Читать книгу Dead Right - Brenda Novak - Страница 11

Madeline told herself that it was just another crank call. She’d gotten a lot of them, all promising information they never delivered. But there was something different about this one. The caller had seemed so nervous, so self-conscious, so…genuine.

Irene watched her with worried eyes. “What is it?”

“Wrong number.” She conjured up what was probably a lame smile, but she couldn’t manage anything more sincere. The sound of the caller’s voice hung over her like the gray clouds outside. Who’d placed that call? If she’d really seen what she’d claimed, why didn’t she come forward, be more specific? Madeline had a list of people who said they’d witnessed this or that. But once her father had left the church that last day, no one could say for sure where he’d gone.

Movement at the window caught Madeline’s attention.

“It’s Pontiff,” Irene said.

Toby stepped through the door, looking very official in his police-issue raincoat.

Madeline immediately forgot about the caller. “Chief,” she said expectantly.

He stood dripping on her doormat as he sent a fleeting glance at Irene, then nodded politely.

“Did you find anything?” she asked.

His eyebrows gathered over his brown eyes. “Can I speak to you, Madeline? Privately?”

Madeline hesitated. She wanted to agree, simply because it’d give her a moment to absorb what he had to say before thinking about how it might affect her stepmother. But she couldn’t pull him into the tiny bathroom, and other than that her office was one big room occupied mostly by a giant printer. She wasn’t about to be so rude as to huddle in a corner and whisper while Irene was at her desk. She worked too hard to make sure others treated her stepmother with respect to ever slight Irene herself. “It’s okay. Anything you have to say to me can be said in front of my mother.”

He looked as if he might argue, but ultimately must’ve decided against it. “I don’t want you to get your hopes up, but we found some items this morning that could possibly turn into leads.”

“Possibly?” she echoed, her pulse kicking up. “What, exactly, are we talking about?”

“Some short strands of hair, for one.”

“That didn’t belong to my father?”

“They’re black.”

She knew what he was going to say next, so she said it for him. “Like Clay’s.”

It was Clay who drove it there…

“Yes.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Irene snapped.

The Montgomerys had been accused so many times, Madeline could scarcely blame Irene for sounding belligerent. But Madeline was afraid her stepmother’s attitude wouldn’t win her any points with Pontiff, so she squelched her own flicker of doubt beneath the love and respect she felt for Clay.

“Mom’s right. If you look closely, you’ll probably find my hair in that car, too. And Grace’s. And Molly’s. We took the Cadillac to church every week.”

“Saying you found Clay’s hair in the car is like saying you found Clay’s DNA in the house!” Irene added.

Madeline recognized the dislike in Toby’s eyes. As if the town didn’t have enough against her stepmother, many Stillwater residents blamed Irene for the downfall of Chief McCormick. Madeline was guessing Toby was one of them. But there was nothing Madeline could do about what had happened nine months ago, nothing anyone could do. Unlike the mystery surrounding her father, the former police chief’s affair with Irene was more than mere accusation; it was common knowledge.

“The hairs were stuck between the headrest and the seat,” Pontiff clarified.

“So?” Irene challenged.

“On the driver’s side.”

Clay had never been allowed to drive the Cadillac. Madeline had verified that in her own statement to the police.

“Maybe he took it for a joy ride once,” Irene suggested.

Pontiff’s lips barely moved when he spoke. “To the quarry, perhaps?”

“What you found doesn’t prove that.” Irene’s voice had a desperate, panicky edge that made Madeline step closer and take her hand.

“Clay might’ve been behind the wheel for reasons completely unrelated to my father’s disappearance,” she said.

“For instance…” Pontiff prodded.

Madeline quickly came up with a plausible scenario. “To move it so he could get the tractor through.”

The hair meant nothing. Like the caller today. Like all the accusations that had come before. If her stepbrother was guilty, where was the proof?

“There’s something else,” Pontiff said.

