Chasing Darkness (31 page)

Putting
the car in gear, he headed for the city.

It
was quiet when he reached her building. He found a place to park and took the
cash from the lady’s wallet, then tucked the wallet, with the credit cards in
it, deep under the seat. He wished he could call up to Sam’s office and see if
she was there, but he knew that was a bad idea. It took almost a half hour
before someone came out of the parking garage. As the gate was closing, Gerry
snuck under it like he had before.

He
was beginning to really like Sam’s office. He walked slowly around the garage
until he saw the right license plate. He moved closer to the car, then halted.
Someone was inside.

Gerry
ducked down, his heart pounding. That wasn’t Sam. He hid behind a big cement
pillar and tried to watch, but there was another car in the way. From what he
could see, the man appeared to be looking for something. Maybe he was cleaning
out the car. Gerry wondered where Sam was.

He
sat down behind the pillar and waited for what felt like at least ten minutes.
He didn’t have a watch, so all he could do was guess. The garage had gotten
very quiet, and suddenly he was tired and very hungry. Maybe he didn’t need to
see Sam tonight.

He
stood up and peered around the pillar, but he didn’t see the man anymore. He
decided to come back another day. He checked again for any sign of anyone in
the garage and then headed up the short ramp for the side door.

He
hadn’t gotten more than ten steps when he heard a man call out. Gerry didn’t
look back and he didn’t stop. He reached the exit and pushed it open from the
inside, running to the street.

He
had almost gotten to the corner when he felt a hand grab the back of his shirt.
He tried to twist free, but the man was stronger and pulled him down.

“Who
the hell are you?”

Gerry
struggled but didn’t answer.

The
man yanked him up and pulled him down the street toward a dark alley. “No,”
Gerry cried.

The
man threw him to the ground.

Gerry
rolled over and got to his knees, but the man kicked him in his gut. He moaned
and fought to catch his breath.

Tossed
onto his back, he rolled again and felt another kick to the ribs. Then there
was another, and another.

“Fucking
pervert,” the man hissed, and he felt a kick to his head. “I saw you at the
funeral, whacking off on the fucking tombstones. You sick son of a bitch. I’m
going to kill you.”

“The
police will find you,” Gerry yelled at his attacker, trying to throw him off
guard. He could hear his own voice shaking.

The
next kick was harder. “Bullshit, asshole. You can’t get closer to the police
than I am. You call them, I’ll probably answer the goddamn phone.”

He
tried to get a look at his attacker, but the blows were coming too hard and he
did his best just to protect his face. “Sam Chase will find you. She’ll catch
you.”

“Sam
Chase isn’t going to be able to save your sorry ass,” the man said, landing
another kick to his chest.

Gerry
didn’t have an answer to that. Attacked by a police officer. He remembered the
man who had come when the picketers were hurling rocks through his window. That
man had looked at Gerry like he wanted to kill him himself. Gerry curled up and
held his head in his hands, trying to cushion himself against the blows. He
could feel the warmth of blood on his forehead and hands. The hits grew faster,
harder, the names and curses more angry. A quick snap sounded in his chest and
he felt a wave of red nausea in his belly. He kept himself from touching the
broken ribs, knowing from experience that it would drive the guy to kick that
spot harder.

Suddenly
his attacker was pulling on him, dragging him to his feet. “Stand up, faggot.”

He
played dead, too afraid to face the guy’s anger. Go away, he thought. Go away.
He let out a long, slow breath and prayed the man didn’t see it.

The
guy dropped him back to the ground and gave him another kick. Gerry knew the
man was going to kill him. Panicked, he squeezed his eyes shut, praying for it
to be quick, wishing he’d never gotten out of prison.

Just
then, a bright light shone on them and for a second he thought he was dying.

“Shit.”
His attacker froze.

Gerry
looked up, though only one eye opened.

He
saw the silhouette of the man’s face and remembered where he’d seen him before.

Then
the sound of his attacker’s feet grew distant, and Gerry let out a little sigh
of relief despite the pain. But he worried he might still die.

