Don’t Talk to Strangers: A Novel (22 page)

He felt himself pulling in air and letting it out slowly. Something in his body, something
carnal and inborn, was preparing him for the moment
when everything coiled and waiting would spring savagely to life. He’d waited to feel
it again. He lived for it, for her, for this moment, for the scent of that bubblegum
in her mouth.

He smiled over at her, put his hand on the back of her neck casually. “Thanks for
your help,” he said. For someone so smart, she was so fucking clueless.

He slammed her face down hard into his perfectly healthy engine. It stunned her for
a few seconds, long enough for him to grab the tape she’d laughed at. He hit the hood
brace with his elbow and ducked out of the way, watched the hood crash down, saw her
back arch when the latch dug into her. Blood began to seep into her shirt. He jerked
her arms back. She was screaming now. And kicking. He knew she would. She wasn’t a
victim. She was bossy and proud. She had plans. That’s what he wanted. Someone with
a brain. Someone with something to live for. Or else it just wouldn’t be any fun at
all.

He wasn’t even thinking when he did it. He was just in that moment, that wonderful,
crazy, terrifying
moment
. He needed her to shut the fuck up so he could get her in the vehicle and get off
the road. He jerked her out from under the hood, spun her around, and swung a fist
that landed just over the left cheekbone near the temple. She crumpled like a piece
of foil. She’d never been hit. He could tell. Nothing bad like that had ever happened
to her.

When he was done, when he’d dragged her around and deposited her limp body in the
back like a sandbag, he finished taping her ankles and wrists and mouth. He looked
quickly through the purse, wiped down and tossed out a nail file and a compact mirror,
then dropped it next to her, pushing blond hair off her forehead. He ran a finger
down her face, her neck, into her shirt. She was pretty. He couldn’t wait for her
to wake up next to him.

He removed the pink case from her phone and used the dirty rag to wipe off his prints.
They’d find it. They’d examine it. Maybe the sheriff’s hired gun would find it. Maybe
her hands would be holding it soon. He smiled at that and tossed the case in the ditch,
popped the back off the phone and dropped the battery into his pocket. He wiped down
everything carefully, then snapped the phone back together and wedged it in front
of one of his back tires.

As he drove away, he lowered the driver’s window. He wanted to hear it, remember it,
keep one more memory. You hold on to the little things—a warm battery in your pocket
next to a swelling cock, the sound of tires crushing plastic and glass, driving it
down into the dirt. Because whatever happened between them next, it would never be
this new again.

19

I returned to the Whispering Pines Inn and fell across the hard bed. I needed a minute.
I didn’t know what to make of this day. I didn’t even know where to start. But I couldn’t
forget where the day had begun, with Ken Meltzer jogging beside me, looking into my
eyes over breakfast, inquiring about my empty ring finger in a not-so-subtle way as
we drove, opening that door, practically kicking it in, the crazy chemistry between
us, physical, undeniable. It skipped up and down my skin, up and down my spine, whenever
I was near him.
Jesus
. I scrambled up, rubbed my face. What the hell was wrong with me? Mercury must be
in Gatorade or something.

A killer had left a message on my windshield today, boldly walked up to my car and
left his note with the same invisibility he had enjoyed when Tracy and Melinda disappeared.
Nothing is more invisible than the everyday. He was a regular at the weird, cliquish
diner. That’s why no one gave him two looks in the parking lot. Or had they seen him?
Were they protecting him? But why? Perhaps because they knew only a note had been
left on my car, not the content, not what he was—a killer. Had he been there when
I was there last night, this afternoon? I thought about the guys at the counter, the
woman in the booth. I thought about the packed diner this morning over breakfast with
the sheriff. Was he watching us even then?

And worst of all, Jeff Davidson had sliced himself open in a prison kitchen today
after I’d assumed, wrongly, that he’d been informed his sister’s remains had been
discovered, and that after over a decade he would be prepared. I should have told
someone immediately, a guard, the sheriff. As soon as I realized the news was new
to him, he should have been put on suicide watch. I’d underestimated his emotion.
Holding out hope that Tracy would come home one day was what had been keeping him
alive. I hadn’t seen it. And that weight hung heavy on me now. I thought about Josey
Davidson and the rubble in her life, the loss. I thought about Bryant Cochran.
It breaks you, Miss Street. It takes a guy like me and snaps him right in half
.

I’d memorized every word of that note I’d found on my windshield today. Now I wrote
it on my legal pad and stared at it.

He was reaching out. That was the good news. He wanted to communicate, to be understood.
He was flattered by the attention and probably obsessed by it. My fear and my near
certainty was that I would receive his promise of more at yet another crime scene.
That’s really what the note was about. He wanted us to know he was still out there.
And still hunting.

I propped up on the hard bed with hard pillows, which was terrible for sleeping but,
as it turns out, pretty good for reading. I did what I always do when in an investigation:
read and reread statements, the police reports, every name and every word; go over
my notes; write down every step I took today and every piece of information I gathered,
what Melinda’s friends said, what Jeff told me about Tracy’s life. Where did they
intersect and who had access to both victims? The answer to that defined the suspect
pool—neighbors, coaches,
counselors, parents of schoolmates, family members. I thought about the band teacher
who had been overlooked, Mr. Tray, and got out my laptop to find his address. If he
wasn’t at school tomorrow, I was going to have to pay him a visit at home.

My phone rang, a 706 area code, a local call. I answered and heard a familiar voice.
“Hey, Rob Raymond here. Figured you’d wanna know that the lab couldn’t pull anything
off that letter you got. No prints. No trace.”

“Too much to hope for, I guess,” I said.