Madeline’s stomach tensed with painful anticipation. “What?”

“A small suitcase.”

“You found a suitcase? Where was it when we were at the quarry?”

“It’s more like a small satchel. It was hidden beneath the spare tire in the trunk.”

“But my father didn’t take any of his clothes.”

“It wasn’t filled with clothes. It had some rope inside.”

The anxiety grew worse. “What kind of rope?”

“Unfortunately, it’s ordinary rope that you can buy at any hardware store.”

“Is there anything unique about it? Anything that might help us figure out where it came from?”

“Not that I can see.”

Disappointment weighed heavily. “So…do you think it was used to bind my father?” Madeline hated the vision her words evoked but refused to let fear of what her father might’ve experienced stop her from asking difficult questions. “That whatever happened to him was premeditated?”

Pontiff fidgeted uncomfortably. “I don’t think the rope was used on your father,” he said. “That wasn’t the only thing in the bag.”

Madeline exchanged a wary glance with Irene. “Tell us.”

He lowered his voice, until she could scarcely make out the words. “There was also a…dildo.”

Feeling as if he’d just tied thirty-pound weights to each of her limbs, Madeline released Irene’s hand. “A what?”

Chief Pontiff had turned bright red. “A—a sex toy, you know, a dildo.”

“What would a dildo be doing in my father’s trunk?” she nearly shouted.

His blush deepened. “I have no idea. But I’m hoping we can extract some DNA from it.”

Irene’s hand clutched her chest. “After all this time?”

Madeline could tell Pontiff didn’t like Irene enough to let her put him on the spot. But since she was present, he was trying to maintain a certain level of professionalism. “The dildo itself was inside a Ziploc bag that was sealed. If it—” he cleared his throat “—if it wasn’t washed before it went into that bag, we might have a chance.”

Irene turned a shade paler. “What will that tell us?”

“Maybe there’s a victim out there somewhere, connected with another case—a case that might have witnesses or information that could help us. Chances are slim that we’ll be able to get a sample from the…object, and even slimmer that we’ll be able to tie it to someone, but we need to gather whatever we can.”

Irene shook her head. “But the connection you’re looking for could be clear across the country. Lee must’ve picked up a hitchhiker on his way home, some guy who shoved that stuff in the trunk before sinking the car.”

She’d often postulated that a drifter or hitchhiker had been involved. But no one had reported seeing any strangers the day Madeline’s father went missing. And strangers definitely stood out in a town where everyone knew everyone else and viewed the unfamiliar with a measure of distrust.

Pontiff studied his shoes. “We found something else in the suitcase, too,” he said in a resigned manner.

It couldn’t get worse…Could it?

“What?” Madeline asked as Irene echoed the same question.

He lifted his gaze, and a muscle flexed in his cheek. “Three pairs of panties. They look like they came from a girl of eleven or twelve.”

Suddenly, Madeline felt dizzy. The thought of a rope, a dildo and girls’ panties hidden together—anywhere—made her ill. No doubt they affected Chief Pontiff the same way. He had three children—all of them daughters.

“So the man who killed my father was a pedophile?” she gasped.

“That’s the way it appears.”

But how did someone like that circulate among them, going so far as to murder the town’s spiritual leader—and get away with it? Stillwater typically had little or no crime. There were only fifteen hundred residents—and not one convicted sex offender.

Collecting her splintered thoughts, Madeline touched Pontiff’s arm. “Toby.” For a moment, he wasn’t the chief of police to her. He was her friend’s husband, a boy she’d known her whole life, a caring adult like herself. “What if my father was counseling a man with…with unacceptable sexual compulsions. You know how confessions are supposed to be private, but some things have to be reported? Maybe my father was going to turn in this…this pathetic individual and was killed because of it.”

“That’s crossed my mind,” he admitted.

“If it was someone he knew well, maybe even trusted and respected, think of the resulting embarrassment.”

“Someone like that might go to great lengths to avoid discovery.”

