One Scream Away (12 page)

That was Mo Hammond, a neighbor. Mo ran a hunting ground and a gun range, and he had combined the Bankes acreage with the adjacent land he already owned. He stocked it all with deer, pheasant, even wild turkeys. Mo didn’t have to worry about stocking the land with rabbits. They repopulated themselves, and he sold their feet at his store. Hard, velvety little stumps with sharp claws, dangling from metal rings.

Sick.

The shooting range was at the opposite end of the property; there was also a shop with guns for both rental and purchase, a field for target practice and skeet shooters, and the rest of the land, of course, was for hunting. It had always amazed Chevy that hunters would pay thirty-five dollars an hour to sit in a deer stand and wait for a half-tame animal to wander by, shoot it in the neck from twenty paces, and watch it convulse in a swift, silent death dance. Where was the sport in that? Chevy had seen a sign once in the hands of a protester picketing the grounds:
IF HUNTING IS A SPORT, THEN WHY DON’T THE DEER KNOW THEY’RE PLAYING?

Chevy agreed. His prey always knew.

Jenny’s favorite spot came into view through tiny spring buds on the trees—a shallow, dammed portion of the river, where beavers had unwittingly constructed a fine little swimming hole. Chevy had come here almost every day as a kid, watching the river from a twelve-foot-high deer stand Mo had arrogantly built years before he owned the property. Now, Chevy climbed up the rungs to the deer stand and pulled Jenny up with him, pushing away years of rotted leaves and pine straw, the pungent scent singeing his nostrils.

“Here you go,” Chevy said, getting Jenny settled. “You remember how we used to come here as kids?”

“I remember. It’s so peaceful. I missed it when I was gone.”

Chevy’s heart turned over. Gone. Jenny had been gone for so long. He remembered the day she disappeared like a movie watched in freeze-frames: Running around the house, frantically looking for the baby… His mother dabbing Clorox near her eyes, until they were red and watery and her nose was running, too… Sheriff Goodwin taking her statement and questioning Chevy, not quite believing… Everyone in town—from the sheriff to the minister to the school counselor—searching the house, the shed, the gardens… Grandpap oddly silent, and Mother weeping so convincingly…

He opened his eyes and looked at Jenny, rolling his shoulders to try to keep the tension at bay. He had her back now. That’s all that mattered.

“Hey,” Chevy said, “did I ever tell you that I came here after you disappeared, waiting for you? I sat in this deer stand and watched them search. They used helicopters and search teams in bright orange vests and Mo Hammond’s hounds. I remember the lights and flares and sirens. Even after they all gave up and told me you were dead, I came here every day.”

“I knew you wouldn’t forget me. I knew you’d find me, someday.”

Chevy blinked back a tear.

“Hey, c’mon, Chev. It wasn’t your fault.”

Yes, it was his fault. No one had believed him. Mother was too good. The tears, the singing, the flowers. She had everybody fooled.

Six months after Jenny disappeared, Chevy finally accepted that his baby sister was never coming back. Ten minutes later, he shot Mother with her own .38.

B
eth watched the T-ball team attack the snacks. Two of the moms handed out juice boxes and peanut-butter crackers, while the kids munched and giggled and eventually began to disperse with various parents and guardians. Beth made her way to the coach to remind him they were going to visit Abby’s aunt, so Abby would miss the rest of the week of practice. He acted like it was a mortal sin.

When Beth’s phone rang, her heart stopped. She forced herself to look at the number.

Boise. Margaret Chadburne.

“Hello,” Beth said, sticking one finger in her ear. Abby was climbing on the monkey bars with a girl named Vanessa, their hats dropping into the dirt as they hung upside down. Beth strolled as she talked to Mrs. Chadburne. Yes, Beth had received a package this morning and the latest doll had arrived safely. No, they still hadn’t seen the second two dolls, but Beth was certain they’d turn up.

Abby ran up and grabbed Beth around the waist. They nearly toppled.

“Mrs. Chadburne, I have to go,” she said, laughing and putting a finger over her lips to Abby. “I’ll let you know as soon as I’ve had a chance to look at the new doll.”

She’d barely hung up when Abby grabbed her arm. “Come on, Mommy. You promised we could go feed the ducks. I saved them my crackers.” She held up her package.

