Читать книгу Innocent Target - Elisabeth Rees - Страница 13

The air inside the house was heavy and moist, the result of an unseasonably warm day in an Oklahoma winter that was likely to result in a thunderstorm. In the living room of her home, Kitty Linklater wiped her brow with a cool cloth, holding it to her temple and sighing. She’d worked up a sweat after sitting at her computer for almost five hours, writing her latest article for the county newspaper, the Comanche Times. She read the headline aloud: “‘Bethesda Man Challenges His Murder Conviction.’” Hovering her finger over the send button, she hesitated, knowing that the article was controversial, likely to enrage the townsfolk and increase her unpopularity.

But Kitty was no stranger to controversy or unpopularity. For twelve months, she had been investigating the murder of a local teenage girl, found at the side of the road two years previously, her body callously burned to destroy evidence. The small town of Bethesda had reeled from the brutality of it and the residents breathed a collective sigh of relief when a man was arrested, tried and convicted of the crime. Kitty was the only person to feel devastated, because that convicted man was her beloved father, Harry, and she was now utilizing her skills as a freelance investigative journalist to try to prove his innocence. She had initially placed her faith in the justice system, hoping that the truth would win the day, but after the verdict was announced, she knew she had to begin her own investigation.

Her cell phone rang in her pocket, shrill and sharp, causing her black cat, Shadow, to jump from her lap. He ran from the room indignantly, swishing his tail.

She pulled the cell from her jeans. “Hello.”

“Hey, Kitty.” The voice belonged to Sarah Willis, editor of the Comanche Times. “You’re late on your deadline.”

Kitty was given a weekly slot in the paper, trusted by Sarah to fill it with a mix of investigative coverings and opinion pieces on the most interesting and significant stories in the county.

“It’s done,” she said. “I’m about to send it to you now.”

“What is it? Please tell me you’ve moved on from the Bethesda murder.”

“I wrote another piece about my father being wrongfully accused.” She ignored the groan on the other end of the line. “It’s an important story. I have to cover it.”

“No, you don’t, Kitty,” Sarah said strongly. “This is the third time you’ve subbed a piece about your father. It’s not right. You can’t continue to use the paper to push your own agenda.”

“I know it looks bad, but this could be a huge story. I uncovered some new evidence that supports my dad’s claim of innocence.”

“You did?”

“I managed to track down a guy who was in the Starlight Bar on the night of the murder. You remember that’s where my father spent the entire evening when the girl was murdered?”

“And he spent the entire evening there because he’s an alcoholic, right?”

“That’s not relevant,” she retorted. She was sick of people judging her father because of his addiction. “The guy from the bar says he definitely saw my dad there and he’s willing to go on record as a witness.”

“Is this guy also an alcoholic?”

Kitty recalled the man’s ruddy complexion, his shaking hands and his rotting teeth. “Probably, but that doesn’t make him a liar.”

“No, but it makes him an unreliable witness. There were four men besides your dad in the Starlight Bar on that night and none of them could validate his alibi in court, right?”

Kitty had been over this a million times before: aside from her father, there had been three drinkers in the bar, plus the owner and bartender, Harvey Flynn. Of the three drinkers, one had died of liver disease, one—the man she’d found—was an out-of-towner the police couldn’t find, and the third had no memory of the evening due to excess alcohol consumption. Only Harvey Flynn was ruled to be a credible, available witness and he claimed not to have seen Kitty’s father all evening.

“I know what you’re going to say, Sarah,” Kitty said. “A jury convicted my father on the evidence, but this new witness just might be enough to throw the conviction into doubt.”

“Listen to me.” Sarah’s voice was sympathetic, but Kitty knew her boss was exasperated. “After your last piece about your father went out, I received a ton of complaints from people in Bethesda. They don’t want you reminding them of what happened to that poor girl. This is the last time I’ll allow you to submit an article about the murder.”

