Kill Her Again (A Thriller) (9 page)

“Why do you think that?”

“I dunno. I just do.”

“You must have a reason.”

A pause.

“It’s okay, Evan. Just stay relaxed. Nobody’s going to hurt you.”

“If it was true, he’d be kissing Mommy, not Tammy.”

“If
what
was true? What did Rick tell you?”

A longer pause.

“Evan?”

“He says he’s . . . He says . . .”

Another pause.

“Evan?”

I
T CAME ON
without warning.

Evan uttered a small cry of distress; then suddenly his entire body went rigid.

“Oh, shit,” Pope said.

Then the boy began to convulse, bucking violently on the bed, chest heaving, legs kicking.

McBride moved toward them, face full of alarm.

“—what’s happening?”

“Grand mal seizure. He must be epileptic.”

His breathing uneven and labored, Evan sucked in air, then stopped breathing altogether as foam began to gather at the corners of his mouth, his face darkening.

Pope reached down and grabbed the boy’s jeans, working to unfasten the button, loosening the waistband as Evan continued to buck and kick, making the task more difficult than it should have been.

“He’s turning blue,” McBride said.

“He’ll be fine. We just have to let it run its course.”

“What about his tongue? Shouldn’t we stick something in his—”

“No. That’s TV bullshit. Just let him be.”

Evan let out a loud, shaky breath—some of his color returning—then suddenly sucked in another, uttering short animal-like grunts as his body continued to convulse.

“We have to
do
something.”

“There’s nothing
to
do,” Pope said. “Trust me. My grandfather was epileptic; I’ve seen this a hundred times.”

Eyes still shut, mouth foaming, Evan bucked and kicked, his small body violently shaking the bed, reminding Pope of Linda Blair in full possession mode—

—then, finally, thankfully, the convulsions began to subside until the boy was still.

Pope quickly turned him on his side, letting the fluids drain from his mouth onto the bedspread. Sweat had formed on Evan’s forehead and McBride crouched next to him and carefully wiped it away with her hand, smoothing his hair back.

He opened his eyes then and blinked up at them, his voice high and thin and shaky.

“I want my mommy,” he said, and burst into tears.

1
1

“
EVAN HAD A
seizure. Looks like epilepsy.”

“Oh, Jesus,” Worthington muttered. His voice sounded as if it were coming through a wire stretched between two tin cans.

Anna hated cell phones.

She had considered calling Royer, had known it was proper protocol, but hadn’t felt like dealing with the inevitable headache. She figured she was sparing
him
one as well.

Instead, she’d dug out the business card Worthington had slipped her just as she and Evan were climbing into the cruiser, and had called him directly.

“I’m sure glad we had that medic take a look at him,” Worthington said sourly.

“It’s not like he was wearing a sign. But Pope told me if he’d known, he never would’ve put him under.”

“I wouldn’t think so. Is Evan all right?”

“I’m sure he’s been better. The hotel doctor is checking him over.”

“Hotel doctor? At the Oasis?”

“I have a feeling it’s one of Pope’s poker buddies.”

“Figures,” Worthington said. “What about the session? You have any luck?”

“Not much, but it may be enough. Turns out the babysitter broke the house rules and took the kids on a surprise field trip. Introduced them to a guy Evan thinks was her boyfriend—only he’s probably twice her age.”

“That sounds promising. You get a description?”

“Adult male, first name Rick. Dark hair, eyebrow ring, dragon tattoo on his neck. Drives a black Ford Mustang with a flame on the side.”

“Should be easy enough to track. I’ll put out an alert and we’ll check with Tammy’s friends, but it doesn’t sound like anyone from around here.”

Judging by the neighbors who had stood gawking in the street, Anna wasn’t surprised. Ludlow was more Travis Tritt than Tommy Lee.

Then she remembered the photo on the Fairweathers’ camera and a thought struck her.

“Didn’t you say the carnival’s still in town?”

There was a pause on the line, Worthington’s silence filled by an annoying digital static. Then he said, “A carny. I should’ve thought of that. Those lowlifes are always hitting on the high school girls. They’ve got an encampment on a vacant lot next to the campus. If he’s still around, ten to one that’s where we’ll find him.”

“Whatever you do,” Anna said, “approach with caution. If he’s our guy and he’s got Kimberly with him . . .”

“Don’t worry, we’ll do a little reconnaissance before we strike. You want to be part of this?”

Anna felt a sudden rush of adrenaline. “Definitely.”

“Then you’d better get back here ASAP. We’ll need time to organize, but I don’t want to drag this thing out. Not if there’s a chance the girl’s still alive.”

“What about Evan?”

“Sounds like he needs to stay put for a while. Leave him with Danny.”

Anna looked around the hotel corridor, noting the stained carpet and faded wallpaper. This was no place for a seven-year-old boy.

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

“He’ll be fine,” Worthington said. “I’ll make some calls and get someone from social services out there as soon as possible.”

“And if Pope objects?”

“He won’t.”

“He didn’t seem too thrilled about this whole proposition in the first place. And to be honest, I’m not sure he’s entirely stable.”

Worthington laughed, but it was a dry one, with little humor attached. “I’ve known Danny Pope for nearly forty years. Considering what he’s been through, he’s about as stable as they come.”