Beth sighed; it was their tradition at Chester Park. She trailed Abby to the pond. Abby climbed down over some rocks to the edge of the water and shook the bag of crackers. No dummies, the ducks started toward them.

“Hey,” a deep voice said, “what did the first duck say to the second duck?”

Beth jumped, whirling toward the voice. Neil Sheridan strode down the bank.

“Mommy, look!” Abby cried, scrambling back up the rocks to greet him. Her face beamed. “I don’t know, what?”

“You quack me up.”

Abby screwed her face into thought. “You’re not very good at jokes, Mr. Sheridan.”

“Everyone’s a critic.”

“Wanna come feed the ducks with me?”

He chucked her under the chin. “Maybe in a few minutes. I need to talk to your mom first.”

“Okay.” She turned, watching the ducks head toward an inlet. “Mommy, can I go over there on the bench to feed them?”

Beth looked around the park. A jogger loped by and gave her a friendly wave. She recognized him, waving back and measuring his distance from the bench as she took mental inventory of the other people around: several families, a teenage couple, kids playing Frisbee.

And, of course, Sheridan.
He won’t let Abby get hurt.

“Go ahead,” she said to Abby. “But don’t get too close to the water.”

She and Sheridan watched her go, strolling a few yards behind like lovers. Except for the fact that Beth’s nerves were suddenly like live wires.

What keeps you from sleeping, Ms. Denison?

Dear God, she’d almost told him. Had Evan not appeared on her doorstep, she might have risked everything just for one more kiss, just to sink against his body and let
him
be strong.

She glanced up. Sheridan eyed the lake, a muscle twitching in his cheek.

“You had something to talk to me about?” Beth asked, the suspense killing her.

“Keet’s,” he said.

Beth’s jaw dropped. Then she pulled herself together and lifted her chin. “There’s nothing illegal about practicing marksmanship at a lawful shooting range.”

“No. It’s only illegal to practice marksmanship on people.” He looked straight into her eyes. “Even obscene phone callers.”

She blanched, and Sheridan saw it. His whole body seemed to turn to stone.

“Jesus, it’s true,” he said, staring at her. “My God, you’re waiting for him.”

“N-no.”

“You want him to find you.”

“I don’t want him to,” she snapped, “but he’s going to. I have to be ready.”

He grabbed her shoulders. “Damn it, you’re in over your head. This man is a killer.”

Nausea clenched her belly.
Oh, God, he knows. He knows about Anne Chaney.
But then sanity crept back in, and she remembered what Adele Lochner had said.

They didn’t even know Bankes’s name—they’d been trying to get it from Beth. If they didn’t know who he was, they couldn’t possibly know about Anne Chaney’s murder, or that Beth had been there the night Chaney died. The one who got away.

Unless…
This man is a killer
. Unless he wasn’t talking about Anne Chaney.

Beth swallowed; it was like choking down sand. “Wh-when?” she whispered.

“When what?”

“When did he kill someone?”

Sheridan’s gaze narrowed on her face, confused. Beth felt the shell of her armor give a little, and she knew that tiny crack was all he’d need to force his way in. But it couldn’t matter anymore. “Please,” she said. “I need to know.
When?
”

“Wednesday night, the night he called you from Seatt—”

“Oh, my God.”

“And last night in Indianapol—”

“What?” Beth stepped away, reeling. She stumbled, looking at Abby and the ducks even as she struggled to get both her lungs and her mind to function. “Oh, no. Oh, no. Oh, God.”

“Beth,” he said, catching her arm. He got in her face. “The man who’s calling you is dangerous. If he’s got you believing anything different—”

“He doesn’t!”

He went still, as if that acknowledgment momentarily stunned him.

Hold on. Think. Protect Abby.
Wednesday. Last night
.

Not Anne Chaney, so many years ago. Someone else. This week. Now.

She closed her eyes. Tears squeezed out.
Oh, Abby, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.

“For the love of God, Beth, tell me what—”

“His name is Chevy Bankes! It’s me he wants.” Tears spilled down her cheeks. “Why would he kill someone else? It’s
me
he wants. And Abby.”

“What do you mean, it’s you he—”

Abby screamed.

B
eth ripped from Sheridan’s hands. He wasn’t a step behind her as she dashed down the bank to Abby, where the flock of ducks had taken to the air in a confusion of squawks and thundering wings. Sheridan actually batted birds from his face as he ran, feathers flying, and he reached Abby a heartbeat ahead of Beth.

