Her Darkest Nightmare (8 page)

Quickly wiping his hands, he checked the mirror to make sure he'd gotten the blood spatter off his face. There was some more pounding at the door, but he told himself not to panic. Panicking would only get him caught.

“Stan? You on the shitter or what?” Ian yelled. “Open the damn door!”

Grabbing the knife he'd brought with him, he hurried to the front and peered through the peephole. It looked as if Ian was alone, but he couldn't be too careful. In such a small town, it was tough to do anything without notice, especially as an “outsider.” Outsiders were watched closely—and one remained an outsider until he'd circulated among these people for a year or more. So it was a major accomplishment that, so far, he'd managed to get away with … well,
murder
.

Had he not been so tense, he might've chuckled. For once, that cliché wasn't just an expression.

His luck could always change, however. He was so amped up on adrenaline he was still shaking. Chopping a human body to pieces had that effect on a person. It was a risk for him to encounter anyone; any hint of strange behavior could raise suspicion.

So what was he going to do? Ian seemed determined to get a response. Should he open the door and stab the guy? Or wait to see what he wanted?

When Ian put a key in the lock, there was no more time to think. He opened the door. “What's up?” he asked, keeping the knife ready but out of view as he leaned casually against the frame.

The other man blinked at him. “Whoa!
Who are you?
”

“A friend of Stan's.” That was the name Ian had used for the homeowner or tenant, wasn't it? He was pretty sure he'd heard correctly.

“So am I,” Ian responded. “I live next door.” He tried to peer into the house. “Where
is
Stan?”

How the hell would
he
know? He'd chosen this house out of desperation. The way it was shut up, he'd assumed its occupant was gone for the winter—or at least gone for a while. He'd been relieved when he broke in through the back and found that he didn't have to overpower anyone else, that he'd managed to find shelter from the storm. “Not home.”

“So his father hasn't improved?”

He measured the other man in his mind. Should he go for the heart? Or the throat? Which would be quicker? “'Fraid not.”

Confusion created lines in Ian's forehead. “I'm a little stunned to find someone here. Did he say you could stay? Because, if he did, he didn't mention a word of it to me when he asked me to look after the place.”

“No, he doesn't know I'm here. Last night the roads were so bad I couldn't get anywhere else. And I knew Stan wouldn't mind if I grabbed some shelter until it passed.” He tried to appear confident, as if this weren't anything unusual. At least part of what he said was true—he hadn't been able to use the roads, or he would've been able to wash up at home.

Folks in these parts had to pull together sometimes. That wasn't unusual.…

The tension in Ian's body eased. “Oh, of course he wouldn't mind. I almost didn't make it home myself. Where the hell were the plows, right?”

“That's what I kept thinking.” Except he'd actually been glad that there didn't seem to be anyone about.

“In a storm like that, a guy's got to do what a guy's got to do. But … I don't think I've ever seen you before.…”

“Really? I met you down at the Moosehead once—when Stan and I went in for a drink.” That was probably the most brazen lie he'd ever told, so he was shocked when it seemed to work. Ian's expression cleared. There was even a hint of chagrin in his voice when he responded.

“Oh. Sorry 'bout that. I was probably too damn drunk to remember.”

This was going better than he'd anticipated, but he kept a tight grip on the knife, just in case. “No worries. What else is there to do in the winter but have a few beers?”

“You said it.”

He dipped his head to peer out past Ian, at the sky. “Well, now that the weather has cleared a bit, I'd better get going.…”

“You need a lift?”

“No, thanks. My truck's not far.” He didn't say exactly where. It was bad enough that Ian had seen
him
. No way did he want Stan's neighbor to have a description of his vehicle, too. “It was easier to park and walk in that mess than to keep driving.”

“Of course. But be on the lookout. It sounds as if we've got some trouble in town.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“Shorty, down at the Moosehead, just called. Told me someone's been murdered.”

He rocked back a little, as if this came as the shock it was expected to be.
“Who?”

