Carved in Darkness (5 page)

“I got your number from Charlie. He said he just talked to you, so I called but you didn’t answer.” Charlie. Good ol’ Charlie, the town coroner slash funeral director. He and Charlie went way back. Charlie’d been the one to call him when it was time to bury his parents. He hated Charlie.

“Yeah, I broke my phone … look, I’m a little busy. Come back tomorrow.”
After I’ve given myself a .40-caliber lobotomy.
Ignoring him, she used the business end of the tire iron to push him out of the doorway, back into the blessed dark. She followed, shutting the door behind her.

Clicking on the bedside lamp, she used her tire iron to root around in the pile of dirty clothes at the foot of the bed. She unearthed a pair of boxers and hooked them with her magic wand.

“Here.” She held them out to him, and he stared at her for a second or two before he remembered. Oh, yeah—he was naked. No need to get dressed when you had no plans to go anywhere, and really, pants were a chore he could do without. Taking the boxers, he sat down on the bed. The effort at modesty turned the room into a Tilt-A-Whirl. He replanted his feet on the floor and his elbows on his knees, breathing through the spins until they subsided.

“Hand that to me, will ya?” he said, flinging his arm in the general direction of the dresser. Glancing in the direction he’d indicated, she saw the bottle. Her frown deepened into one of disappointment and concern.

“I certainly will not.”

Fine.
He struggled to stand, but she pushed him off his feet with that freakin’ tire iron again. He went down and kept going. Sprawled out on the bed, the spins hitting him again. “What do you want?”
Just say it and get the fuck out
. He was a disappointment … Sophia and Sean would be ashamed of him … what would Frankie think. Nothing he hadn’t been saying to himself for the past decade or so. Still, he wasn’t sure he could handle hearing it right now, but she didn’t say any of that.

When she started talking, he became
sure
he was having some sort of psychotic break. She couldn’t possibly be saying what he was hearing.

She told him Melissa, her granddaughter—the one who’d been murdered years ago and a thousand miles away—was alive.

He had no idea what any of it had to do with him, and he didn’t care. He just wanted Lucy to leave so he could get more blind drunk and hopefully pass out again.

“Look … it’s been a really long day. I just want—”

“Drinking yourself to death is gonna have to wait. Aren’t you listening to me? Melissa’s not dead. When they found her, she was damn close, but she managed to pull through. She’s living in California. She’s a police officer,” she repeated when all he did was stare at her.

Melissa was
alive
? She was a
cop
?

“What are you saying? What does this have to do with Frankie?”

“I’m saying my granddaughter survived what that man did to her, and I’m saying he’s the same man who killed your sister,” she said plainly, pacing his room in tight circles while her fingers twisted together in an endless series of intricate knots. “I know it sounds crazy, but it’s true. She’s alive.” She was babbling so fast he could barely track what she was saying. “She always knew he was from here. He followed her to Arizona when she ran away. After Tommy. I always thought maybe she was wrong. I mean, who around here would do such a thing? I never told her so because I didn’t want to upset her, but what happened to your sister proves she’s right.”

“How?”

Lucy sighed and sat on the bed, next to him. “I saw what he did to Melissa. From what I hear around town, it sounds like he did the same things to Frankie.”

It had taken less than a week for the police chief, in his infinite wisdom, to decree what had happened to Frankie was the work of a transient just passing through. Popular opinion latched onto this idea and held on tight. Frankie’s case was closed before it was ever really opened.

He took a long look at the bottle of scotch beckoning him from the dresser. She was right—drinking himself to death would have to wait. “Tell me everything you know.”

Lucy knew a lot, but the information came at a price. She wanted him to go to California to watch over her granddaughter, and she wanted him to do it sober. He agreed to watch her, protect her if needed, and he agreed to do it dry. Nearly a year later, he had every intention of keeping his promises.

