Nowhere to Hide (22 page)

It didn’t take too much persuasion to get her to go.

They drove to a small restaurant in town, found a table at the back. He ordered for both of them. No one had done that since Ed. It felt comforting to have someone make even that small decision for her. She hoped no radical feminists were within hearing distance, but she found she really didn’t care.

"Are you okay?" he asked when the waitress left them. His deep-set sherry-colored eyes were intent on hers. It wasn’t an idle question. He really wanted to know.

"Surviving," she said off-handedly. The word made her think of Miss Layton, who had called her a survivor. She’d like to believe it was true.

She looked around at the paneled walls hung with posters of Jimmy and Marilyn and Elvis. A jukebox played in the corner.

"This is an interesting place," she said absently. "I’ve never been here."

He smiled at her and she noticed how tired he looked himself. The fine lines at the corners of his eyes seemed deeper than she remembered. He even seemed to have acquired a few more gray hairs. He was probably working around the clock. She also noticed he had a trace of a cleft in his chin. He was really quite nice looking. Not as handsome, perhaps, in the way that Paul was, but something better, deeper, more enduring. She realized she liked being with him. "Are you making any headway in the Miller case?" she asked.

"That’s-uh, something I wanted to discuss with you."

"You think he’s the same man who murdered Gail, don’t you?"

Her perception caught him by surprise. "It looks that way, except—" He stopped himself in time, remembering there was one detail about her sister’s murder she was unaware of.

"Except what?"

Her blue gaze seemed to penetrate his deepest thoughts, and he had to look away. He plucked a toothpick from its container and snapped it in two. "Except she was murdered here, in Evansdale," he said, easily, hating himself for his deception. He would have to tell her, and soon.
Just not now, not here.
There were a few pertinent facts they’d uncovered recently he wouldn’t be able to share with her until she knew. They were in the process of rounding up all known sex offenders in the area. There was a private eye who rented an office in the McLeod building, right next door to Anderson Insurance, who was getting his share of attention, and whining about his civil rights all the way. While it was true the guy had a reputation as a down-in-the-dirt sleaze, somehow Mike didn’t think he was a killer.
At least not by his own hand.

"We think the guy is right here in town, Ellen."

"So do
I
." With that, she took the note out of her purse and handed it to him.

"I found this under my windshield wiper when I came out of the police station last week."

He read it. His color drained. "My God, Ellen, why didn’t you tell me? I would never have let them pull those guys off surveillance if I’d known."

"I know. I’m sorry. I guess I should have. It was just that I was afraid you’d scare him off. That’s not all, Mike." She told him about the phone call. "
Do You Know Me?
is
the name of Gail’s new song. Her roommate told me Gail got a similar call a few nights before she was murdered."

The waitress came with their order. Broiled salmon, buttered carrots and baked potato with sour cream. It looked and smelled delicious. Ellen found she was hungry after all.

"By the way," Mike said, holding a forkful of salmon halfway to his mouth, "you did a great job on the profile. I was impressed. You’re pretty knowledgeable on the subject."

"Thanks." Her professional pride made her warm at the compliment. "But will it help you to find him?"

"Let’s hope so. Ellen, I’m going to request a female officer to come and stay with you for a few days."

"I’ll be content if you just put the car back on."

"We’ll do that, of course, but—"

"No, Mike. I won’t be held prisoner in my own home. I’m sorry, but I just won’t. What’s the good of all your fancy computers?" she snapped suddenly, laying her fork down, attracting the attention of the couple seated across from them. "Why can’t you just hook up with the other police departments, compare notes, use the process of elimination?" She was floundering. Not only was she computer illiterate, she knew nothing about police work. But there was no trace of condescension in Mike’s expression or his reply.

"We can and we are," he said. "But
it’s
possible this guy’s never had a conviction or even been brought up on charges. In that case, he wouldn’t be on anyone’s file."

She said nothing.

"And, by the way, that gun in your bag won’t do you much good if you’re asleep when he decides to make his move. And you have to sleep sometime. He
will
come after you, Ellen. Of that much I’m absolutely sure."

Hearing the conviction in his voice, Ellen shivered inwardly. "It’s what I want," she said quietly. "It’s why I went on television."

"I understand that. And I think a female officer is the answer. Will you at least think about it?" He’d only guessed about the gun, but he knew he’d guessed right. He wasn’t surprised. She wasn’t about to be anyone’s passive victim.

"All right," she said after a moment. "I’ll think about it."

"Good girl." He smiled. "She’ll be the soul of discretion, I promise—there’s no way that he’ll suspect you’re not alone. And we’ll nail the creep."

"I haven’t agreed, Mike. I said I’d think about it."

The waitress came with their coffee. When she turned away, Mike said quietly, eyeing her leather bag hanging on her chair. "Can I assume you know how to use what you’ve got in there?"

She smiled dryly. "Yes, Lieutenant, you can. It’s not that difficult."

"I suppose not. What did you use for target practice?"

"Tin cans.
My husband taught me.
In back of the house."

Mike sipped his coffee.

On their way out, they ran into Paul Henderson with a pretty, young redhead hanging on his arm. His eyes flickered briefly over Mike, and she saw his mouth tighten just a fraction before the old charm went into automatic.