“Exactly. So are you planning to question all the men in my father’s congregation?” This had been done before, but now they had reason to look closer.

“I might. Right now, I need the two of you to come to the station with me.”

“For what?” Irene cried.

“To see if you recognize the suitcase or the panties. We need to figure out who they might’ve belonged to.”

“You don’t think they could be mine,” Madeline said. When Irene slipped one arm around her, she realized her voice had gone shrill, but the idea of her panties, or those of anyone else she knew, being in that suitcase was too horrible to contemplate.

“I have no idea,” Pontiff said. “But I’d like to find out. And it makes sense to begin with the family.”

It did make sense; it was just that his discovery was so revolting.

“That’ll be too upsetting for her,” Irene said. “I’ll do it.”

Madeline put up a hand. “No, of course I’ll come, too. We both will.”

“Good.”

Madeline caught his elbow. “You know what this confirms, don’t you?”

He didn’t seem to know at all. “What?”

“The Vincellis and everyone who’s supported them are wrong.” A lump rose in her throat as she spoke, surprising even her. “It wasn’t Clay.”

“Maddy—” he started, but she refused to let him interrupt her.

“My stepbrother might seem dark and remote to you, to lots of people, but he’d sacrifice his own life before he’d ever hurt a child.”

Sympathy softened Pontiff’s features. “Folks aren’t always what they seem, Maddy.”

Madeline wouldn’t let it go. “I’d bet my own life that he’d never touch a child in an inappropriate manner,” she said fiercely. “He’s angry and he’s determined and he’s—” she searched for the right word to describe her stepbrother “—tough. But he’s not sick.”

“He had a hard childhood,” Pontiff said gently. “That can scar a person.”

It was the first time she’d heard Toby speak with any compassion for Clay. Clay was too capable, too strong to evoke sympathy from most people, despite his background.

“He has his scars,” she said. “But he’s always protected those who are smaller, weaker and more vulnerable than himself. Surely you’ve seen how much his stepdaughter adores him.”

Pontiff put his hand over hers. “The fact that he has a stepdaughter means I can’t take your word for what Clay is or isn’t, Maddy. I have to look at the facts. You understand.”

What she understood was that it was time to exonerate Clay and expose the real killer. Maybe the facts hadn’t stood in his favor before. But she was more certain than ever that now they would. And if the police weren’t capable of solving the case, she’d make sure Hunter Solozano did the job for them.

Madeline sat in the police station with her stepmother, waiting for Grace to arrive. The rain had finally stopped, but the cloud-darkened sky threatened more bad weather.

The heater rattled as it pumped out hot air. Officer Radcliffe, who stood at the filing cabinet in the corner, bore a sheen of sweat on his forehead—proof that the heater was working. But Madeline couldn’t get warm. Not since she’d seen what the police had found in her father’s trunk.

“Are you sure, Maddy?” Irene whispered.

Her tongue felt thick and unwieldy, but she forced it to work. “I’m sure.”

“But I don’t remember them. And lots of young girls wore bikini underwear.”

It wasn’t the fact that they were bikinis that made them identifiable; it was the picture of an island with a monkey climbing a palm tree on the back. Madeline suspected Irene recognized them, too. Her stepmother didn’t want to face what it might mean, preferred to think they were dealing with some kind of coincidence or mistake. “I’m positive.”

She’d meant to speak gently, but she couldn’t conceal her impatience. Irene was getting older and didn’t have the coping skills she’d once possessed. But Madeline was so exhausted and confused, she lacked the reserves to shelter her right now.

Why were Grace’s first pair of bikini underwear—the ones Madeline had bought her for Christmas—in a strange suitcase with some rope and a dildo? Grace was only thirteen when that car went missing.

“If you’re sure about the…the panties, there’s no need to have Grace come down here,” Irene said.

“Mom, please,” Madeline snapped.