He’d watch her. Get to know her, so to speak. Find her soft spots. When the time was right, he’d approach her and exploit them. He’d convince her to go back to Jessup with him, to help catch the man who raped and tortured her by making her survival public. If the man who killed his sister knew Melissa was still alive, he’d make a play for her—Michael was sure of it. He’d persuade her to help him, and if persuasion didn’t work, he’d have to get creative.

It was a plan. Not the perfect plan, but it was action and purpose after almost a year of spinning his wheels. It was the only plan he had, and he’d fucked it all up by practically attacking her in the bushes like a goddamn crazy person.

Not his smartest move ever.

That morning he’d started on the higher trails as usual. From his vantage point he could see her while remaining undetected. Keeping up with her brutal pace, he heard nothing but the crunch of gravel beneath his feet and the occasional happy bark of her neighbor’s dog, her image flickering behind the screen of dense foliage separating them.

He liked the way she moved—efficiency and confidence in every stride. Her ponytail bobbed a jaunty rhythm, at total odds with the rest of the picture she made. It made him smile … and then it happened.

He forgot about Frankie. Forgot he was following her for a purpose, that he had a responsibility here. For a few seconds, Sabrina was just a pretty girl—not the reason his sister was dead. It was only for a moment, but it carried the jarring sense of a free fall. In those few seconds, he’d been totally lost.

Then it all rushed back. Before he knew what he was doing, he took the bisection connecting the upper and lower trails, running at full speed until he caught up with her.

Angry. He was angry at her for surviving, and he hadn’t cared if she recognized him or not. If he looked at the situation objectively, he’d admit Sabrina was as much of a victim as Frankie had been. But knowing that didn’t change the way he felt, and it didn’t bring his baby sister back either. It was ugly and irrational, this anger he harbored toward her. He shouldn’t hate her or blame her. But he did. He’d let his emotions get the best of him. And now she knew he was there.

A mistake. One he wouldn’t make again.

His phone rang. He didn’t have to look at it to know who it was. Lucy had been calling him all morning, which meant she knew what happened. He hit Ignore. He couldn’t handle talking to her right now. That last thing he needed was a blow-by-blow replay of what an idiot he was.

Tossing his cell on the dresser, he started to pace, examining the situation from every angle. He’d probably screwed up any chance he had of approaching her on a rational level with his stalkerish behavior, but he’d try anyway. No matter what, she was going home.

He’d drag Melissa back to Jessup if he had to and stake her out like a sacrificial lamb in order to draw out and kill the man who had butchered his sister. But there was a problem, one he hadn’t counted on:
Sabrina
was no lamb. She was a lion, and she wasn’t going anywhere without a fight.

SEVEN

Jessup, Texas
October 1

R
UMORS WERE NECESSARY IN
a town like Jessup. Gossip about who was sleeping with who and who got fired for drinking on the job wore away at the monotony of small-town life. People felt important knowing their neighbor’s dirty little secrets. Jessup needed something to talk about, and Lucy Walker’s granddaughter was a favorite subject.

Not a month went by he didn’t hear someone go on and on about how she ran away after the mess she caused. How she’d seduced her mother’s boyfriend and got poor Tom Onewolf stabbed near to death, only to get herself killed for her trouble. Speculation and embellishment were common; some folks made stuff up outright, but most of it was bullshit. She never tried to seduce anyone. As for what happened to Tom … it was that asshole’s fault for thinking he had a right to even look at Melissa, much less touch her.

It was ridiculous, really, the lies people told. Nonetheless, when he heard people talking about her, he always listened, and last week was no different.

“I heard just the other day, in this very diner, she ain’t dead. Way I heard it, she’s livin’ out in California with those kids she took from her momma. Shameful, if you ask me—the mess she caused around here … ”

That was a new one. He’d never heard she survived before. At first he took it about as seriously as an Elvis sighting—he’d been the one to kill her, after all—but the words burrowed into his brain like a parasite. What should’ve sounded outlandish began to sound plausible. What he knew couldn’t be possible changed shape and began to look like a miracle.