“Sheriff’s department issued a statement today,” he told me. “On our website and on
social media with info from your profile so locals know what to look out for. It’s
getting some attention.”

“What kind of attention?”

“Brenda Roberts,” he said, and I froze. She was a television journalist in Atlanta
with a fascination for my past and for my relationship to APD and Rauser. She’d asked
many times for an interview. So far I’d managed to avoid her.

“You spoke with her?”

“Yep. She asked for the detective in charge of the investigation relating to our press
release and they sent her call to me. She wanted to know who compiled the profile.”

“Shit,” I muttered.

“I told her we’d reached out to the Bureau, which is technically true.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“I didn’t do it for you. I did it so your shit doesn’t muddy up our investigation.”

“Investigation?” I said. I wasn’t in the mood for Raymond. “You did it because you
don’t want any extra scrutiny. Because you know you botched the job. How do you perform
an investigation if you can’t even compile a victimology, Detective? The information
on file about Melinda Cochran’s life and habits and family is full of holes.”

“We knew her,” he insisted. “We didn’t need a bunch of extra paperwork.”

“Well, that kind of half-assed work ethic is why I’m here. By the way, did you know
Melinda walked home by herself one day a week?
Did you know she stayed late for band practice? Did you realize that time after school
away from friends and parents might have been her first exposure to her killer? Maybe
he got to know her then. Maybe she came to trust him. This offender is a planner.
He lays his trap and waits.”

I could hear the rasp of his breathing, but he said nothing.

“What do you know about the band teacher?” I asked.

“He’s a hero around here. He put us on the map with that band. Our athletic programs
suck.”

“Thanks for your call, Detective.” I stabbed the
END CALL
button with my finger and cursed.

When my phone bleated again a few minutes later, it wasn’t Detective Raymond. “I haven’t
eaten since breakfast,” Kenneth Meltzer informed me. “You hungry?”

“Starved,” I said. I didn’t add
exhausted, discouraged
, and
pissed off
.

“There’s a little place just outside the city limits that makes a great quesadilla.
Where are you now?”

I hesitated, and the sheriff caught it. “Come on. We both need dinner and it’s been
one heck of a day.”

“Yes, it has,” I agreed.

“You remember the bridge you used to come into Whisper? I’m five minutes from there.
I’ll wait for you on the other side. You can follow me.”

I put my computer to sleep, took it to the hotel safe that was built into the closet
wall. It had a digital readout that allowed you to choose the combination. I chose
four random numbers and committed them to memory, slipped my computer, my Glock, my
camera, and my notes inside, closed the door, and pressed the
LOCK
button. Metal slid into position with a satisfying click.

Nine minutes later I was crossing the bridge that had first led me into Whisper. The
cars in front of me were tapping their brakes. I had a feeling I should be putting
on the brakes too. But I wasn’t.

His Interceptor was sitting on the shoulder like a speed cop. He swung out in front
of me and I followed him a mile to a twisty unmarked
road carved out of thick pine forest. After another half a mile, we turned onto a
dirt lane. Red dust flew up in front of me. We passed a few cottages, well tended,
newish. Some of them had signs in the yard with names. Rentals, I decided.

The road ended at a wide drive and a cluster of log homes on a slightly elevated piece
of land. A wooden bench-swing hung off the limb of an old water oak. Giant pecan trees
skirted the property. Pebbled paths split off from the driveway to each of the three
homes on the hill. I got out. The sheriff came around to my car.

“What’s this?” I asked, confused.

“It’s where I live.” He spread his arms and smiled as if it were perfectly normal
to bring your consultant home for dinner. “Mom lives in the center cabin,” he told
me as we walked up a path toward his home—a three-level cabin with an A-frame center.
I glimpsed water in the background, Lake Oconee shimmering in the setting sun. I remembered
him telling me the coroner was a real estate agent. I’d made a joke about deals on
waterfront property.
Oops
.

“Who lives in that one?” I pointed to the small cabin at the right end of the semicircle.

“Mom’s caretaker. Mom needed help and we didn’t like the assisted-living facilities
around here. So we bought this place together.” We stepped up on his porch and he
pushed open an unlocked front door. A golden retriever mix let out a yelp and scrambled
up on hind legs as if she was coming off a launching pad. Paws hit Meltzer’s chest.
He rubbed her head and under her ears playfully. “Keye Street, meet Ginger.”

She dropped off him and looked at me. The back half of her body moved in the opposite
direction of her wagging tail. She had the head and face of a golden retriever, long
legs, a chow’s bushy tail and lion mane, and I wasn’t sure about the rest of her.
Apparently there had been a party. Some chows showed up, some golden retrievers, a
cocker spaniel. Ginger was what my mother’s rescue buddies called a splendid-blended.
“Hi, Ginger.” I bent and petted her. The wagging speed increased. She handed me her
paw. I shook it, said, “Good girl.”

Meltzer pushed the door open. “Go do your thing and come back.”
Ginger shot through the door and down the steps. “Pulled her out of an Animal Control
truck about a year ago. One of the perks of being sheriff.” He winked.

We had stepped into an open area with a tall A-slanted roof, a stone fireplace, a
kitchen on one side, railed stairs rising to a loft above us. Meltzer went to the
kitchen and pulled a pan from a cabinet.

“I always wanted a cabin in the woods. And it means Mom can stay home. Patricia is
full-time so I don’t have to worry too much when I’m not here.” He opened the refrigerator.
“I’ve got white cheddar and baby spinach. How’s that?”

“Perfect.” My stomach felt like a big, empty cave. I would have eaten the ass-end
out of a rag doll about then.