Kitty pinched the bridge of her nose. Since her father’s incarceration, she’d been spending a huge amount of time investigating the gruesome crime, neglecting her paid journalistic work. The Comanche Times was one of very few steady sources of income and she couldn’t afford to lose it. Until recently she’d housed a tenant in the self-contained apartment attached to the house, but he’d moved out two weeks ago, and money was tight.

“Okay, I understand,” she said finally.

“Great. Give me your latest piece and I’ll get it in tomorrow’s edition.”

Kitty clicked off the phone, walked to the open window and gazed at the beautiful Chinese pistache tree in the yard. Her father had planted the tree ten years ago as a memorial to Kitty’s mother, after cancer had stolen her from them. Her death had been the catalyst for Harry’s drinking, the coping mechanism he had so recklessly chosen in his grief.

A floorboard creaked above and Kitty called out to her little black cat. He would no doubt be hungry, having waited patiently for his dinner while his mistress furiously tapped on a keyboard.

“Shadow,” she called. “I have some nice fish for you.”

She went into the kitchen, retrieving a plastic tub of cod fillets from the fridge and turning on the radio for company. She was beginning to feel terribly lonely in her lakeside house, set in beautiful woodland but secluded and isolated.

There was another floorboard creak overhead. “Come on, Shadow. Where are you?”

A meow sounded at her feet and her cat wound himself through her legs. She froze for a second, a lump building in her throat. If Shadow was here, then who or what was upstairs?

She swallowed hard, telling herself not to panic. She put down the tub of fish and walked into the hallway, peering up the staircase.

“Hello?” she said tentatively. “Is somebody here?”

As a precaution, she took her cell from her pocket and punched in 9-1-1. She didn’t intend to actually place the call, but it didn’t hurt to be ready, just in case.

Ascending the stairs, Kitty kept her ears attuned to any sounds. A sudden noise made her jump. Flattening her back against the wall in the upstairs hallway, she placed a hand over her heart to try and steady it, telling herself that there must be a rational explanation for the sound, like an object falling to the floor.

“There’s no one here, there’s no one here,” she chanted, as if repeating these words would calm her nerves.

She then thought of the small figurine that she kept on her dresser by the window in her bedroom, a gift from her parents for her eighth birthday. Maybe the new drapes had gotten caught in the wind and knocked it onto the rug.

Pushing open her bedroom door, she went into the neat and orderly room. There on the floor was her little figurine, lying on its side beneath the open window, exactly as she had suspected. She stooped to retrieve it just as the door slammed shut behind her with an almighty bang. She sprang up and swiveled around. There was a man standing just a few feet away, a ski mask covering his face, a long-bladed knife in his hand. She screamed, but he remained as still as a statue, his chest rising and falling with heavy breathing.

“Wh-what do you want?” she managed to stutter.

His chilling reply let her know that this wasn’t a burglar.

“I want to kill you.”

She replied with the only thing that came to her terrified mind. “Why?”

“Because you wouldn’t leave well enough alone,” he said, advancing toward her.

She began to back away. “What do you mean?”

“You should’ve accepted that your father killed Molly.”

“But I know he didn’t.”

“You know too much,” the man said. “And that’s why you must die.”

He lunged with his knife. She had no time to think. There was a gun in her dresser, but she had no opportunity to retrieve it. She grabbed the nearest thing to hand, a vase of flowers, and hurled it at the man’s head. The heavy glass bounced off his shoulder and he yelled a curse word, dropping his knife. Kitty tried to snatch the handle but he was too quick for her. Within seconds, the weapon was back in his grasp and she was again at his mercy.

Then she remembered the cell in her hand and hit the call button with her thumb, backing away to the open window. Not daring to bring the cell to her ear, she heard the emergency operator’s faint voice, asking which service was required.

“Police,” she yelled. “62 Lakeside Drive, Bethesda. There’s an intruder.”