Chief Pontiff looked up from his desk and met Madeline’s eyes. When she scowled and turned away, he bent over his work again, and she was grateful to him for giving her some space instead of getting up to offer her a drink or something. She knew he’d seen the instant recognition on her face as he’d carefully arranged each item for her view.

It wasn’t just the panties that upset her. The dildo had been there, too, grotesque in its size.

She dropped her head in her hands. The possibility that a sexual predator had had any contact with Grace at the age she’d been when she was wearing those panties sickened Madeline.

“God help us,” she whispered and began to rub her temples. Her head hurt, but not as badly as her heart. She knew Grace had problems as a teenager. Had they started because she’d been molested—or worse, raped—by some demented creep?

No. She would’ve said something…

But deep down Madeline knew that wasn’t true. Girls who’d been molested were often too ashamed afterwards to reveal their terrible secret.

“Whoever it was better not have touched her,” she muttered.

Her stepmother jumped to her feet. “I want to call Clay.”

Startled, Madeline blinked. “You want him to see this?” She waved at the panties on the table. The giant dildo sat front and center. Not that Madeline could look at it.

“I—I need him,” Irene said.

Her slightly hysterical tone made Madeline feel guilty for being so impatient a moment before. She owed her stepmother more sensitivity than she’d just shown her. Irene was the one who’d provided the love and attention Madeline had needed as a young teen. Madeline couldn’t imagine what life would’ve been like without her.

“We’re okay,” she whispered, hoping to comfort her. “We can take care of this ourselves, right?”

“No.” Irene shook her head adamantly.

“But you know Clay. He’ll go nuts if he sees this. And we wouldn’t want to humiliate Grace any more than necessary. Obviously, if something terrible happened, she chose not to share it with us. It won’t be easy for her to walk in here, especially with an audience, and admit it now.”

“Let’s not make her come,” Irene said, gripping Madeline’s arm.

Chief Pontiff glanced up again, and Madeline knew, without his having to say a word that he’d insist on it. He required Grace to confirm what Madeline had, after several shocked minutes, told him. “I’m afraid it’s important.”

“Then I need Clay,” her stepmother said. “Grace will need him, too.”

“I’d rather save him this,” Madeline argued, but it was too late. Irene had hurried over to one of the empty desks and helped herself to a phone.

Madeline considered asking her to hang up but was actually relieved that Clay would be joining them. At the very least, maybe he’d take care of Irene until Madeline could come to grips with all of this.

The door opened and Grace’s husband, Kennedy Archer, walked in, holding her hand. He had on one of the tailored suits he wore to work, while Grace was dressed more casually in jeans, Ugg boots and an attractive sweater. A pair of sunglasses hid her eyes despite the season and the inclement weather.

She’s marshalling her defenses. She knows something’s up. Suddenly, Madeline was very reluctant to see what would happen next.

Kennedy said a brief hello, although his cautious manner with Grace revealed his concern. Grace nodded in their direction but said nothing.

“Kennedy, Grace. Thanks for coming down.” Pontiff had walked over the second he saw them and was now shaking hands with Kennedy. He offered Grace his hand as well, but she’d caught sight of the articles on the paper-lined table and didn’t respond.

“What’s the problem?” Kennedy asked, his voice low and guarded.

Pontiff explained that these items had been found in the Cadillac as he motioned them closer. Grace allowed her husband to lead her, but her skin looked taut across her elegant bones.

After a moment, she swayed as if she might pass out, and Madeline stepped up to take her hand. Irene remained near the door, muttering something about Clay.

“Do you recognize any of these objects?” Chief Pontiff asked.

Kennedy went rigid. “Grace?” he murmured, and there was a world of intimacy and love in the way he said her name.

She shook her head as Pontiff pointed at the suitcase. She did the same when he indicated the dildo, the rope and the panties. But when he reached the ones with the monkey, she finally spoke. “Those were mine.”

