Nowhere to Hide (31 page)

The instant the cruiser pulled into the yard, Carl was out the door. "Myra, honey,
are
you all right?"

"I’m fine," she snapped. "For God’s sake, Carl, stop fawning." The moment the words were out, she apologized. "The truth is
,
I’m not all right. My head feels like it’s coming apart. I’m going upstairs to lie down for a while. I’m sorry I can’t help you, Lieutenant."

When she was gone, Mike explained to Carl why he was there. He’d no sooner finished when the phone rang.

"It’s for you, Lieutenant."

It was Gabe. "Some kid just delivered an envelope addressed to you. It’s got the same red printing as on the other stuff."

"Open it."

After a pause, during which Mike could hear paper tearing, Gabe said, "It’s a lock of hair.
Kind of reddish gold.
Feels silky."

Mike closed his eyes. Then he said, "Any note?"

"Uh, yeah.
Says, ‘A little keepsake, lieutenant.
Enjoy.’ Sorry, Mike."

"Who did the kid say gave him the envelope?" His voice had a ragged edge. His shoulders felt as if they belonged to a very old man.

"Some woman with red hair wearing a long, black raincoat.
She approached him as he was coming out of the library.
Offered him two bucks just to run the envelope across the street.
There’s something odd about the hair, Mike. The ends are singed. You can smell it."

What have you done to her, you bastard?
"Anything else?"

"Nope.
We ran into a major snag with the vans. We got one guy who runs a delivery service with a fleet of ten. He says he’s hired a lot of people to drive for him—maybe thirty, forty—over the past couple of years. I guess the pay sucks."

That’s not the only thing, Mike thought miserably. The only bright spot he could find to focus on was Frank Burgess’ theory that the killer wouldn’t be bothering to taunt him if Ellen was already dead.

But maybe Frank Burgess didn’t know everything.

"You look like you could use a drink, Lieutenant. I’ve got some first-rate scotch I’ve been saving. Now, I don’t want to corrupt the Evansdale Police Department, but—"

"I’m officially off duty," Mike said. "And I’d be mighty grateful." He’d never felt so close to bawling since he was eight years old.

Carl had just taken the bottle out of the cabinet when the phone rang again. A woman had driven in from Southfield and was waiting in his office to see him.

"She says she thinks she knows who the killer is, Lieutenant. She caught you on tonight’s news broadcast and won’t talk to anyone else."

"Does she sound
legit.
"

"Does to me."

"I’m on my way."

"Right.
In the meantime, while Doug is pouring over some old city directories looking for past neighbors of the Betts’, I’m taking off for a bite to eat. We had a couple of leads, but..."

"Another rain check," Carl said when Mike hung up the phone.
A statement, not a question.
He was standing with a regretful smile on his face, an unopened bottle of scotch in his hand.

"Sorry," Mike said, heading for the door.

"No problem. But I’m gonna hold you to it when this is all over."

"I’d like that." He turned. "Carl, I-uh, don’t want to sound like I’m suggesting anything as dramatic as curfew, but I don’t think it’s a real good idea for your wife to be walking this road by herself right now."

"Neither do
I
. I was just about to go after her when you drove up."

Mike nodded. "I really do need to ask her some questions about Ellen, Carl.
About her and Gail’s childhood."

"I won’t pretend to understand the significance of that, but I’ll talk to her. If she knows anything at all, we’ll give you a ring."

~ * ~

Gabe sat at his favorite table in Papa Bear’s—by the wall facing the door. Officer Gabriel Levine was by nature a people watcher, and with the exception of a bus station or an airport, a bar was the best place to do it. Though right now, pickings were slim. He was one of a half dozen customers in the place. Two guys at the bar, three more—lawyers maybe—at a back table.

The TV was on with the sound turned off.
Matlock.
Gabe couldn’t stand the guy. Maybe if he didn’t yell and holler so damn much.
Even with the sound off, you could tell he was raking someone over the coals.

When his order of a beer and the house specialty, roast beef, arrived, he felt himself starting to relax a little, his thoughts slowing down. This case was making him nuts. He could only imagine what the lieutenant was feeling. Gabe was married to someone he had loved a lot once—for about ten minutes.

He hoped the woman from Southfield really had something solid. They were overdue for a break.

Gabe had decided the FBI could have sent them worse than Frank Burgess, even if he didn’t buy all that crap Burgess had spouted about why serial killers did what they did. That was the trouble with today’s world.
We’re trying so hard to analyze the
bastards,
we can’t see what’s right in front of our eyes. They’re just plain bad. Any dog breeder could tell you bad dogs are born into a litter. Why do we think people are any different?

Gabe cut into his roast beef.
Tender as a mother’s touch, depending on who your mother was.
He didn’t frequent the tavern, especially if it was busy, but he did manage a meal here from time to time. The food was edible, but it was the atmosphere that drew him. It was sort of like being in a warm, pleasant cave.

And no one gave him any bullshit about his cigars.

"Hey, Johnny," the bartender bellowed, which was Jake’s natural way of talking, and Johnny his name for any young fellow he didn’t know, "That’s a good color lipstick for you—matches your eyes." Setting the beer down in front of the man in the plaid shirt, he let out a loud guffaw, and went on wiping the already clean counter, cleaner.