Her rear end was now against the windowsill. There was nowhere to go except through the opening. She turned and leaped from the room, out into the clear air, landing in a jumble of limbs and leaves of the old oak tree. She tumbled down, hitting branches as she went, which knocked the breath from her lungs. Her cell flew from her hand and she came to rest on the grass with a thump. She was sore and scratched, but not seriously injured.

She looked up and saw the man leaning through the window, watching her haul herself to her knees. For a brief moment he appeared to be considering descending the same way as she had, but then changed his mind and disappeared from view. That meant he intended to reach her via the stairs, which would take only a matter of seconds. She picked herself up and ran toward the main road, not daring to look back or imagine what would happen if she failed to outrun this wild attacker.

“Help!” she screamed into the empty woods. “Please somebody help me.”

* * *

Chief Deputy Ryan Lawrence surveyed the quiet street outside the station. When he’d taken the job as the chief deputy at the Bethesda station one week ago, nobody had warned him it would be so quiet. His hometown of Lawton, with its almost one hundred thousand residents, was huge in comparison to this little town of barely three thousand. He’d agreed to transfer to the small satellite office in order to take a promotion that would put him in line for the sheriff’s election in a few months’ time. He just hoped that landing his dream job as county sheriff was worth the endless monotony of this sleepy town.

The radio clipped to his belt crackled to life: “We’ve got a report from Kitty Linklater of an intruder at 62 Lakeside Drive. Immediate assistance required.”

He grabbed the radio and spoke into it as he retrieved the truck keys from the hook. “I’m on it.”

Ryan raced along the road that led to the Linklater home—the former residence of the murderer Harry Linklater. It was the place where Harry’s daughter had dreamed up ridiculous notions of proving her father’s innocence and freeing him from prison. Ryan had hoped he’d be able to steer clear of this misguided woman, but she apparently needed his help, so his personal feelings would have to be put to one side.

He knew that Kitty was deeply unpopular in these parts, reviled for her unwavering support of her father and regarded as sullying the memory of the murdered girl through her newspaper articles questioning the jury’s verdict. Molly Thomas had been a gifted musician and a straight A student, a girl whose only mistake had been to accept a lift from Harry Linklater when hitchhiking to a party. Molly’s last known words were a text to a friend: Catching a ride with Mr. Linklater, see you in ten minutes. But she never made it to the party and was found dead a few hours later. Molly’s untimely death had shattered the whole county, and now perhaps someone wanted vengeance.

He turned onto the lane that led to the lake, instantly seeing a woman who he assumed was Kitty sprinting in his direction, covered in leaves and twigs, blood trickling down her face. And behind her was a man dressed in jeans and a hoodie, a ski mask covering his face. Ryan slammed on his brakes to avoid hitting Kitty, jumped from the truck and raised his gun at the suspect.

“Stop right there,” he commanded, pointing his weapon. “You’re under arrest.”

Kitty stood in the lane, her eyes wide with fear, her hands trembling at her sides. The masked man stopped dead, looking between Ryan and the lake, as if assessing his escape routes. Then he turned and ran toward the water, a blade glinting in his hand.

Ryan gave immediate chase.

He was gaining ground on the suspect, but not enough to buy him the time he needed. When the man reached the jetty, he jumped into a small wooden boat and used the blade in his hand to quickly cut the mooring rope. He then activated the motor and pushed it to maximum throttle, sending a wash of water cascading onto the pebbles along the shoreline. Ryan came to a halt and could do nothing but watch as the intruder made his escape over the glittering lake.

Ryan holstered his weapon and walked back to Kitty, finding her sitting in the passenger seat of his truck, staring straight ahead, shock written across her face. He slid into the driver’s seat.

“I’m Chief Deputy Ryan Lawrence from the sheriff’s office in Bethesda,” he said. “Are you Kitty Linklater?”

She nodded.

“I’m sorry to say that your intruder escaped across the lake,” he continued. “Can you tell me exactly what happened here?”

Her voice shook with emotion. “Somebody is trying to kill me.”

“Did he hurt you? Do you need medical attention?”

