Deceit, p.3
Deceit, page 3
Once Tom died I couldn’t bear to take Billy Bass off the wall. Once in a while I even turned it on just to hear it sing. It always made me think of Tom. But by now the batteries had died.
Oh, Tom, I need you now.
Turning away from Billy Bass, I walked down the hall to peek into the laundry room, then the second bath on my left. I saw nothing askew. All the same I stepped inside each room to inspect the window locks.
My bedroom remained. I entered the room, which ran the length of the house from front to back. The bed was still neatly made, its magenta comforter meeting a matching dust ruffle. The drawers of my two dressers were shut, scattered framed pictures of me and Tom untouched. Near the window facing the front yard sat an armchair—my favorite place for reading. The novel I was halfway through sat on the chair. A romance.
Why did I torture myself like that?
More important questions nagged me. Once I found Melissa—then what? How to convince her to come forward now, after six years of hiding such a terrible secret?
I checked all my bedroom windows. Still locked.
On dark impulse, I picked up the phone on the nightstand by my bed. Pushed talk. The dial tone hummed in my ear.
The beige-tiled master bathroom looked normal. I lifted aside a window curtain and pressed my face to the glass, peering into the backyard. My two gnarled oak trees bent beneath the deluge like wizened old men. I could barely make out the black wood fence at the rear of my property.
If someone had wanted to approach my house unseen, this was the night to do it. But no way could Hooded Man have come inside without leaving footprints, a trail of water.
Which he easily could have cleaned up.
Another violent shudder possessed my body—both of fear and penetrating cold. I should take a hot shower. But stepping under that nozzle would place me in such a vulnerable position. Naked. Running water masking other sounds.
Time to install a burglar alarm. In the quiet town of Vonita, I’d never before felt unsafe.
As I pulled back from the window I caught sight of my reflection in the glass—a pitiful sight. My chin-length brown hair was plastered to my head, my face looking white and clammy. My dark, frightened eyes appeared sunken, and the lines running from my nose to mouth cut deep. Age fifty-two, nothing. I could have been sixty-five.
I dropped the curtain into place, a needle of despair piercing deep. Linda’s disappearance had been terrible. Tom’s death one year later had aged me. We’d never been able to have children—a crucial loss Linda and I had in common. I’d felt so alone since Tom’s passing. Now this. Suddenly a part of me didn’t want to find Melissa at all. I was just too tired.
Maybe I should move away from this town, start a new life. I could live anywhere in the country, since my work was done from home.
But I’d have to leave Dineen and Jimmy—my only family. And how could I ever live with myself, knowing Baxter Jackson still walked the streets? Linda deserved justice. And if Cherisse had been murdered, so did she. If I did manage to present the Vonita police with evidence of Baxter’s guilt regarding Linda, they’d likely take a second look into Cherisse’s death.
My teeth chattered. I had to warm up. In a flurry of motion I peeled off my clothes and turned on the shower to hot.
As I stepped into the tub, a frisson shook my shoulders. I swiveled my head, focused with sharp eyes on the bathroom door. My bedroom and the whole empty house loomed in my mind, full of shadowed corners and unknowns. I hadn’t checked closets.
Where had Hooded Man gone after he’d disappeared? Where was he now?
“Jackson will kill you if he finds out.”
My jaw tightened. I didn’t want to give in to fears. Hooded Man had relayed his information and was now long gone.
Stubborn imaginings chewed my mind.
Unclothed, skin still wet from the rain, I battled cold worse than ever.
Exhaling aloud, I wrapped myself in a towel and traversed the chilly bathroom tile in my bare feet. I walked out into my bedroom, crossed the room, peered down the hallway. Nothing. Just my house. Lit. Safe.
Why couldn’t I believe that?
With a firm hand I shut my bedroom door. Locked it. No harm in being cautious.
Back in the bathroom, I locked its door also.
The shower pelted hot water, steam rising from the tub. My soaked skin couldn’t bear another minute of cold. I hurried over to the tub and stepped inside. Yanked the shower curtain shut. Eyes closed, heart thumping, I surrendered myself to blessed heat.
SIX
Hot water never felt so good.