The thought that she might be out there somewhere kept him up at night, and the more he thought about it, the faster the infection spread. It began to make sense. Why, after countless attempts, he was never able to find another woman who could give him what he needed. Why, no matter what he did to them, he was never satisfied.

He decided to visit Lucy. She’d know the truth. Plastering a smile on his face, he knocked on her back door, and when she opened it, she smiled at him in return. He came here often and was always welcomed in. Sometimes he’d offer to fix a creaky porch step or adjust her hot water heater. Sometimes they’d just sit in her living room and gossip about small-town affairs. All the while, no matter what he was doing, the eighty-three days he spent raping and torturing her granddaughter played on a constant loop in his head.

Today’s visit was for sitting and talking.

“You’ll never guess what I heard in town yesterday. Someone started a rumor that she’s alive, Lucy. Who’d be cruel enough to do that?” he said, watching for a reaction under the guise of barely contained disgust.

She visibly stiffened for a moment before scowling at him. “My guess is someone with nothing better to do than make up stories.”

“It’s not true, is it? She’s not alive, is she?” It was a bold question but one he had to ask. She sharpened her gaze and let out a disdainful sigh.

“Don’t be dense, boy. If she were alive, I’d know about it.” Her tone closed the conversation, but he was unconvinced.

She got up to take a lemon pound cake out of the oven, and he seized the rare opportunity to peruse the space. He was looking for proof—anything that would tell him what he needed to know. He moved to the small writing desk tucked in the corner to yank at its drawers and rifle their contents. Nothing.

He quickly leafed through books and mail left out on the coffee table. Nothing. Just when he thought he’d truly lose it, he spotted it. A single sheet of paper folded around a photo and tucked into her sewing basket. He plucked it out with trembling fingers, rattling the paper a bit as he unfolded it.

Dear Lucy,

This picture was taken the day they got their driver’s licenses. You can’t tell, but Sabrina is terrified! I hope you are well.
—Valerie

The picture was of Melissa’s siblings—fraternal twins, a boy and a girl. They were posed on a set of porch steps, a woman was wedged between them. His gaze lingered on the girl. She looked so much like her sister, with her bright blue eyes and auburn hair swept away from the delicate bones of her face, but she failed to hold his attention. Inexplicably, his eyes were drawn away from her and came to rest on the woman by her side.

As with all women, her eyes attracted him first. They were dark brown. Not the right color. Melissa’s eyes were the most amazing shade of blue. Her arms were draped over the twins’ shoulders. She looked confident and comfortable, like she was right where she belonged.

Something about her pissed him off.

He brought the picture close to his face and looked for a reason this woman should compel him. Despite the smile on her face, she looked tough. Dangerous. The tingle of fear he experienced when he looked at her was something new. This woman looked like she’d laugh in his face even as he stabbed the life out of her.

He didn’t like it.

He studied the photo intently, looking for a reason … and there it was. A starburst scar, the size of a half-dollar, on the back of her hand.

He’d been there when she burned herself at the diner where she waitressed. It was a splatter burn from the fryer. They’d been swamped and she’d been helping Onewolf in the kitchen …

He looked away from the scar and studied the face. A thin sheen of sweat broke out on his upper lip, and he wiped it away with the back of his hand. Was it possible?

He saw Melissa in countless women, nearly every day, but this woman was nothing like her. Melissa had been beautiful. Looking at her had been like looking at the sun. She’d been dazzling. This woman wasn’t beautiful. She was barely pretty. But still, he couldn’t look away. Where Melissa had been softly curved, this woman was lean, almost hard. Her face was harshly angled, her jaw almost masculine. Her mouth was wide and full. The nose sitting above it was slightly crooked, like it had been broken more than once. The feline tilt to her eyes gave her a predatory edge that made him feel uneasy.