"Ellen, how nice to see you.
We miss you at the clinic. Some of your clients have been asking for you. Absolutely won’t see anyone else."

Hearing the underlying note of criticism, she made some vague response and went on, Mike trailing behind.

Paul knew all the right buttons to push. But along with the feelings of guilt he’d aroused in her, was a sense of relief. At least he wouldn’t be bothering her anymore.

During the drive home, Mike said unexpectedly, "Tin cans don’t bleed, you know, Ellen."

She looked at him. "What?"

Not taking his eyes from the road, he said, "I was just wondering, well, if you could actually shoot a man. You’re a person who analyzes people, who reasons things through. Have you ever seen the damage a bullet can cause? Do you have any idea what a bullet sounds like smashing through flesh and bone?"

"I know what you’re trying to do, Mike. But you needn’t worry. All I have to remember is what he did to my sister."

Taking his hand off the wheel, he laid it over hers. The electricity in his touch surprised her, flustered her a little. "This has been hell for you," he said softly. "We’re going to find him. I promise you that."

At the door, he leaned over and kissed her gently on the mouth. Feelings she’d thought long dead in her flooded throughout her body like a warm wave.

"I’ve
been wanting
to do that for a long time," he said. "Make sure your doors are locked, and think over what I said about assigning a police woman to stay with you."

"I will."

"I’ll call you tonight."

Inside, Ellen took off her coat, gathered up the mail from the sideboard and floated out to the kitchen. His kiss was still sweet on her mouth. For once, fear wasn’t the reason for her racing heart.

Making
herself
a cup of tea, Ellen sat down at the table. The mail was mostly junk mail, as far as she could see, and a few bills. Noticing in the pile a letter postmarked Atlantic, GA, she opened it eagerly. Inside was a single page scripted in Miss Layton’s beautiful handwriting, the kind of penmanship she didn’t see too often these days. She was settling in nicely, she wrote, and thought she would get on fine in Atlanta, although she did miss the ocean and the few dear friends she’d made over the years.

"I go to sleep each night with the perfume of the lovely magnolia trees wafting through my window. The good Lord does compensate, Ellen,"
she wrote,
"although sometimes our losses are so difficult to bear, we fail to notice new and special gifts to us. Please take care of yourself, dear."

Warmly,

Margaret Layton

Smiling fondly to herself, Ellen began to sift through the rest of the mail. An instant later, her smile vanished as she looked down at her name printed in red block letters on the manila envelope.

There was no postmark. It had been hand-delivered.

Her moment of pleasure flown, she slowly opened the envelope. She felt inside for a note; there was none. She held the envelope upside down and shook it. A glossy Polaroid snapshot slid out into her hand.

At first, she wasn’t sure what it was she was seeing. It appeared to be a picture of a nude clown doll, arms out-stretched,
legs
bent at an odd angle.

Holding the snapshot closer, a buzzing started up in the air above her head as recognition struck. Beneath the grotesque, painted-on clown’s mouth, she could now make out Gail’s natural lip line, the edge of her small, white teeth between parted lips. Her blue eyes stared blankly up at her out of drawn, black triangles.

A small cry escaped her. The photograph slid from her hand onto the floor. She stood up, as if to run from the horror of what she’d seen, and had to fight to keep from fainting. She gripped the edge of the table.

Sagging back down into the chair, harsh sobs took her, sobs that convulsed her body as they tore up from the very depths of her soul. When at last her sobs subsided, all fear of him was gone, replaced by raw fury. It hadn’t been enough to rape and murder Gail. He had to further degrade and humiliate her.

Dear Jesus, how he must hate women.

Damn you, Mike! Why didn’t you tell me? How could you have let me find out like this?

Even when she was in New York, she’d sensed the unspoken words.
The secrecy.
Sensed something was being deliberately kept from her, and today in the restaurant when Mike was talking about Cindy Miller’s murder, saying it appeared that her and Gail’s killer was one and the same, except that Cindy had been murdered here in Evansdale, he’d been lying to her. True, a lie of omission, but a lie just the same.

It wasn’t what he’d been about to say. She realized now he’d been about to tell her that Cindy, unlike Gail, hadn’t been used as that sick maniac’s canvas. Mike caught himself before he did.

She didn’t believe it was simply to spare her feelings.

Upstairs, she splashed cold water on her face, quickly refreshed her makeup.

An hour later, she telephoned Mike from town. "You don’t have to bother about a policewoman, after all," she said, barely able to keep herself sounding civil. "I have a very good friend who’s going to stay with me for a few days."

"Well, that’s great. Is that your friend from down the road? Myra?"

"No. His name is Sam." Let him think what he would. Ellen cut the conversation short before he could ask any more questions.

No longer would she be satisfied with merely bringing Gail’s killer to justice. She fully intended to mete it out personally. Mike was wrong about one thing. It wouldn’t bother her even a little bit to shoot him. In fact, hearing a bullet from her gun smash through that bastard’s flesh and bone, would give her the greatest pleasure.

"Well, fella," Ellen said, turning on the ignition,
then
reaching over to stroke the lab’s sleek, gold head, "it’s just you and me, now." As if in answer, Sam, who was now curled up on the passenger seat just as if he’d always been there, laid a gentle paw on her leg.