I stepped out of the tub, body red and muscles throbbing with heat. The long shower had beat my headache back to a dull pinch. My thoughts had settled into grim determination. I would find Melissa Harkoff. And I would start tonight.
Bruce Whittley and the other skips I was being paid to find would, by necessity, still claim my work days. So what if I lost a little sleep working on Melissa’s case after hours? And for the moment I still had the rest of the weekend.
My fingers itched to get started.
Quickly I dressed in a sweat suit and super-warm socks and blow-dried my hair to keep my head warm. A new and volatile wind moaned around the back corner of my house. It taunted that I would never find Melissa. That she’d made herself as invisible as the brazen air that formed its groaning.
When I shoved those thoughts aside, questions about Hooded Man nibbled my mind. Had he driven out to Stillton and waited to flag me down as I returned from Dineen’s house? If so he’d stashed his car on some turn-off. Or had someone dropped him there, prepared to pick him up after the message was delivered?
A bloody-cheeked mask. Why had he chosen that? Didn’t he know such a visage on a wild-weather night would be frightening? Why not wear a clown mask, or a Richard Nixon, for that matter?
Right, Joanne. As if those would be any less scary.
Whatever the reason, Hooded Man had obviously gone to great lengths to hide his identity. A telephone call would have been so much easier. But he was no doubt paranoid about the number being recorded. Maybe he knew just enough about skip tracing to think I had super capabilities on both of my phone lines. I didn’t. My home line would record a number just like anyone else’s—if the ID wasn’t blocked. But I did also have a “trapline” using an 877 toll-free number, which recorded all incoming numbers whether the ID was blocked or not. Traplines are one of my many crafty tools.
In a skewed sort of way Hooded Man’s paranoia bound us together. We were both scared of what Baxter Jackson would do if he discovered my mission.
I sat down before my office computer. The clock read 9:18 p.m. Outside, the rain clawed my windows like some monster come to beg.
A shudder kicked across my shoulders.
It could be a late night, depending on how long it took until I exhausted my online tricks. This wasn’t exactly the time of day I could pick up the phone to verify information I unearthed. I’d need two things to get me through: Jelly Bellies and music.
In my bottom drawer, I consulted my Jelly Belly stash. All fifty flavors were there, each labeled in its own plastic zip bag. I pulled out Sizzling Cinnamon—my flavor for mad. Cappuccino for raw determination. Green Apple for sassiness. The last one was a lie, but I needed all the encouragement I could get. I ate two of those green babies, one after the other.
From my iTunes I selected my huge playlist of classic rock and clicked shuffle. Chicago flicked on—“Baby, What a Big Surprise.”
Apropos.
Pumped up and ready, I opened a new file, then hesitated in naming it. If the worst happened and Baxter somehow discovered what I was doing, I didn’t want Melissa’s information easily found on my computer.
My fingers typed in “HM” for Hooded Man.
The familiar thrill skidded down my spine. The hunt had begun.
SEVEN
JUNE 2004
Melissa stumbles up the hall from her tiny bedroom, arms against the thin walls for balance. The smelly trailer lists to one side, as if it’s about to fall over. Melissa’s feet slide and drag, the hallway never-ending. She’s heard a noise and needs to see what has happened. It’s something terrible. Now it’s so eerily quiet, not a peep from her mother. “Mom!” Melissa calls, but the only response is the echo of her own frightened voice. She tries to move faster, but her muscles feel like they’re weighted with lead.
The trailer stretches, stretches, until it’s as long as a football field. Chill bumps pop out on Melissa’s arms. Way at the end she can see the back of their ragged couch, the metal frame around the front door. Beyond the living area lies the tiny, crusted kitchen. No movement there. No stream of mumbled cussing. Where is her mother?
Cigarette smoke thickens the air. Melissa sucks the biting odor into her lungs with every panted breath. Fear and rage swirl in her head until she can’t tell one from the other.
The trailer shifts. Suddenly she’s in the living room. She focuses across the small area, over the stained carpet onto broken linoleum at the kitchen’s edge.
Sticking out from behind a cabinet is a bare, yellow-toenailed foot.
A squeak pushes up Melissa’s throat. She runs around the couch, cuts left toward the kitchen. She jumps past the cabinets—and sees the blood.