He
wondered if this was what death would feel like. Lifting his head, he tried to
open his eyes again. The pain in his head made the movement excruciating. He
let his chin fall to the ground and threw up, tasting the metallic flavor of
blood.

Lying
with his eyes closed, he heard the click of a car door and the crunch of loose
gravel as someone came toward him.

“You
okay?”

He
couldn’t open his eyes. He needed his brother, Bobby. He couldn’t take it
anymore. He felt like throwing up again, but it was too painful.

The
voice disappeared, and he felt like he was on a rocking ship. He tried to keep
his eyes on one spot, but the ground was swaying. His thoughts were foggy and
sounds swirled around him like angry waves.

He
heard a siren and more doors open. He cringed, waiting.

Someone
opened his eyes and shone a bright light into each one of them.

“I
need to call Bobby,” he said. “Bobby.”

“Who’s
Bobby?” the man asked.

He
moaned.

“Don’t
know. He’s been saying that since I got here,” someone else answered.

He
was lifted off the ground. Fighting to open his eyes, he felt his body tense so
hard it hurt, and then everything went black.

There
was a knock at the door to the den and Sam pulled her gaze away from the paper.
She’d read the hateful article a dozen—no, two dozen—times and she still
couldn’t believe it. The ramifications, the implication of the words were
impossible to digest. But the idea that one person was fabricating all of
it—providing the victims and framing Sam for their deaths—made perfect sense.
Whoever he was, he was doing a damn good job.

She’d
talked to her attorney, been advised to just sit tight and not say anything to
the press. Easy for him to say, but all she could do was think about it.

Someone
had accessed her old cases somehow. Had whoever it was been in her office?
Gotten into her car and taken her flashlight? She cupped her hands, feeling the
urge for a drink, almost tasting the liquor burning her throat.

She
heard another knock.

“Sam.
Open up,” Rob called.

“I’m
not taking any phone calls. Just let the machine pick up.” She’d been listening
to the messages as they came in. Aaron saying he was worried and asking what he
could do. Nick speaking in a somber tone about the different size of the twigs
on the latest victim. He didn’t need to tell her what that meant—she knew. The
one murder she’d had an airtight alibi for hadn’t been committed by the same
killer.

Or
if it was the same killer, it was meant to look different. Did the killer know
she’d been with Nick last night? Was that why the eucalyptus was different? Was
he following her, watching her all the time? She picked up her pen and jotted
down “first officers at new scene.” Was it possible that the killer could have
found out about her alibi and changed the twigs?

“This
isn’t a phone call, Aunt Sam,” Rob said through the heavy wood. “It’s me. Can
you unlock the door?”

Sam
exhaled, wishing everyone would just leave her alone. She’d drawn the shades,
but she could still hear the banter of the press outside her windows. Dragging
herself out of her chair, she went to the door and pulled it open. “I’m not
much company right now.”

Rob
brought in a sandwich and a glass of juice and set them on her desk. Then,
scrunching up his nose, he flipped on the lights. “It’s like a dungeon in
here.”

“I
like the dark.”

“Aaron’s
called a bunch of times, and Nick too. Don’t you want to talk to them? They’re
worried about you.”

She
shook her head. She’d already left Nick a message telling him she wanted to
know who had been confirming the information about her old cases to the media.
Cops and agents lost their jobs for leaking the kind of information she’d read
about herself, but that didn’t stop them from doing it. And whoever had been
talking had intimate knowledge of the case. As far as Sam was concerned, that
person was the prime suspect.

“You
can’t stay in here forever,” Rob said.

“I
might just try.”

Rob
plunked onto the loveseat and crossed his arms. “It’s just a stupid article.”

“It’s
a stupid article that says I killed two people—maybe more. Plus, they ransacked
my house—” She waved her arms around.

“So
what? What did they take? Some gum.”