Abby was crying. But no one was near her. She was okay.

Beth skidded to a halt as Sheridan gathered Abby up, one hand holding her ankle. Her shin was bleeding.

Beth scanned the park. The jogger who had passed earlier came down a path about twenty yards from the water, heading straight for them.
No
, Beth thought, and gave a slight shake of her head. He changed courses and veered away, cutting a wide swath around them.

“Easy, sweetie,” Sheridan was saying, crooning in Abby’s ear, but his eyes were on the jogger. Missing nothing. “You’re okay.”

“Oh, Abby.” Beth was still shaking. She took Abby and held her until the crying eased, then examined her leg more closely. “It’s just a scrape, sweetie,” she said, finally breathing more easily. “You’ll be okay.”

“I s-slipped on that rock,” Abby sputtered, pointing at a boulder in the sand.

Sheridan sank into a crouch. “How ’bout a kiss for that boo-boo?”

Beth shook her head. “That’s never worked with Abby. Kisses don’t make—”

But he kissed Abby on the leg anyway, and her tears vanished. Wrestler, protector, kisser of boo-boos.

Emotion knotted in Beth’s throat. It was crazy, childish even, to think now that she’d confided in Sheridan, he could somehow make her troubles go away. She wasn’t a child. Besides, her wounds were ancient—scarred over and numb, not raw and bleeding. Her pain had healed years ago.

“Don’t argue with me or ask me to explain.” Sheridan spoke in her ear. “Take Abby to your car.”

“What—”

He put a finger over her lips, and for some reason beyond logic, Beth didn’t argue. She followed as he slanted Abby a deceptively casual smile and swallowed her hand in his.

Beth’s pulse quickened as they hurried across the park, and Sheridan challenged Abby to a race through the parking lot. He buckled her into the backseat of the SUV—in short order, Beth thought distractedly. Finally, she couldn’t stand it anymore.

“What happened that made you sudd—”

He shushed her with a gesture, already holding his cell phone to his ear. “Get Billings on her again,” he said into the phone. Pause. “Okay.”

Beth was stunned. “Are you going to tell me what’s happening?”

“Not now. I need you away from here.” His eyes had gone hard. “Drive straight home and stay there until you hear from me.”

“I don’t take orders fr—”

“Damn it, Beth, trust me. I’ll take care of everything.”

I’ll take care of everything. Let me handle it.

He must have seen the fear in her eyes. He took both her shoulders, his voice almost a hush. “Beth, promise me you’ll go home and wait, just for a little while.”

Arguments spun through her mind, but Sheridan’s quiet fervor rolled the protests under. That and the surprising pressure of his lips against hers. His fingers dug into her hair, his body pressing into hers and his lips dragging an answer from Beth’s throat.

“All right,” she said.

Chevy walked into Mo Hammond’s Gun Shop, an illogical little bell tinkling as he entered. Mo was helping a customer—a big, flannel-shirted redneck wearing a bandanna. Chevy wandered the store, keeping his back to Mo, browsing the handguns and pistols. Five minutes later, when Bandanna Man headed to the shooting range for an hour of free target practice, Mo locked up the ammo case and came out from behind the counter.

“Hey, there,” he said. “Anything in particular I can set you up with?”

Chevy kept his face carefully downward, as if pondering the Hekhler Koch P7 in the gun case. “Could be. I heard this was the place to come.” He sensed more than saw Mo’s frown. “For packages, not guns.”

Mo stared, then his jowls dropped to his chest. “Jesus. Chevy?”

Chevy smiled.

“Son of a bitch. Chevy.” He offered a meaty hand and pumped Chevy’s. “Son of a bitch.”

“So have you got some packages for me, or not, you big bastard?”

“Yeah, yeah. I got ’em, Chev. They’re all here, ’cept the ones you asked me to mail back to you in Seattle. I thought maybe you’d forgot about the rest of ’em. It’s been a while.”

“It took some time to take care of things. Hope it wasn’t a problem.”

“No, no, ’course not. Come on in the back. I just let ’em sit there ’til I heard from you again.”

“You never opened them?”

“Now why would I go an’ do that? The only time I even moved ’em was when I painted the place about two years back.” He threw the dead bolt on the front door and gestured for Chevy to follow him. They went to the back; Mo unlocked a closet.

“There they are, three of ’em, right?”