An excerpt from
Shady Cross
by James Hankins, available now.

In one hand, small-time crook Stokes holds a backpack stuffed with someone else’s money—three hundred and fifty thousand dollars of it.

In the other hand, Stokes has a cell phone, which he found with the money. On the line, a little girl he doesn’t know asks, “Daddy? Are you coming to get me? They say if you give them the money they’ll let you take me home.”

From bestselling author James Hankins comes a wrenching story of an unscrupulous man torn between his survival instincts and the plight of a true innocent. Faced with the choice, Stokes discovers his conscience might not be as corroded as he thought.

ONE

1:40 P.M.

“YOU JUST GOT OUT OF jail? Seriously?”

Stokes heard nothing but curiosity in the guy’s voice. No judgment, no fear, just curiosity and maybe a little slur from the alcohol.

“Didn’t say I was
in
jail,” Stokes said. He took a sip of Budweiser and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, the one that held the bottle. “Said I was
at
the jail. They had me in for questioning. No big deal.”

The guy looked at him in drunk-eyed wonder, like he was a rare species of lizard. “Wow. In jail.” He took a sip of his manhattan. “I guess you must not have done whatever they thought you did, though, or they wouldn’t have let you go.”

Stokes knew it didn’t always work like that, but why get into it?

“Like I said, no big deal.” He looked at the guy’s tailored suit again, the suit that had led Stokes to the bar stool next to him in the first place. “So what’s your deal?”

“Tom.”

“What?”

“My name’s Tom,” the guy said.

Stokes nodded, waited for an answer to his question, didn’t get it, so he asked again, “So what’s your deal, Tom? You from Shady Cross?”

“What’s Shady Cross?”

Stokes smiled amiably. “This little city you’re in.”

“Shady Cross?” the guy repeated as if he’d never heard of the place, like a few drinks had erased the name from his mind.

“They say it was built up a long time ago around the crossroads at the center of town,” Stokes said. “Used to be shady, I guess. So anyway, what’s your deal?”

“My deal? What do you mean?”

Stokes indicated the rest of the bar with a tilt of his head. It was on the seedy side, the kind of place people went to drink hard, to shoot pool, to swap bullshit stories about sexual conquests, to bitch about their blue-collar jobs or their bosses or their wives. Sometimes they went looking for a fight. Sometimes they went just to be left alone. And more often than not, whatever reason they were there, they also went wondering whether they might meet someone drunk enough, lonely enough, and tolerably attractive enough to spend a little time with after last call.

“You sort of stick out around here, Tom,” Stokes said. “Nice suit, polished shoes. Your hair’s all combed. So what’s your deal? I told you about jail, you can tell me your story.”

Tom turned his head to face Stokes. His glassy eyes caught up a fraction of a second later.

“Not much of a story. In town on business. Staying at a motel just down the road.”

“The Rest Stop?”

“Yeah, that might be what it’s called. You know it?”

Stokes did. He’d spent a few hours there two Saturdays ago with the waitress across the room. He nodded.

“Finished my business here this morning,” the guy said, “but can’t get a flight back to Pittsburgh till tomorrow. Just killing time now. Stopped in here for an early lunch, but, well, I met you instead and my lunch, uh . . .”

“Turned liquid?”

Tom looked at Stokes for a long moment, then laughed loosely. Stokes could have asked what business the guy was in. It was probably expected of him. But he didn’t think Tom was tracking the conversation very closely any longer. He was tottering on his stool now, his vacant eyes staring sightlessly at the mirror behind the bar. Stokes could have looked at that mirror, too, but he didn’t.