Panic crowded so close Grace could hardly breathe. She’d known this would be agonizing. But she’d had no idea how much worse it’d be with Madeline looking on. Chief Pontiff watched, too, his expression shuttered. Even Officer Radcliffe, who stood off to the side pretending to file, was taking careful note.

Their future depended on the next few minutes—and her ability to be convincing even though she was drowning in a sea of painful memories.

“Do you know how your panties came to be in the trunk of the Cadillac?” Pontiff asked.

“No.” She wished she had the strength to remove her sunglasses and meet his gaze directly. She’d coached enough witnesses to know how to enhance credibility. But she couldn’t do it. Kennedy’s hand, holding hers tightly, reminded her that what she saw on the table was her life then, and he and their children were her life now. It was the only thing that kept her from falling apart. He was determined to get her through this. She could feel him willing her to endure and to triumph. For everyone’s sake.

Don’t let your stepfather win. Don’t let him. He said that whenever the past began to encroach on her happiness. And, so far, it had worked.

Silently, she promised she wouldn’t disappoint him and ignored the terrible stabbing sensation she remembered so clearly, along with the stench of her stepfather’s breath, his eager grunts and groans, the flash of the camera when she was in the most vulnerable positions a girl could be in.

Pontiff spoke again. “No one ever used the rope or, um, the—any of these items to hurt you in any way?”

A bead of sweat rolled between her shoulder blades.

Madeline squeezed her arm as if to say it didn’t matter, that nothing would change if she answered in the affirmative. But Grace knew that wasn’t true. Summoning more strength—from where, she had no idea—she managed to add a scoffing tone to her voice. “Of course not.”

“No one…touched you inappropriately when you were a girl?” Pontiff repeated.

She lifted her chin. “Who would do such a thing?”

“That’s what we’re trying to find out,” he replied.

Suddenly, the door burst open and Clay charged in, his thick black hair standing up in front as if he’d shoved his hand through it so many times it would no longer lie flat.

Grace was mortified to think her brother would see what was on the table. He knew, of course, but knowing and actually seeing some of the implements of Barker’s torture were two completely different things. Clay already felt guilty for the fact that he hadn’t realized sooner, hadn’t protected her. This would make his guilt even more intense.

He looked at each person. Then, when his gaze landed on the items arranged on the table, his jaw tightened and his blue eyes glittered with dark emotion. “What’s going on?”

While Kennedy explained, Grace was afraid that Clay wouldn’t be able to control his reaction. The graying pallor of his skin told her how tortured he was by the mere thought of what she’d been through, and worry for him somehow made it easier for her to cope with her own pain.

“Someone must’ve stolen my underwear,” she said when Kennedy was through. “But I have no idea when or how. Or who might’ve owned these other pairs.” That last part was true. As far as she knew, she’d been her stepfather’s only victim. So what did this underwear signify? That there were more?

The possibility of others having suffered as she’d suffered sent a chill down her spine. But she steeled herself against it. She’d think about that later. She couldn’t add anything else to what she was feeling right now.

“I used to hang all our laundry on the clothesline,” her mother volunteered from the periphery. Considering Irene’s present state of mind, it was a worthy attempt at an explanation. They’d been so poor they hadn’t had a dryer. But worthy or not, her mother seemed dangerously close to losing her composure. Grace feared that if Clay didn’t give them away, Irene would.

Throwing back her shoulders, she pulled off her sunglasses. “Right. Which meant they were available to just about anyone. I’m guessing whoever collected these—” she motioned toward the table and fought to assume her professional persona, hoping no one could tell how badly she was quaking inside “—was in the fantasy stage.”

“That was twenty years ago,” Pontiff said. “So, if he’s still around, he might not be in the fantasy stage anymore.”

Grace focused on his neatly clipped mustache. “Have you had any complaints, Chief?”

“No, but…sometimes this type of thing goes unreported.”

“That’s true,” she murmured as if she had as much objectivity as he did.

“Whoever it was killed Lee and ran off,” Irene said.

