When Death Draws Near (3 page)

AFTER DISCONNECTING, I STARED AT THE DESKTOP.
God, how can You do this to me?

God didn't answer.

I dialed Beth's number. The answering machine picked up after four rings. I hung up without leaving a message.

Cancer. Again.

A call to my fifteen-year-old daughter, Aynslee, was next. The call went to voice mail.

I sold my house to pay for the last of the doctor bills. And the new place is delayed because I'm out of money.

Dave had left for the Torch Run in Seattle.

Robert, my ex-husband, would hardly be someone I'd want to talk to. He'd divorced me because of my cancer and was now involved with his new wife and writing career.

I found myself pacing and stopped.

How would I pay for cancer treatments this time? Insurance would kick in with the new job. But would I still have a job if I was battling cancer?

Shaking my head, I picked up the phone and dialed. Sheriff
Reed's recorded voice greeted me. I disconnected without leaving a message.

I wandered to the kitchen and stared at the sketch I'd completed. I'd drawn one iris darker than the other. I picked up a pencil and adjusted the drawing.
Someone needs to know you are never coming home.

Those dark spots on Shelby Lee's neck were from his fingers squeezing her throat.

Still holding the pencil, I moved to the middle of the room, slowly sank to my knees, and bowed my head. “God, I know You have a reason and a purpose for what You do. I also know that doesn't always make life easy. I just pray . . .” What? God knew everything, even that I would pray right now. So if He already knew the cancer would return, what good was prayer? God knew the outcome. How could anything I prayed for make a difference?

A cloak of lead settled over my shoulders.

If your cancer returned so soon after treatment, it's bound to be a very aggressive cancer. As in metastasized. Stage IV. Eventually—and inevitably—fatal.

Let's face it, Gwen. Time isn't on your side.

I stayed on my knees until the room was dark. I had to crawl to the sofa to stand again. Slowly rolling the pencil I held between my fingers, I wandered to the window, leaned against the side, and gazed at the street outside. A woman hurried up the sidewalk, occasionally peering over her shoulder. Across the street, two women clutched each other as they scurried past a dark alley. A car parked and a man got out, walked around the vehicle, then helped a woman out. He kept his arm around her shoulders until they reached the well-lit store.

Pulling the curtains closed, I returned to the table and put the
pencil next to the drawing of the John Doe. I needed to get out of this room. Go for a walk. I snatched up my purse and a jacket.

Ina Jo was still at the front desk.

“I thought you were about to get off work,” I said.

“I was,” she whispered, then pointed behind the counter. I leaned over to see her baby sleeping in a car seat on the floor. “My replacement didn't show. And the sitter isn't answering her phone. I left word, but it's just my luck.” She noticed my jacket. “Going out for dinner?”

“Going out for a walk.”

“Um, I'm not so sure that's safe. What with all the . . . you know.”

I knew all too well. “I need the exercise. Don't worry. I'm armed.” Even though it wasn't a pistol, but pepper spray and deadly accuracy at kicking men where it counted.
And I just might enjoy using that pepper spray, and kick, on someone right now. Give that rapist a whupping.

I shoved down the thought.

“Oh, that's right, you're that expert art lady with Sheriff Reed.”

The entire town seemed to know the sheriff had brought me here. Again the prickle of unease tapped me on the neck.
Why did the sheriff bring me all the way from Montana to Kentucky, then want to send me right back?

“Well, if you decide to eat,” Ina Jo said, “up yonder you'll find a good place. Go out the front door, turn right, another right at the corner, two blocks up, and turn left. Can't miss it.”

I thanked her and left.

The late-October evening breeze had an apple-crisp snap. Amber and rust leaves rustled underfoot, with streetlights spotlighting the sidewalk. I focused on the sights and smells,
pushing down thoughts of the earlier phone calls. I walked over to the suggested eatery, but the smell of fried food made me gag. Turning to the empty street heading back to the hotel, I tucked my hands into the pockets of my jacket.

A car engine revved and tires squealed on the pavement behind me. I glanced back.

A pair of blinding headlights barreled straight toward me.

I hurdled my body left, rolled, and smashed against the brick storefront.

The black truck roared past, missing me by inches, and raced around the corner.

I lay on the sidewalk, heart pounding, unable to move for a moment. The smell of the spinning tires burned my nose. The street was empty. No witnesses.