“I’m not hurt,” Kitty replied. “At least not physically, anyway.”

He studied her face. Her eyes were the darkest brown, a perfect match for her hair, and set in an exotic and striking face. It was a cliché, but she had movie-star looks, reminding him of a young Sophia Loren. Yet her clothes were anything but glamorous. She wore threadbare old jeans and an oversize shirt, both of which appeared to be torn from a scuffle or a fall.

“Why do think that this man is trying to kill you?” he asked, flipping open his notepad. “Try to stay calm and tell me all the relevant details.”

“I’ve been investigating the murder of Molly Thomas in an effort to prove that my father couldn’t possibly have done it,” she said. “And now that I’m getting closer to the truth, the real killer wants me dead.”

He nodded silently, pushing down a sudden rush of anger. Murderers like Harry Linklater always denied their crimes. Ryan had seen it all before. The monster who’d killed his sister, Gina, when she was only nine years of age had protested his innocence for almost twenty years. Despite overwhelming forensic evidence against him, Cody Jones had repeatedly tried to appeal his conviction, with no success. It was only twelve months ago that Jones had finally admitted his guilt in the hope of securing a successful parole hearing. Men like this were liars, manipulators and tricksters. And Harry Linklater was no different.

Ryan’s distaste must have shown on his face, giving his feelings away.

“You don’t believe me, do you?” she said, a note of resignation in her voice. “You think my father’s guilty, just like the rest of this town does.”

Ryan recalled being drafted from Lawton two years earlier to assist with the forensic sweep of the area where Molly had been found dead. He had arrived before the body was moved and it was a sight that would haunt him forever. Harry had attempted to burn Molly’s remains to destroy the evidence, but it wasn’t quite enough to cover his tracks.

“It doesn’t much matter what I think,” he replied, reaching for a first aid box in the glove compartment. “Because a jury found your father guilty and he’s now serving his time. I’m not interested in protecting your father, Miss. Linklater. I’m interested in protecting you. So let’s stick to the facts of the matter, okay?”

He took a wad of tissue from the first aid box and held it to her forehead, where a small cut was bleeding.

“The fact of the matter is that this man wants me dead,” she said, taking the tissue from his hand and applying her own pressure instead. “Because he wants to hide the truth about Molly’s death. It’s proof that my dad is innocent.”

Ryan didn’t buy this one bit. Proof involved actual evidence—evidence like traces of Molly’s blood on the seats of Harry’s car and his total lack of verifiable alibi. Harry was guilty. Everyone but Kitty knew it.

She stared him down. “I don’t expect you to believe me, but I know I’m onto something, and when I finally prove that my father was wrongfully imprisoned, I’ll happily accept an apology from you, Chief Deputy Lawrence.”

With the blood drying on her face and her eyes blazing, she had the appearance of a soldier straight from the battlefield. And he was quietly impressed by her resolve. But he had no desire to indulge her fantasies of her father’s victimhood. There was only one victim in this scenario and she was buried in Bethesda town cemetery.

“I can promise you that I’ll thoroughly investigate this attack and do all I can to bring the perpetrator to justice,” he said, starting up the truck. “So why don’t we drive on down to your house, where I can take a full statement from you. Are you okay with that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Please call me Ryan. May I call you Kitty?”

She shrugged, which he took to be an affirmative answer. Dark clouds had been gathering in the sky for hours and he heard the first distant rumble of thunder. There seemed to be electricity in the air, sparking an atmosphere inside the truck, building to an inevitable storm.

* * *

Kitty sat in the kitchen, checking her statement, while the new deputy thoroughly scanned the house and yard for any clues regarding the intruder’s identity. He walked into the kitchen with a solemn expression. The peals of thunder had intensified and a quick, sharp flash occasionally lit up the room.

“Well, at least this storm should clear the air,” he said, sitting down at the table. “Are you happy with the statement?”

She nodded while sliding it over to him.