Pontiff wore his skepticism as proudly as his badge. “But no one else has gone missing.”

Irene crowded closer. “It was a drifter. It had to be a drifter. Why won’t anyone believe me?”

Clay put an arm around their mother and told her to calm down while Madeline tugged Grace from the table. “Mike Metzger lived within walking distance,” she said. “Do you think he might’ve collected these?”

Mike had long been Madeline’s suspect of choice. A week before her father went missing, the reverend had caught nineteen-year-old Mike smoking pot in the bathroom of the church and turned him in to the authorities. Mike had spouted off a few threats but the circumstantial evidence pointing his way had never been solid enough for police to press charges. Now Mike was in prison for manufacturing crystal meth in his basement, and Madeline was still harassing him with regular letters.

Grace drew enough breath to speak. Before she could say anything, however, Chief Pontiff interrupted. “We can ask him. He gets home in a few days.”

“A few days?” Irene echoed. “But he still has two years.”

“Not anymore. He’s been granted parole.”

Grace felt almost sorry for Mike. He had his problems, but he wasn’t a murderer. After a stint in prison, he’d be coming home to another maelstrom of questions about Barker.

She glanced at Clay, wondering if he was thinking about Mike, too, but saw him staring over their mother’s head at the things on the table. From the veins standing out in his neck, she knew that what he saw bothered him as much as she’d expected. Hooking her arm through his, she rubbed her cheek against his shoulder to tell him that the past was behind them, that they couldn’t allow this discovery to ruin the happiness they’d both found.

“How’s Allie?” she asked to remind him of everything they had to protect.

He blinked, then let go of Irene, who was digging through her purse for a tissue.

Grace sensed him struggling to contain his emotions, but it was only when Madeline edged closer that he managed an answer. “Fine. Allie’s…” His chest rose as he drew a deep breath. “Allie,” he finished simply, using her name as the talisman Grace had intended it to be.

“Are you okay?” Madeline asked.

“I’m fine.” He stretched his neck. “But whoever put that stuff in the trunk is one sick bastard,” he said and stalked out.

Relieved, Grace watched him go. He’d been careful to say is one sick bastard. Not was. They’d handled this meeting as well as she could’ve hoped. With any luck, this discovery would fade into the background and they’d be able to return to their lives.

As Madeline thanked Chief Pontiff for his efforts, Grace nudged Kennedy, indicating that they should go, too. She didn’t want to be in the same room with those panties, or with the other objects, either. The person she’d been was not the person she was now. “Grinding Gracie” was the one who’d been raped, repeatedly, by her stepfather, but Grinding Gracie was dead and gone. Grace wouldn’t be her anymore, she’d reject her pain, her inadequacies, her needs.

But halfway to the door she heard Madeline say something that made her freeze.

“How long will it take?”

“Depends on the lab. Could take a few weeks. Could take months. Without a suspect, we don’t have a legitimate reason to ask them to rush.”

Graced turned back. “You’re going to try and get a DNA sample?”

He nodded.

“From what?”

“Everything.”

“But it’s been nearly twenty years! Any DNA will be too degraded.”

“Not necessarily. This stuff was sealed up tight.”

She felt the pressure of Kennedy’s hand, warning her to be careful. She was sounding panicky, but she couldn’t help it. “But what good will getting a profile do?”

Pontiff’s eyebrows rose. “What good will it do?”

“It’s only helpful if you have something to match it against,” she said, “and you don’t even have a victim.”

Wearing the same rubber gloves he’d used while laying out these objects, he started putting everything back into a brown paper sack. “True, but like I told Madeline, there might be other cases out there. Besides, you never know what we might come up with in the future, right?”

Pontiff knew her professional background, knew she should readily agree. So she did. But she was praying the whole time that the scientists at the lab wouldn’t be able to develop the sample he hoped for. If they did, she knew whose DNA they might find. She also knew they might be able to match it to the panties she’d just identified as her own.