Shaking, I shoved off the ground and leaned against the building. I'd scraped my hands and knees and ripped my pants. The contents of my purse had spilled across the sidewalk. I slowly gathered everything up.

Limping, I made my way back to the hotel. I could phone Clay and tell him someone had attempted to run me down. Or was it a drunk driver?

The lobby was empty of people but echoed with a screaming baby. I raced to the front desk and peered over. The wailing sobs came from Ina Jo's baby, still in the car seat on the floor. Her fists waved in the air, eyes were closed, and face scrunched up and red. Hurrying around the counter, I checked the office behind the registration desk. A series of small television screens flashed black-and-white views of the hallways, elevators, pool, workout room, and breakfast area. Even though the quality was poor, I could see no sign of Ina Jo.

Returning to the baby, I picked her up and hugged her, gently rocking. Her squalls turned to whimpers. The smell coming from her diaper gave some of the reason for her howling. I went back to the security screens and checked again for signs of the woman. They flickered, would go blank, then kick back on. Ina Jo didn't appear.

The baby's whimpers grew, and I looked around for a diaper bag. This time I noted a jacket and car keys on the small desk, a purse resting on an office chair, and an overturned garbage container.

The automatic doors hissed as they opened.

I ran to the front desk.

The babysitter rushed over to the counter. “I came when I got the message—” She froze when she saw me. “Where's Ina Jo?” She reached for the baby.

I handed her over. “I was hoping you knew. Her baby was screaming when I came in.”

Motioning her behind the registration desk, I pointed to the keys, jacket, and purse. She started to reach for them, but I stopped her. “Do you recognize them?”

She nodded, eyes wide open. “She would never leave her baby alone. Ever.”

Ushering us both into the lobby, I called the police department. “I'd like to have a welfare check on a crying baby and possible missing person.” I gave them the facts I knew, then hung up.

“You don't suppose
he
kidnapped her?” the sitter asked.

“Let's not speculate.” I did anyway. Ina Jo was about the same age as Shelby Lee. If the rapist kidnapped her from a public place like this hotel, he'd grown incredibly bold.

Shortly, a female officer arrived and I gave her the information I knew. I left out the black pickup that tried to run me down. I wasn't sure why.

Once back in my room, I dropped my jacket on the sofa and returned to the sketch of the John Doe. Closing my eyes, in my mind I superimposed Ina Jo's face over that of Shelby Lee in the hospital.

Tomorrow I'll get a copy of the police report on Shelby Lee.

The screech of bus brakes and chatter from a large number of people came through the window at the front of the hotel. The noise grew as they reached the lobby, turning into a chant for some team.

I thought of Ina Jo.

“Attention, attention,” someone spoke through a megaphone. “Please retrieve your luggage before going to your rooms. Pick up your room assignment from Doris. We'll assemble here in the lobby at 0600.”

Trying to ignore the laughing, joking, door-slamming, luggage-squealing commotion in the hall, I turned on the hot water in the bathtub. While the tub filled, I tended to my scrapes. The room phone rang just as I settled in. I jumped from the tub, but the ringing stopped before I could get out. I lay back in the hot water. I could still feel the baby in my arms. It had been close to fifteen years since I held my own daughter like that.

I'm scheduled to fly home in less than forty-eight hours.

I'd placed my cell on the shelf by the tub. Picking it up, I dialed. “Welcome to Delta Airlines,” the recorded voice said. “Please choose from the following menu items—”

“Cancel a flight.”

THE NOISE LEVEL HAD DROPPED BY THE TIME
I'd finished my bath, but before I could drift off, the
thump-thump-thump
of people in the room above me began. It sounded like they were playing basketball.

I fell asleep with a pillow over my head.

The phone rang.

I groped for it, but whoever called had disconnected by the time I answered. The digital alarm clock read 3:17 a.m.

Bullhorn returned at 6:00 a.m., reminding the partygoers of details of the event that day. I turned off my alarm, set for seven. Dialing the front desk, I felt my heart sink when Ina Jo didn't answer. “How may I direct your call?”

“Did they find her yet?”

A pause. “Um . . . no.”

I hung up. My knees and palms were still sore from the near miss the night before. Limping slightly to the television, I turned it on and made a concerted effort to focus on the day and not on the report from the doctor or missing mother. News came
on the local station, and the lead story was the rapist. I prepared a cup of coffee from the coffeemaker while I listened.

