One Scream Away (13 page)

Chevy glanced at the boxes, all wrapped in brown packaging and addressed to Mo by Chevy’s own hand, postmarked April 10, 2002. “Right. Three of them.” The first five were long gone: three mailed from Boise, and two never to be seen again. Chevy felt a rush just thinking about it.

“Damn it, Chev, you look good,” Mo said, scratching his head. “Hard thing, comin’ outta prison not fucked up. Never did believe you offed that woman in the woods. The Hunter, they said. Hell, the Chevy Bankes I knew never even liked to hunt. And the way you always mollycoddled that little sister of yours, why I just knew you didn’t have it in you to take a woman out and shoot her in the back.”

“You always did know me better than anyone else, didn’t you, Mo?” Chevy asked. He was careful to say it casually, without accusation. But Mo might have caught it anyway; he shuffled his feet.

“So, you wanna take these with you now, or what?” Mo asked.

“I’ll take them. I need some empty boxes, and maybe to borrow your truck for a while, okay?”

Mo frowned. “My truck, er…” He looked at his shoes, actually dug his toe into the floor like an eight-year-old. Chevy put a hand on his shoulder. A subtle reminder of favors owed.

“Go ahead,” Mo said. “I need it back by six, though.”

Chevy looked at his watch: three o’clock. Arlington was less than two hours away.

Not that it mattered whether he got the truck back by six. Mo wouldn’t be needing it.

The hairs on the back of Neil’s neck stood on end as he watched Beth’s Suburban pull away from the park.

“Rick,” he said into his phone three seconds later, “the name of the man calling Denison is Chevy Bankes. See what comes up.”

“Bankes.” Rick was apparently writing down the name.

“And I need for you to run a plate,” Neil said.

“Whatcha got?”

“I don’t know, maybe nothing.” But he knew better. A jogger had circled around twice after Abby’s fall, rubber-necking, then gone to a Chevrolet Lumina, guzzled some water, fiddled with stuff in the trunk. Killing time, watching. Now, the man was gone, but his car wasn’t.

“Shoot,” Rick said, and Neil rattled off the tag numbers and letters.

Rick left the phone to call in the plates, then came back. “ID will come through in a couple minutes, and I put someone on the name Bankes. You know anything else about him?”

“No. Beth just gave me the name.”

“How’d you get that out of her?”

“I told her he was a murderer. That’s all it took. She almost fell apart on me.”

“Ah, man. Okay. Well, I just finished reading through everything we’ve got on Foster’s Auctions.”

“And?”

“When Mike Foster died, he left the business to his wife, Carol, who hired their nephew, Evan, to run it. They never had children of their own. He’s an MBA from Harvard and seems like an upstanding enough guy. I can’t find any connection from the missing or dead women to any of the Fosters.”

“What about a connection to Gloria? I never looked at an antiques angle with her.”

“Denison was still a student in Seattle when Gloria died. What could there be connecting them?”

Neil didn’t know and, for the moment, didn’t want to think about. He skimmed the sea of cars, looking for the jogger. He worked his way across the parking lot, up and down the spotty aisles of cars. He came to the jogger’s Lumina and peeked in. Three fast-food bags, a thermos, and several cups. Either this guy had an eating disorder, or he’d been in his car for a while.

“I also looked at Waterford, the guy whose highboy is in Denison’s workshop,” Rick said. “He hasn’t been out of Charleston in the last two months, and his voice doesn’t match the one on her phone.”

“Beth’s still on his shit list.”

“Which does nothing for us. Look, if she’s ready to talk, we’re gonna need her. The thing in Indiana has turned this into interstate murder, and the FBI’s putting together a task force. A guy named Armand Copeland is the Special Agent in Charge. Is he any good or just a geek with a laptop?”

“I don’t know him, but don’t knock it. One thing they’re good at in the Bureau is geeks with laptops. I left a message for Geneviève Standlin this morning. She always liked me, didn’t want me to leave the Bureau.” Of course, he wasn’t sure that would matter. The last time he’d seen her, he’d told her to stay the hell out of his business and leave him alone.

Neil started toward the wooded border of the parking lot, searching the trees for the jogger. Instinct made him touch his gun. The man had simply vanished.

“Okay,” Rick said, “here it is—your license plate info. Chevy Lumina, two thousand one, dark blue. The owner’s name is Joshua Herring. He’s a—”

Neil heard a sound. He whirled and went for his gun, but too late. Everything went black.