Her mother lies on the floor, face up, eyes open and glazed. A shocked expression wrenches her hardened face, as if she’s just stared into hell. A gash digs into her forehead, blood smeared down her temple, into her ratty fake red hair. One hand lies on her motionless chest, fingers spread. The other is fisted upon her hip. A foot away lies a bottle, half its contents spilled on the linoleum. The sharp-sweet smell of whiskey clogs Melissa’s nose.
Whiskey—this early in the day?
A strangled cry dies on Melissa’s tongue. Her feet cement to the floor. She stares at her dead mother, disgust and anger and panic squeezing her lungs. Thoughts hit her so fast and hard she staggers beneath their blows. Her despicable mother is gone. Melissa is alone. What will she do now? Where will she go?
Melissa moans aloud and drops to her knees. This can’t be. She wants her mother. She never hated the woman, not really. “Come back, Mom. Come back!” She buries her face in both hands and sobs. And the next thing she knows, her mother’s blood has flowed across the floor, up her legs to her arms. She pulls her hands away and stares at them, at the red ooze in the lines of her palms.
Melissa’s jaw unhinges. She tilts her head toward the ceiling and screams—
A grating whir in her throat jerked Melissa awake. Her eyes popped open, sleepy gaze fixing upon a pale blue wall. She lay on her side, right hand scrunching the flowered coverlet on her queen-size bed. Morning sun filtered between drawn curtains at one of the large windows in her bedroom.
The Jacksons’ house.
Warm relief flushed limpness through Melissa’s body. The air smelled faintly of the vanilla-scented candle she’d lit on her dresser the previous night.
Her fourth day in paradise. Sort of. If she’d let it be. Everything still seemed amazing—the house, the way Linda and Baxter treated her. It’s just that Melissa wasn’t used to things being so right. When you’d lived your whole life with a drunk for a mother, who’d just as easily slap you as look at you, it was hard to relax. Melissa’s muscles still quivered at sudden sounds—the phone ringing, a pot banging.
She rolled on her back and stared at the high, perfectly painted ceiling. The dream flashed in her head. Melissa closed her eyes. Wasn’t the first time she’d had it—in some form. Details tended to change. Weird how dreams of a real event could mix truth and fiction. Like blood flowing from the floor up to her palms.
Five months ago when she’d called 911, back turned against the sight of her dead mother, she’d had no blood on her hands. But there was a lot of it on the floor.
Later, after the autopsy, the detective said her mother had been drunk. Yeah, Melissa thought, tell me something I don’t know. Her mom probably blacked out, stumbled and fell, he said. She hit her head on the counter, split her forehead open. She was only thirty-eight years old, but her liver was “damaged beyond repair” by cirrhosis. That by itself would have killed her soon anyway.
One of life’s little ironies.
A knock sounded on Melissa’s door. She jumped, then rose up on her elbows. “Yeah?”
“It’s Linda. Can I come in?”
Melissa had never heard that question in the trailer. Her mother had always just barreled into her tiny bedroom. “Sure.”
The door opened and Linda stuck her head inside. She wore no makeup yet, but she was still pretty. “Time to get up for church. We leave in an hour.”
Church. Melissa blinked at her. Was it Sunday already? “Oh.”
Melissa hated church. Not that she’d ever been, but she’d heard about it plenty. Full of hypocritical people. They’d probably all look down their noses at her.
Linda smiled. “Don’t look so forlorn. It won’t be bad. Really. And it’ll give you a chance to meet some girls your age.”
Who probably wouldn’t want a thing to do with her.
Melissa’s mouth tightened. “What am I supposed to wear?”
“Any of the jeans and tops I bought you. The service is casual. You want some breakfast?”
“No. Thanks. I’ll eat later.”
Linda nodded, smiled again, and closed the door. She sure did smile a lot.
For some time Melissa lay in bed, arguing with herself. She didn’t have to go to church. Nobody could make her. She’d never liked being told what to do.
Yeah, and she could also get kicked out of this nice house in a hurry. That didn’t fit into Melissa’s plans. She’d already grown used to her large, beautiful bedroom.
She huffed at the ceiling. Life was full of compromises. An hour of church, even with stuck-up people, was worth a week of living here.
Melissa got out of bed.