“Some woman who hasn't been identified.”

He'd done all he could to make identification difficult. “They catch the guy who did it?” He felt that was the next logical question; it might also shed some light on what he had to watch out for.

“No. But it's got to be one of those ghouls from Hanover House.”

“The
psychopaths
?”

“Of course. One of 'em must've gotten out. Who else could it be?”

He shook his head. “I have no idea.”

*   *   *

Forever conscious of the trooper at her elbow, Evelyn was careful not to slip on the melted snow others had traipsed in. As they passed through security and hurried down the hall to the elevator, she told herself to calm down, but she couldn't help being apprehensive. She didn't want to be responsible, even by extension, for any kind of violence, most especially such a grisly murder.

No matter what Amarok thought, the chances that anyone at Hanover House was involved had to be very slim. She didn't care what Hugo said. Security here was as tight as any other level 4 facility. And they were prepared for bad weather, had all kinds of backup systems. It wasn't as if they hadn't understood where they were building the institution.

But almost immediately she learned that there
were
some problems. Despite the dorm rooms in the second wing that housed additional COs during the most difficult months, the staff was overtaxed. This was the biggest storm they'd faced since opening and most of them were new at corrections. The officers she and Amarok passed informed her that the added manpower hadn't been enough. Some people had been working for eighteen hours. But, given the fact that their emergency systems had been untried until now, the situation could've been much worse. They'd fine-tune it.

“The roads aren't easy to navigate, but they've been cleared.” She mentioned this to Amarok as they made their way to the administration offices even though he'd seen the roads for himself, had been driving on them. She wanted to point out that the prison's beleaguered staff would soon have the replacements they needed.

But he didn't respond. He couldn't seem to stop frowning long enough to speak, and given what'd happened—between them and with the murder—she couldn't blame him.

Dr. Timothy Fitzpatrick was the first to greet them. They encountered him as he stepped out of the administration area. Obviously, he was on his way somewhere, most likely to a session with a prisoner. As soon as he saw her, he opened his mouth as if he had something specific to say but stopped short when he noticed the sergeant.

“Is there a problem?” he asked, glancing between them.

Evelyn breathed a sigh of relief. If there'd been an escape in her absence, Dr. Fitzpatrick would have initiated this conversation much differently. Second to her, he'd had the biggest influence in bringing HH into existence. Without his support and willingness to buy in to her vision—even move to Alaska to help make it a reality—she doubted Hanover House would ever have gotten past the concept phase. “I'm sure you've met Sergeant Amarok, Tim,” she said.

“Not formally,” Fitzpatrick replied. “But I've seen him around. I've heard of him, too. He's almost a folk hero in Hilltop, isn't he?”

“He's certainly well-liked.” She thought Fitzpatrick could take a few lessons from Amarok on how to win friends and influence people, but she knew he'd be shocked if she said that.

“What brings him to Hanover House?”

Unsure of how much Amarok wanted her to reveal, and assuming he'd fill in if he chose to, she said, “There's been an incident in town.”

The fifty-year-old Fitzpatrick shoved his glasses higher on his prominent nose. “What kind of incident?”

“The kind that leads me to believe one of your boys might've gotten out last night,” Amarok said. “Or maybe someone disappeared a day or two ago and he hasn't been missed for whatever reason.”

“That would be impossible,” Fitzpatrick scoffed. “We do a head count morning and night.”

Evelyn had indicated as much on the drive over, but Amarok didn't seem to put much store by that.

“A count might make escape unlikely—doesn't make it impossible,” the sergeant said.

Despite the work they'd been able to accomplish together, Fitzpatrick's prickliness made him one of Evelyn's least favorite people. The self-importance that rang through his tone didn't seem to endear him to Amarok, either.

“It's not as if we have thousands of inmates here, Sergeant,” he said with a grating laugh. “I think we'd be able to tell if someone went missing.”

