Mortal Crimes: 7 Novels of Suspense (127 page)

Fifteen minutes more, that’s all. Then he’d give it up for the night. Tomorrow, with the proper provisions, he’d return, comb every inch of this range.

________

Eckker had come to in the alley, his back against the rough stucco exterior of the building. Two male cats squared off at his feet, hissing, then wailing in that godawful, mournful cry of challenge. He kicked out at them. Instead of sending them off, the sudden movement surprised them into combative action. They rushed at each other, screaming; fur flew in clouds.

He groaned, shimmied up the wall until he stood, his knees weak, his head pounding.

The cats had separated again. They glared at each other, guttural moans low in their throats. He moved toward them. The closest cat, an immense gray tabby, divided its attention between the giant lumbering toward him and its tan adversary. The man growled. The two cats scattered in opposite directions.

He rubbed his large, callused hands over his face.

It was over for the night. After a seizure, control was gone. He could turn into a wild man. He’d try another night.

He headed for the parking lot and his truck.

________

That’s it,
Carl told himself when he tripped over an exposed root and pitched forward in the dirt.
Pack it in.

On his knees, through the seemingly endless line of vertical trees just ahead, Carl saw a solid rectangular mass. With his breath coming in deep gulps, he leapt to his feet, then jogged ahead until he was close enough to see a wooden structure nestled snugly in the pines.

Staying within the shelter of the trees, Carl worked his way around the building. At the front, above double doors, he made out a large wooden cross.

“Jesus,”
he breathed. Jesus Christ almighty, Roberta was right. Here in the woods, miles above her parents’ property, was the church she’d seen in a vision.

He quietly moved from tree to tree, taking it in. The north side of the structure was gone. The roof sagged, large portions missing, open to the stars and treetops. The interior a mere shell.

His heart raced. Robbi had seen a church, and it was there, not much more than a façade, but a church just the same. His excitement turned to despair. If the church was real, then was Maggie’s death no less real?

A sudden rage consumed him. The sonofabitch. The filthy sonofabitch couldn’t kidnap his woman, kill her, then expect to get away with it. No fucking way.

The one in the old pickup was the one he had to reckon with. The bastard was gone now, no doubt to look for another unwilling companion for his mountain retreat. Carl had to get inside his living quarters. There was, after all, a slim chance Maggie was still alive. He tightly gripped the rifle, patted the sheetrock knife in the pocket of his Windbreaker then cautiously approached the old church.

Inside the dilapidated ruin, behind the altar, it took Masser another twenty minutes to find the trapdoor in the wooden planks of the floor. On the first step was a flashlight. He flipped it on and descended the steep staircase. Within minutes Carl was down in an airless, sparsely furnished basement surrounded by the rank odor of unwashed bedding and decaying food.

It took him only a few minutes to make certain the place was vacant. The squat door cut into the stairwell stood open. Carl waved the flashlight beam inside. Another door at the back of the stairwell, at the high point, was also open. Carl ducked, went in.

He stood hunched over in the tiny room at the end. An army-issue cot with a lavender spread took up most of the space. Pictures torn from magazines hung on carpeted walls. The room, Carl realized, was meant to look homey, feminine. It was the most depressing room he had ever seen.
Maggie’s room.
Carl swallowed over a vast lump in his throat.

He quickly returned to the main room. In a makeshift closet he found women’s clothing. Alongside a soiled white dress, a black skirt and white blouse hung on a hook. Carl stiffened, backed away.

Several footlockers sat along the east wall. He hurried to the nearest one and lifted the lid. He laid the rifle on the floor and began to rummage through the items. It was filled with men’s winter apparel—long johns, wool socks, and plaid shirts, stocking cap and gloves. The second footlocker held women’s things. A straw hat with a wide brim, a vanity set—mirror, comb, and brush, toiletries. The brush contained strands of long blond hair.

Feeling sick to his stomach, Carl dropped the brush and was about to close the lid when the beam caught a reflection. In the corner of the locker something metallic glinted. Carl lifted out a bracelet of gold and silver. A tiny silver star charm dangled from it.

There was something about a bracelet. What? Robbi had said the woman before Maggie had worn a bracelet. No, not a bracelet, but an ankle chain. Excitement raced through him.
This was proof!
This was the evidence Robbi spoke of in the deli.

“Oh, Christ, Robbi, you were right,” he muttered aloud. “You saw it! You really saw the fucking bastard do it!”

A huge black boot stepped on the rifle at Carl’s feet. A hand the size of a medicine ball reached down and snatched the ankle bracelet from his fingers. Carl instinctively lunged for the rifle. The man grabbed him in a chokehold.

The big man squeezed. “Who’s Robby?” he growled in Carl’s ear. “What did he see?

Bright spots danced before Carl’s eyes. The man was choking him. Carl grappled to get to the sheetrock knife in the pocket of his jacket. The rifle was out of reach. His only chance was to get the knife.

“Who’s Robby?!”

The man was crazy! His arm was cutting off all the air and Carl was unable to utter a word. His neck felt about to snap. He struggled, his mouth opening and closing in desperation as he fought to stay conscious.

Abruptly the pressure eased. He was still being held in the headlock. Any moment the choking could resume. Carl sucked deeply, filling air-starved lungs. At the same time his fingers closed around the handle of the knife.

“Talk! What does he know?”

Carl felt his other arm being wrenched up behind his back. He screamed out in pain.