H
is wits surfaced when he hit the ground. He struck with enough sense to roll, the cell phone scattering shards of plastic all over the pavement, his gun dropping. He came to his knees, filaments of light spraying from his eyes like tiny, silent firecrackers, and groped for the nearest car to right himself.

The jogger rammed him back over the hood of the car. A gun arced through the air toward Neil’s head. He grabbed the man’s wrist and twisted, wrenching the flesh, then spun from the hood of the car. They separated long enough for Neil to scoop up his gun, but the guy hit him from behind and they both went down, rolling and snarling like two wolves.

In the distance a woman shrieked, and someone screamed to call 911. Neil dragged the brawl over the curb, into the woods and away from bystanders, but beyond that, his only salient thought was for Abby and Beth—and why this brute had been stalking them.

“Son of a bitch.” He lunged and caught the guy’s forearm, slamming it up against a tree. The man’s fingers sprang open, his pistol thudding to the ground. Neil drove his .45 into the bobbing Adam’s apple.

“D-don’t sh-shoot d-d-don’ t—”

“Who are you?” Neil growled. A warm river of blood trailed down the back of his neck. “And I’d better like your answer, or your brains are gonna fertilize this park for the next five years.”

“ID. B-back p-p-pocket.”

“Lie down.”

The man dropped to his knees—Neil helping—then stretched out on his stomach, lacing his fingers obediently behind his head. Neil reached into his back pocket and dug out a wallet. He looked at the driver’s license, then double-checked the next ID and sifted through a small stack of cards: VISA, American Express, Starbuck’s, Blockbuster, and—Jesus H. Christ—a local library card. He read the name on the license again, thought about what Rick had been saying when the world went black, and rolled the man to his back.

“You’re a private investigator?” Neil asked, incredulous. “Watching Beth Denison?”

“Joshua Herring. Herring Investigations.” He spit blood from the corner of his mouth.

“Why are you watching Beth Denison? Who hired you?”

“That’s confidential infor—”

Neil grabbed Herring’s shirt collar, dragged him to a stump, and spread Herring’s fingers on it. He held the hand immobile and lifted his .45 in the air, as if aiming the butt of the gun at the pinky.

“No-no-no! Okay,” the man sputtered, turning three shades of yellow.

“Who hired you to watch Beth Denison?” Neil repeated.

“
She
did!” he squealed. “I was keeping an eye on her daughter. Denison was afraid her ex-husband might come for the little girl.”

Neil waited, needing a moment for that to sink in, while sirens wailed to a stop in the parking lot. He dropped his arm and yanked Herring to his feet, then heard the unmistakable sounds of footsteps, cocked pistols, angry voices.

“Stop! Police! Drop the weapon!”

Neil looked up, letting go of Herring and dangling his gun on the tip of his finger. “Well, shit,” he said.

Chevy sat in Mo’s truck in the far corner of the parking lot at St. Mary’s Catholic Church, just outside the District. His own car was in long-term parking at the airport—safe for a while, anyway. He didn’t know what was going on in the church. A rehearsal, a service, a meeting. Whatever it was seemed to have ended about thirty minutes ago. The parking lot had cleared out except for three or four vehicles parked way out here in the back forty—employees, he presumed, or die-hards who would be the last out of the building. He was counting on at least a couple of them being women. And at least one being alone.

He turned up the volume of the tape, sinking into the smooth, plush upholstery. Killing unsuspecting animals must be better business than he’d imagined: Mo’s truck was a 2009 four-by-four, soft leather interior, double cab, a dashboard that resembled a cockpit.

State-of-the-art sound system.

“No. Please, sto-o-o-p. Please don’t hurt me…”

His latest acquisition from Indiana. Stunning.

He closed his eyes, letting the woman’s cries wash over him. One of his better kills, and he was glad: He wouldn’t have the luxury of taking his time with this next one. This one had to be quick and easy. No time for tapes, no time to even dump the body. Just
pop
, match the doll, and get the hell out of here.

He pulled out the next insurance form and picture:
1866 Benoit. Bisque head and breastplate, nice wood body. New blouse, but other clothing original. Superb condition. Appraisal: $30,000–$35,000.

Yes, this one should be no trouble at all.