She threw open the door to her walk-in closet and studied the five pairs of designer jeans and two dressier slacks hanging neatly in a row. Maybe she should wear the white slacks. But if all the girls were dressed in jeans she’d feel weird.
What did she care what they thought of her?
Melissa took another five minutes deciding. With an animated shrug she pulled on a pair of True Religions and a short-sleeve blue top. In the bathroom she carefully applied the new makeup Linda had bought her. Then she stood before the full-length mirror, turning back to front. She looked good. Designer jeans were amazing.
“Morning, Melissa.” Baxter shot her a broad smile when she walked into the kitchen. He was dressed in a suit and tie, looking out at the backyard and drinking from a mug. The aroma of coffee filled the room. Linda wasn’t around. “You look great.”
Melissa eyed him warily. Four days here and she still hadn’t figured this guy out. He acted so nice. And normal. But no man living in a house like this could be normal. Besides, males usually wanted something. Her stepdad sure had, and she’d only been eleven at the time. Melissa’s mom hadn’t been around to stop it. The men who lived with them after that had been no better.
Melissa looked at the floor. “Thanks.”
Baxter walked to the sink and set his cup down with a faint click. “You want coffee?”
“No thanks.”
He turned toward her. “Anything to eat?”
She shook her head.
Baxter regarded her for a moment, concern in his expression. Melissa forced herself to stare back. Where was Linda?
“Do you like living here, Melissa?” he asked.
“Yes.”
His face softened. “Good. I want you to be comfortable. I hope in time you’ll see you can trust us. You don’t have to be on your guard here.”
Melissa felt herself go numb. No response, not a single word would form on her tongue. How did he see her so clearly? And who talked like that anyway—just saying something right out? Words were meant to be shields. Words were meant to be dances.
She lifted a shoulder. “I’m just fine.”
He opened his mouth as if to say more, then nodded.
Linda saved the moment by entering the kitchen. “Hey there, Melissa, you look terrific.” She was rubbing lotion on her hands. Melissa smelled roses. Linda wore cream slacks and a green silk blouse. She looked perfect. Melissa’s heart swelled. Why couldn’t somebody like this woman have been her mother? Why had God given Linda no children and let Melissa be born to a ratty alcoholic?
Baxter crossed to his wife and drew a finger down her cheek. “And so do you.”
Linda swiped her hand through the air. “Oh, you say that to all your wives.” She turned and grinned at Melissa. “Okay, let’s go!”
On the way to church Linda babbled about the girls Melissa would meet. Heather and Christy and Belle and Nicole. Other names Melissa couldn’t begin to remember. “They’re really looking forward to meeting you.”
Melissa stiffened. “They know I’m coming?”
Baxter glanced at her in the rearview mirror. “Sure they do. Last Sunday we told everyone we’d be picking you up in a few days. Linda was too excited to keep quiet.”
Only Linda was excited?
The thought plucked at her. Melissa pushed it away.
Terrific, she told herself. A whole church just waiting to see what she looked like. Probably been talking about her all week.
By the time she, Linda, and Baxter slid out of the Mercedes, Melissa had checked the wall around her heart for loose bricks. She’d be polite to the adults and grimace later. As for girls her age, she didn’t need them. Friends wanted to know things about you. Friends could hurt you.
No one who knew the real Melissa Harkoff, who knew the slummy life she’d come from and the things she’d done, would ever want to be her friend.
EIGHT
FEBRUARY 2010
Fifteen years ago I’d forged my way into skip tracing while working in a private investigator’s office in San Jose. The work is exciting. But unlike the portrayal on trumped-up TV shows, most skip tracing is done online. I could stay warm and dry in my house while I chased Melissa through the teeming, winding halls of cyberspace. Sitting at a computer may not translate well into television, but I find it as exhilarating as a street car chase. It is all about the hunt. The rush of stalking down pieces of the puzzle, the adrenaline surge of closing in on the skip. Mere fingers on keys, hunched shoulders, and eyes glued to the screen can’t begin to portray the real-life drama that hinges on the outcome of a search. A skip located can completely change lives. It means a criminal apprehended, a child reunited with birth parents, the recipient of a surprise inheritance, money for the impoverished children of a deadbeat dad. It forges justice, dredges tears, spews anger, builds hope.