Anna thought about this and, despite her initial misgivings concerning the entire enterprise, decided Worthington was right. Evan had fallen asleep shortly after his seizure, and social services would probably be out here before he even woke up. It didn’t make much sense to sit around and stare at him.

There was Kimmie to think about.

A killer to catch.

And . . . something more.

Call it fate, a feeling, just a sliver of intuition, but Anna suddenly felt as if what had happened out here in the desert was somehow related to her visions.

Was that even possible?

The onslaught of images that had assaulted her back at the crime scene seemed to have been triggered by the photo of Rita Fairweather and her kids. The Ferris wheel in the background. The house of mirrors. And although she knew, instinctively, that the little girl plaguing that dark corner of her mind was not Kimmie—not even close—there was something synchronistic about those images. About this case.

Something about it all that just . . . fit.

She wasn’t sure how—wouldn’t even try to guess why—but she knew that she was meant to be here. Meant to be part of this.

Thoughts of sideshow psychics once again rose from the back of her brain. Maybe she
was
psychic after all.

Or just plain nuts.

W
HEN SHE RETURNED
to Pope’s room, the so-called hotel doctor was finishing up his exam. He was an old guy, with rheumy eyes, who smelled faintly of Preparation H and carried the distinct air of a man who, at one time in his career, would have been perfectly comfortable performing backroom abortions.

“Vital signs are all stable,” he said, rising from the side of the bed. “He’ll be fine in an hour or two. Best thing now is to let him sleep.”

Stuffing a stethoscope into his black bag, the doctor nodded to Anna and Pope, then headed back to the casino or wherever it was he’d come from. When the door closed behind him, Anna turned and told Pope about the phone call with Worthington, immediately broaching the subject of babysitting.

Pope balked. Big-time.

“Do I look like I’m equipped to take care of a kid?” He gestured to their surroundings.

“Worthington said you wouldn’t mind.”

“Nice of him to consult me first. But that’s Jake for you. Always trying to keep me engaged. He hasn’t quite accepted the fact that I’m a lost cause.”

“A lost cause with a flair for the dramatic,” Anna said.

Pope frowned. “That’s why I do a show six nights a week. You want tickets?”

“What I want is for you to keep an eye on Evan.”

Pope shook his head. “I promised Jake two hours. No more, no less.”

“Then you still have some time left. It’s only until social services gets here. I wouldn’t leave him, but—”

“Then don’t.”

“Look,” Anna said, studying him intently. “I don’t know if you’re enjoying this woe-is-me act, or you just can’t help yourself, but I saw the way you interacted with Evan, and I know
you
know exactly what he’s going through right now.”

Pope faltered a bit. Seemed thrown by her assessment of him. “So what’s your point?”

“Just do the right thing, okay? Watch him until someone comes to pick him up, so I can go help Worthington snag the son of a bitch who did this to him.”

Pope stared at her a moment, then shifted his gaze to the sleeping figure on the bed. Evan looked smaller and more fragile than ever.

Then Pope went away for a while, and Anna knew he was lost in a memory. Something bittersweet. Painful.

When clarity returned, he looked at her again. He’d made his decision.

“All right,” he said. “Go.”

“Thank you.”

Pope shook his head and stared out his window at those ever-present prison lights.

“Just do us all a favor and catch the motherfucker.”

1
2

T
HEY USED THE
tried-and-true dog-walker ploy.

They waited in two unmarked vans, parked about a block and a half from the strike zone, Anna cramped in back with Royer, who still had the remnants of an angry scowl on his face.

Despite their close proximity, he had managed to avoid saying a word to her since she’d returned from the Oasis. It occurred to her that they wouldn’t even be here if she hadn’t spotted Evan in the first place, but doubted that this meant much to Royer. Their partnership, such as it was, was over.

Anna shifted uncomfortably. The air in this godforsaken town had not gotten any cooler and she figured the temperature inside the van was a good two degrees hotter than it was outside. Sweat tricked down her back and along her armpits, and judging by the smell, she wasn’t the only one feeling the heat.

Even the Oasis would be better than this.

Although he was ignoring
her
, Royer had made it clear to Worthington that he thought this operation was a mistake. Back at the Fairweather house, he’d urged the deputy to wait for him to call in a bureau strike team, a suggestion that hadn’t set well with anyone present.

“What exactly are you trying to tell us?” Worthington had asked, to which Royer had no reply. Next to these rugged, sun-baked deputies, he looked like a prissy prep school kid, and as they all silently piled into the vans, it was
Royer
who was the appendage, the excess baggage. And though she tried to resist, the thought of this had made Anna smile.

The carny encampment was little more than a collection of tents, trailers, old motor homes, and beat-up cars, parked haphazardly on a dusty vacant lot next to the high school campus. Several big-rig trucks emblazoned with the words O’FARRELL AMUSEMENTS were lined up against the curb across the street.

Just beyond the encampment stood the dark silhouettes of the trucks’ contents—the arcade stands and rickety metal rides that dominated the school’s football field.

Under the fading moonlight it looked to Anna like an extension of the junkyard behind the Fairweather home. There was, she thought, a sad, almost pathetic poetry to it all. Traveling carnivals were quickly becoming a thing of the past, and this one looked as if it had overshot retirement by several hard-worn years.

The dog walker, a lean female deputy dressed in civilian clothes and sporting an iPod, was walking her German shepherd along the encampment’s side of the street. A typical local out for a pre-dawn stroll.