Tall and imposing in an Abraham Lincoln sort of way, Fitzpatrick was used to establishing quick superiority over those around him. His arrogance came from being highly intelligent and knowing it. But Amarok hardly seemed intimidated, and that didn't surprise Evelyn. The men she'd met in Alaska were a breed apart from those in the Lower 48. Because they lived such a rogue existence, they relied almost exclusively on their own opinions—and that was true of no one more than the sergeant.

“Sorry if I'm unwilling to take that on faith, Dr.”—Amarok's eyes flicked to the nameplate attached to his lab coat—“Fitzpatrick. You have two hundred and fifty of the most dangerous felons in the country located in this facility—a facility that is new and untried. For the most part your staff is just as green. Figure in the storm as a distraction and we have to make sure every single inmate is present and accounted for.”

“This must be serious.” Fitzpatrick adjusted the paperwork on the clipboard he carried. “What type of incident are we talking about? An attack of some kind?”

“Murder.” The gravity in Amarok's voice gave that word the proper emphasis.

As expected, Fitzpatrick's face registered surprise. Nothing ever happened in Hilltop. But he quickly rallied. “Who was killed?”

“Don't know yet,” Amarok replied.

“Then what are you doing
here
?”

The sergeant's eyes narrowed. “I have people working on identifying the victim. But there are some … peculiar challenges that lead me to believe it might take a while.” He didn't expound on what those challenges were, and Evelyn didn't jump in to do it for him. “Since there's no way to bring a dead person back to life, I'm trying to make sure we don't overlook the obvious and wind up losing someone else, someone we could have saved by being proactive.”

Fitzpatrick gave a little shrug. “Fine. Check whatever you want, but it'll be a waste of time. Where would one of our inmates go even if he could get out? We're in the middle of nowhere.”

When he said “nowhere” as if he meant “the biggest hellhole on earth” a muscle jumped in Amarok's cheek, and Evelyn regretted behaving similarly last night, when she'd been frustrated and upset that her car wouldn't start. No wonder the sergeant didn't like Hanover House or those who ran it. Their attitudes were offensive to the locals, as were their very vocal opinions that the places they came from were so much better than Hilltop.

“He means they've all been shipped in and aren't familiar with the area.” Evelyn hoped to soften Fitzpatrick's words but knew she'd wasted her breath when Amarok's eyes cut to her.

“I know what he means.”

If her fellow doctor realized he was being rude, he didn't apologize. He pressed on in the same condescending manner. “How would an escapee survive the cold, Sergeant?”

“Maybe he didn't,” Amarok responded. “Maybe he's as dead as his victim by now. But there's always the chance that he's obtained help and is perfectly alive.”

Skepticism etched deep grooves in the older man's forehead. “Who'd help him?”

“A Good Samaritan who thinks they've encountered a lost stranger, for one.”

Evelyn's mind immediately reverted to Hugo's words:
Not every killer at Hanover House is locked up.
Was it a strange coincidence that he'd come up with that on the eve of the first murder in Hilltop in over a decade? Or did he really possess pertinent information?

Was there some way he could even be
responsible
for it?

“I don't care what you think,” Fitzpatrick was saying. “Whoever you're looking for isn't one of ours. There's no way any of our inmates could get out.”

“Maybe they couldn't do it on their own,” Amarok responded. “But surely friends, girlfriends and family come to visit.”

“Very few,” Fitzpatrick replied. “These men don't have much contact with the outside world, not since being sent here.”

“What about a staff member?” Amarok asked. “Friendships start. Relationships build.”

Fitzpatrick shook his head. “Absolutely not. They know what's at stake.”

“Such things have happened before, in other prisons. People act crazy for love. Or money. Or a thrill. Or any number of reasons.”

“You need to broaden your search, Sergeant.” Fitzpatrick remained unmoved. “The men locked up here aren't the only ones capable of murder.”

Amarok came right back at him. “They're the only ones I know who have already proven their capacity.”