Jake Pappas was the owner and operator of Papa Bear’s. He had stubbly iron-gray hair and the look of a man who likes his booze, though Gabe happened to know Jake hadn’t had a drink in more than ten years—he just served the stuff.

"Told the bitch to blot," the man mumbled, plucking a napkin from a metal holder.

Jake laughed again. "Wouldn’t kid a kidder, would you, Johnny?"

Takes all kinds, Gabe thought, continuing to eat his meal.

Forty-nine

The woman sitting in Mike’s office had introduced herself as Victoria Gray. She was nervously playing with the gold signet ring on her finger. Mike guessed her to be in her late thirties. She was attractive, brown-haired, maybe ten or fifteen pounds overweight. She was wearing a loose-fitting suit to hide the fact. Her eyes were hazel, intelligent.

"I want to say right at the start, Lieutenant Oldfield, I can’t be absolutely certain it was the same person I taught in my grade ten class. That was a very long time ago. I was hardly more than a girl myself, then. Not much older than my students."

"Duly noted," Mike said. "Go on."

"The first artist’s sketch they ran on television and in the papers meant nothing to me, you understand, but this one... anyway, the boy I remember, he was an odd boy with a very definite mean streak. He had disturbing eyes.
Liked to bully the little ones.
His mother—Lili was her name—seemed unable to control him. I called her in for a conference on a few occasions. She seemed actually frightened of him. "

"She was very pretty in a tired way.
Blond.
Exceptionally blond.
I perceived her, perhaps unfairly, as not the brightest person around, and certainly too generous for her own good, but she did seem to me a decent soul. I believe she tried. "

"She told me she was a high-school dropout, herself, that she’d gotten pregnant at sixteen and had waitressed most of her life to support herself and her son. I got the impression she was lonely, and maybe liked men—the wrong sort, of course—and strong drink, a little too well."

Mike hadn’t heard the term "strong drink" since his grandmother was alive.

Trying to contain his impatience, he said, "Something other than what you’ve told me, Miss Gray, must have happened to make you think this person is going around killing women."

He felt her bristle. "Yes. I’m coming to that. Please bear with me, Lieutenant. This isn’t easy for me."

"Of course.
Sorry. Please, take all the time you need."

"Thank you." She let out a long, shuddering sigh and Mike heard its underlying sadness. "There was a girl in my class that year by the name of Debby Fuller. Debby was cute and bubbly—a cheerleader type.
A nice girl.
She had a wild crush on this boy. Some girls are drawn to dangerous types. Anyway, I watched him play cat and mouse with her for weeks. And one afternoon out in the parking lot, I saw her get into his car. I wanted to call out, to warn her, but they were already speeding away. She probably wouldn’t have listened anyway. "

"I didn’t see her or the boy for—oh, two or three weeks after that. Actually, he never returned. The family moved away, I have no idea where to. Debby came back a much quieter, timid girl. There were bruises on her face and neck—faded, but I could still see them.
Perhaps because I half-expected to see them, because I looked for them.
I know I should have gone to the authorities, but I didn’t. I was just so relieved to have that terrible boy gone from my class, from my life. I always knew he’d come to no good end."

The woman looked drained, paler then when she’d begun her story—which Mike suspected she’d told for the first time. He also suspected it was not the whole story. Her memory was too clear.

"I think any doubts you may have had about the composite are gone now, aren’t they, Miss Gray?" Mike said quietly.

She nodded.

"Do you remember his name?"

"Of course."
Her voice was barely audible. "It was Alvin Raynes."

After a long silence, Mike laid his hand on the woman’s shoulder. "Debby wasn’t the only one who suffered at the hands of Alvin Raynes, was she, Victoria?"

She shot him a surprised look, seemed about to challenge his implication. Then she lowered her head into her hands and began to weep.

~ * ~

Alvin remained at the bar just long enough not to appear in too big a hurry to take off. He’d been looking in the mirror behind the bar when Jake made his comment about the lipstick. The guy was in plain clothes, but Alvin could always smell a cop.

Now, as he drove toward the outskirts of town, it took all his concentration to keep his foot easy on the gas pedal. Once, he saw lights flashing behind him and came close to panicking until he realized the lights were on a tow truck.

It was that witch. She was doing it to him—making him mess up. Like she’d made him take that painting back after he’d killed the Miller girl.
And now, tonight, taking off the wig and coat, then forgetting to wipe off the lipstick.
How could he have forgotten that?

He knew how.

He wouldn’t wait for the fireman’s torch. Morning was a long way off. He’d finish her off himself—tonight.

The decision made, he felt calmer. He was also feeling a warm buzz from the three beers he’d had and thought he might just have a little fun first, sample a little of what the lieutenant was getting. He began to grin, thinking about it. And then he wondered if her boyfriend had gotten the little souvenir he’d sent, yet, and what he thought about that.

Soon, he let his thoughts drift back to the cop at the bar. Alvin had been careful to keep his back to him, not to let him get a look at his face. He might start putting two and two together, though he doubted it. Cops were generally pretty stupid. Besides, Alvin didn’t think he looked anything at all like that artist’s drawing they were showing on TV.

Though it did resemble, just a little, he thought, his Aunt Mattie.

Dear Aunt Mattie.