Sam
dropped her head into her hands, remembering the gum wrapper she’d found on
Sandi Walters’ foot. Extra brand, her favorite kind. The kind she bought at
Costco in twelve-pack boxes. And now the police had taken her gum to see if
they could trace the wrapper from Walters’ foot to a pack she had in the house.
It was a method that the evidence labs used on duct tape, too. They would check
the evidence against another piece of tape from the suspected roll. They could
determine how close together the two pieces were manufactured, and, therefore,
what the probability was that they came from the same roll, or in her case,
pack. She’d always thought it was cool until now.

“And
you’re just going to let them say that you’re guilty?”

Rob’s
blue eyes were wide. She saw Polly in those eyes and looked away. “I don’t know
what I’m going to do, Rob.”

“Don’t
they have any idea who the real killer is?”

She
shook her head and rubbed her eyes. “No idea. We don’t have a damn clue.”

“Then
you should find him.”

“Or
her.”

Rob
shrugged his shoulders. “You should find him or her. Then they won’t blame
you.”

Sam
stared at the expression on his face. He believed it was that easy. Just go
look and she could find the real killer and she’d be free. The article, the
murders, all of it would be gone. She nodded. “Okay.”

Rob
sat up. “You’re going to do it? You’re going to find him?”

She
smiled. “Sure. I’ll find him. And then I’ll be free. Now, I need to do some
thinking. Are you okay?”

He
nodded.

“Where’s
your brother?”

“He
went out.”

She
didn’t say anything to that. If she weren’t being accused of murder in the
press, she’d want to get out too. As innocent and simplistic as Rob’s advice
was, it was true. She knew she wasn’t guilty, which meant someone else was. She
took a sip of the juice and wished it was something stronger. But alcohol
wasn’t going to help her right now.

Rob
was right. The best way out of the noose she was in was to find the right neck
to put it around.

Nick
sat down in the interrogation room across from Betty Herman. The woman’s small
brown eyes watched his every move, and Nick did his best to be nonchalant. He’d
been sent in to talk to Betty—heart to heart. But Betty didn’t act like she
wanted to talk.

Her
official statement had already been taken. So far, none of the neighbors could
even say that they’d heard gunshots. The weapon was yet to be found. Martin
Herman had a twenty-two-gauge shotgun, but the bullet that killed him had come
from a .44 Magnum. The police were still checking to see if either Betty
or her sister, Dolores, had a registered weapon.

“Coffee?”

Betty
nodded.

“Black,
right?”

Her
gaze narrowed.

“I
remembered from your house,” Nick explained.

Betty
crossed her arms and waited.

Nick
stood up and left the room, purposely leaving the door wide open. It was a
psychological thing. It meant that Betty was free to go. She wasn’t being held.
The police were just asking for her cooperation on some questions. They had
also called in Dolores, who was being interviewed by another detective.

Nick
fetched two cups of black coffee and brought them back, placing one in front of
Betty. He wanted to be done with this—he needed to be working on the other
case, finding whoever was trying to frame Sam. Instead, he sipped his coffee
with the casual air of someone who had all the time in the world.

When
Betty had taken her first sip, Nick spoke. “I need to ask you some questions
about Martin.”

Betty
didn’t look up but shrugged to acknowledge the question.

“When
was the last time he hit you?”

Betty
tucked her head down against her turtleneck.

“I
can see the bruise on your neck.” It looked fresh.

Betty’s
head snapped up. “He did that three days ago, ’fore he left for the trip.”

Nick
held on to his cup and kept talking. “I know this is hard for you.” He didn’t
know shit. “Did he hit the kids too?”

“Not
this time.”

“But?”
he prodded.

She
stared at the table and then nodded. “But yeah, he hit ’em. He hit us all.
Little Jamie’s had two broken arms, an’ she’s only four.”

Nick
nodded. “I’m sorry.”

“People
always said, ‘Why don’t you leave him?’ It ain’t that easy.”

Nick
felt the slight change in the mood. He was getting somewhere. “Was your sister
helping you leave him?”

“She
wanted me to. She offered to help. I was figuring to leave next time he was out
of town. But he’d know where to find me. He always said he’d come find me and
he’d kill me if I left.”