A bland-faced man seated next to an attractive younger woman was speaking. “Another woman was reported missing and is feared to be the latest victim of the Pikeville rapist.” A photo of Ina Jo appeared on the screen. “Ina Jo Cummings, a front desk clerk at the Craftsman's Hotel, was reported missing last night. If anyone has seen her, please call police immediately.”

“The sheriff's department reports no leads in the investigation,” the woman read off a teleprompter, “in capturing the man responsible for the rape of young women in the Pikeville area. Nicknamed the Hillbilly Rapist, he allegedly tortures the woman for days. Police are unsure of the exact number of his victims.”

The man spoke again. “A forensic artist has been brought in to draw a composite sketch of the suspect, and we will bring you the latest information as it comes in. Crime Stoppers is now offering a five-thousand-dollar reward in the case. If you have any information, you are asked to call—”

I turned off the set. Considering Sheriff Reed didn't want me here, I was sure getting news coverage.

The thought stopped me in my tracks. Would Sheriff Reed have wanted me to leave so badly that . . . No. All he had to do was fire me. Not run over me.

Maybe the only reason Reed brought me in was because of pressure from the news outlets. Some way to visibly show that the police were doing everything possible to solve the case. It wouldn't be the first time I'd been in that situation.

I dressed, packed up my forensic kit with the file for the sheriff, and headed to the hotel lobby. The bus crowd had pretty
much emptied the coffee on the stand by the door, and I had just enough for one cup by tilting the carafe. I tried not to hover around the reception desk and pepper the clerk with questions on what she knew about Ina Jo.

Promptly at eight thirty, Junior pulled up in front of the hotel. He didn't say anything when he saw me, just jerked his head, signaling me to follow him to the squad car.

“Good morning,” I said to his retreating back.

He muttered something in return.

I struggled to open the car door, juggling my purse, kit, and coffee. Junior didn't seem to notice. He slid into the driver's seat and waited while I loaded my things.

He pulled out as soon as I sat beside him. “Junior,” I said. “Did we somehow get off on the wrong foot?”

He glanced at me. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Well—”

Ignoring me, he focused on driving, though the fingers of his right hand tapped out a rhythm on the steering wheel.

We drove in a different direction from the hospital. “Where are we going, Junior?”

“Department.”

“Why?”

He didn't answer. We soon pulled up in front of the sheriff's department. The entrance featured a pleasantly laid out entrance with landscaped foliage, a small fountain, and walnut-colored, stamped concrete. Several bronze metal benches rested against the sides. Junior jerked a thumb at the front door. I took the not-so-subtle hint and jumped out, barely retrieving my things from the backseat before he took off.

The gray-tiled lobby led to a bullet-resistant, glassed-in
reception area. The officer looked up as I approached. “I'm here to see Sheriff Reed. My name is Gwen Marcey.”

“Identification?”

I removed my driver's license and slid it through the scooped-out opening under the glass.

After reading it carefully, comparing it with my face, then writing my name on a clipboard, he dialed a number. A short time later I was admitted into a bewildering series of hallways, all looking alike, to Clay's office.

He was on the phone but waved me in and pointed to a chair. “Okay, okay, yeah, got it.”

I sat and checked out the décor. A walnut-colored bookshelf on my right held a set of
Reader's Digest
condensed books. Above were several framed photographs of Clay enjoying different activities: on a boat holding up a nice-sized fish, gripping a rifle and standing over a ten-point buck, and waving from the back of a decorated convertible with a sign on the side saying
Vote for Clay Reed, Sheriff
. No photos showed Junior or anyone who resembled family. On the opposite wall was a corkboard with his collection of law enforcement patches.

He hung up and ran his hand through his hair.

Pulling out the file and flash drive, I handed them to him. “Here's the drawing I did on the unknown remains. I usually keep the original. Is that okay?”

Clay took the material without looking at it. “Yeah, yeah, sure. You heard about the woman last night.”

“I called it in. I thought you knew that and wanted me to make a report.”

“No. But since you're here . . .” He pulled out a form and placed it in front of me.

I looked at the form. “Um, Clay, why
am
I here and not at the hospital? With Ina Jo missing, and presumed taken by the rapist, we're in a time crunch. I'd like to talk to Shelby Lee as soon—”

“She's gone. Left town. Just like the others.”