“She saw everything, you crazy bastard!
”
Carl blurted out. He inched the knife from his pocket. “You killed Maggie.” Carl’s arm shot out and took a wild swipe at the side of the man’s neck with the knife. The man jerked back. Carl felt coarse whiskers along his knuckles. There was a measure of resistance as the triangular blade sliced through something.

A low bellow, an inhuman sound, erupted from the big man. He wrestled the knife from Carl’s hand and, with a ferocious spark in his black eyes that made Carl’s gut twist painfully, he drew the blade across the front of Carl’s throat.

“What’s her name?” the man whispered hoarsely.

But Carl would never tell. He was incapable of telling. Blood and air whistled out of the severed larynx and trachea. In a matter of minutes Carl lost consciousness. Death followed soon after.

________

Eckker disposed of the man’s body in the shaft with the others. Then he found Masser’s silver and black pickup. As he drove the truck to the Truckee airport—where he would abandon it in the parking lot—he thought about this bad turn of events. According to the dead man’s Nevada driver’s license his name was Carl Masser. He must have come for Maggie. But how did Masser know where Maggie was?

Robby? Who was Robby?

He thought hard. This Robby had seen him kill. When? Who? Maggie or Belinda? Then he recalled that rainy afternoon in the woods. Maggie—no, it was Belinda that time. Belinda had gotten away from him at the church. She had given him quite a chase. An hour later he had caught her near the east boundary, and it was there they had shared their last moments together. He forced his mind to concentrate on that particular part of the hunt. Belinda had been in sight the entire time. At one point, just before bringing her down, he’d seen her stop and stare at something on the ground, but only for a moment, then, with him close behind, she’d raced on a dozen more yards. End of hunt.

Eckker squeezed his eyes shut tightly. Now he remembered. He’d heard something in a stretch of saplings just below Cutter’s Ridge—the cliff had partially given away in the steady downpour. A wounded animal, he’d guessed. Before he could investigate, he was interrupted by the sound of someone approaching. Not wanting to be discovered, he’d quickly retreated.

Robby? Robby who? Masser knew. He hadn’t meant to kill Masser. He’d lost control. In one of his black rages he’d slashed the man’s throat before he realized what he was doing.

It was his temper that always got him in trouble. If only people wouldn’t cross him, wouldn’t give him reason to snap like that.

He thought of Celia. Beautiful Celia with her long blond hair and innocent blue eyes. His first love. He’d been sixteen, nearly twenty years ago, but the memory was still so fresh, so vivid. He had found her all alone at the lake that afternoon. He still loved her even though she had been responsible for the eighteen months he’d spent on the detention farm. He offered her another chance, but she’d struck out at him, called him names, threatened to have him locked up again. He couldn’t bear being locked up, he loved the open spaces too much. So he’d snapped. Even now, after all those years, he still thought of Bluegill Basin as their place. He hadn’t been back. But Celia was still there, tied to an anvil in the deepest part of the lake. Waiting.

Eckker pulled to the side of the road. He emptied out Masser’s wallet on the seat of the pickup. Sorting through the credit cards and paycheck stubs, he found half a cocktail napkin with a name and number written in red pencil: Roberta Paxton 555-2441.

Roberta Paxton.
Robby.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Roberta, with Tobie sharing her bed, slept fitfully. The running nightmare played over and over in her head, leaving her exhausted by morning.

Roberta called Sophie, told her that her sister was in town and she was taking the day off. Then she tried Carl again. No answer. She’d call again that evening.

Over a breakfast of toaster waffles, canned peaches, and coffee, Robbi told Tobie about their proposed day at the lake.

“Hurry and eat, Jake will be here soon,” she called out on her way into the bedroom.

Into a tote bag she stuffed a change of clothes, a couple of swimsuits, Windbreaker, sunscreen, and some toiletries.

“Who’s Jake?” Tobie asked, entering the bedroom.

“A doctor I know.”

“Is he cute?”

“Judge for yourself.”

“He’s cute. I can tell by your voice and the spacey look in your eyes,” Tobie said. “What about Donald?”

Robbi paused. Should she tell her sister that her relationship with Donald was probably over? She snapped the tote bag closed. “You ask too many questions.”

A few minutes later, when the yellow school bus arrived filled with nine outpatients of St. Mary’s Hospital and several parents, Tobie and Roberta boarded.

As the bus headed for the freeway, Jake introduced everyone. Robbi noticed that some of the children were without hair—a side effect of chemotherapy; several of them were missing limbs, but all of them appeared bright-eyed, energetic, and ready for a day at the lake.

At the lake, the children marveled and exclaimed over every little thing. Some fished with Tobie, others were taken on boat rides by Jake, and the less ambulatory sat with pails and shovels along the sandy shore. They ate from deli box lunches on the beach.

At six p.m., the group boarded the bus for the journey back to Reno. Jake, Roberta, and Tobie stayed behind. They stood in the road and waved back at the kids in the belching, backfiring bus until it turned the corner and disappeared.

As a gentle breeze rippled the lake’s surface and stirred the leaves of the aspens, they climbed into Jake’s vintage ‘40 Ford pickup and started off around the lake.

They took Highway 28 to Kings Beach, then cut off north on 267, the road to the Paxtons’. The three filled the tiny cab. The stick shift lever rose out of the floor and Robbi, no matter where she put her legs, seemed to be in the way when Jake shifted gears, which he did often on the curvy two-lane highway. They both pretended not to notice, but the charged air in the cramped quarters was palpable.