She came out the side door of the church—Chevy chose her the moment he saw her—and walked to the wing that was a preschool or something. She disappeared inside, then reappeared five minutes later with a large paper bag. She headed through the parking lot, coming toward him. Chevy’s nerves tightened. He straightened, took stock of the cars that were left: two SUVs, a minivan, a couple of sedans. If hers was one of the bigger vehicles…

He scanned the rest of the parking lot, his blood starting to tingle. No one else around. She passed the first sedan, the first SUV. Chevy’s knee began bouncing in anticipation. Not the Honda, not the Honda. Any of the others except the little Honda—

She pushed a button in her hand, and the headlights on the Dodge Caravan flashed. A surge of excitement rushed through Chevy. The minivan: perfect.

“Jenny,” he said, his voice straining, “I’ll be right back.”

He ran through the inventory before he got out of the truck, making sure he had everything: new pistol from Mo Hammond—a little .22; wedding ring on his finger. Oh, and don’t forget the blouses. He reached under the seat where he’d stowed a J. C. Penney’s bag.

The woman was thirty yards away. He started toward her, a casual walk. Chevy had sandy hair and brown doe-like eyes. He was five-foot-nine. He’d read once that five-nine was the average height for white American men, but usually he wished he was bigger. Trolling for women, though, he was glad he appeared harmless. There had been women who’d teased him during his lifetime, and some who used him. Some even felt sorry for him when they found out about his sister.

But they never feared him, not until it was too late.

This woman glanced in his direction, smiled slightly, and pressed the key fob again. The side door of her van slid open.

Chevy hastened his steps. “Whoa, you dropped something,” he called out, jogging toward her. “Oh, sorry. No, I guess you didn’t.” A smile now. The one that never scared women. “Let me help you with that.”

She stood at the side door, holding the bag, ready to thank him. He shoved as she opened her mouth. She fell across the bucket seats in the back, a shriek in her throat, and Chevy climbed in behind her—on top of her, really—struggling to get the door closed. He pressed the gun barrel about an inch above her temple—no time to measure.

Fwp.
Not the echoing blast of the .38 shooting on a mountain in the Rockies or at the top of a bluff in Nebraska, just
fwp
. The woman jerked and went limp, sprawling over the console between the seats.

Chevy climbed off her and ducked down, even though the silencer had killed the sound and the windows were tinted. A few moments of caution couldn’t hurt.

But no one came. Not even Mother.

He straightened as much as the van ceiling allowed, unscrewed the silencer, and pocketed the gun. He hauled the woman up and propped her in one of the back-seats. Blood inched down the side of her head from the hole.

He got the bag of blouses, studied the woman. She wasn’t very big. He pulled out one of the pink blouses and checked the tag. Size sixteen—way too large. Dug out another. This was an eight; that would work.

He pulled off the blazer she was wearing, then cut away the short-sleeved knit top she had on underneath. Cutting was easier than trying to get it over her head. With effort, Chevy maneuvered her arms through the sleeves of the pink blouse and buttoned it up the front. He was sweating by the time he got her blazer back over it. Dead bodies—even small ones—aren’t easy to manipulate in the back of a cramped van.

But it was done. Chevy straightened the six inches he could, looked at the insurance form picture of the doll, then looked at the woman. There was a little more lace on the blouse in the photo, but the likeness was good enough.

He opened the woman’s purse, looking for her cell phone. Lord, how long had it been since he’d had a safe phone to call Beth?

He couldn’t wait to hear her voice when she realized where he was.

The call came three hours after Sheridan sent Beth home from the park. Abby was watching a movie. Cheryl and Jeff were due to arrive home late tonight, and Beth was planning to leave early in the morning for the four-hour drive to their house. She just had to make it through tonight.

Trust me.

She fed Abby, put in
The Aristocats
, then beat up her sandbags. Showered, stared at the phone, and wondered what Neil Sheridan was doing—now that he was the possessor of her deep, dark secret.

His name is Chevy Bankes! It’s me he wants, and Abby…

Oh, dear God. I’m sorry, Abby.

Finally, Beth went to the basement and buried herself in the second of Mrs. Chadburne’s dolls—the one that had arrived just this morning. She actually held her breath as she unwrapped it. These dolls were rare, and as early as European fashion dolls were known. Others—Brus and Simon-Halbigs in particular—had been made in the 1870s and later. The Benoit dolls were earlier, fewer, and their workmanship unparalleled. This one was marked 1865 and bore the standard half-crescent mark of the Benoit manufacturer on the back of her neck. Her torso was kid leather, with bisque arms and legs. Beth began peeling off the clothes to take a better look, starting with the ruffled skirt and petticoats, the bloomers—