“Do you live alone?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“I noticed that you have a separate apartment here. I thought you might have a tenant, perhaps.”

“I did,” she said. “But he decided to leave after some of the townsfolk told him he shouldn’t be associating with me.” She picked at a worn spot on the table with her fingernail. “I’m a social outcast, you see. Frank Price at the hardware store even started a petition to have me banned from Main Street.”

“While I don’t approve of that kind of petition, the town has every right to object to your antics.”

“My antics?” she questioned, folding her arms. “And just what is that supposed to mean?”

His green eyes rested on her face for a long time, impossible to read. His red hair and freckled skin gave him a boyish appearance, but those eyes were definitely grown-up and sensible.

“Nobody wants to believe there could be a murderer in their family,” he said. “And I understand what you must be going through—”

She put up her hand to cut him off. “Hold on a minute. How could you possibly understand what I’m going through?”

“My sister was murdered by a stranger when she was only nine years old,” he said, his eye contact unwavering. “Being that close to such a brutal crime is tough. It never leaves you.”

She bowed her head, a sour taste spreading in her mouth.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m really sorry.”

“The man who killed my sister is in prison serving a life sentence, so at least we got to see justice done.”

Despite his efforts to sound fair and avoid condemning her, Kitty knew that, just like the rest of the townsfolk, he probably viewed her actions as pointless and misguided, the antics of a loyal daughter, brainwashed to trust her father wholeheartedly.

“It’s good that you got to see justice done,” she said, deciding to be bold. “But justice hasn’t been served for Molly. Her killer is still out there.”

She noticed the flare of his nostrils, the clench of his jaw, and she knew that she had correctly identified him as a disapprover. Ryan moistened his lips as a flash of lightning streaked across the sky behind him, followed by the low rumble a few seconds later.

He leaned over the table on his forearms, fingers intertwined. “Your continued investigation into a crime that’s already been solved is rubbing people the wrong way. Someone might have gotten so riled up that he’s looking to punish you for it.”

She was incredulous. “Are you saying it’s my fault someone tried to kill me?”

“Absolutely not. You have the right to ask questions and print newspaper articles and challenge the jury’s decision to convict. You have the right to do all of those things without fear of repercussions, but I’m just asking you to consider whether it’s in your interest to continue pushing your opinion on people.” He pulled a small twig from her hair. “I really don’t want to see you get seriously hurt.”

She picked up her empty coffee mug and walked to the sink to rinse it out.

“I have to take that risk,” she said, her back to him. “I don’t expect you to understand and I don’t even expect you to care, but I know that my father didn’t kill Molly. He gave her a ride to a party at the Suttons’ farm after she’d fallen at the side of the road and cut her knees. That was why her blood was in his car. He left her alive and well at the bottom of the lane that leads to the farmhouse.”

She watched Ryan’s reflection in the kitchen window, rubbing his neck and giving an almost imperceptible shake of his head.

“I guess it sounds crazy to you,” she continued. “You see my dad as just another ex-con who’ll say anything to pass the blame on to someone else. Plus, I’m guessing you know that he served time in prison for armed robbery when he was eighteen.”

Ryan nodded.

“He changed his ways a long time ago. He’s not a bad person.”

“From what I understand, he tied up two people at a post office and threatened them with a shotgun before robbing the place. Is that correct?”

Kitty ran a hand through her hair, gathering the strands in her fist and gripping them tight in frustration. “That was thirty-five years ago. Don’t you think people can change?”

Ryan scraped his chair on the linoleum as he stood. “Like I already said, I’m more concerned about you than your father. I don’t like the thought of you being here all alone.” He shifted on his feet, fingering the edges of his hat. “So I might have a potential solution.”

She turned around and leaned against the sink. “You do?”

“I’ve been commuting eighty miles from Lawton and it’s pretty tiring, so I’d rather live closer to the station. I’ve been looking for a room to rent.”

She smiled wryly as she realized what he was getting at. “You want to rent the apartment?”

“It would mean I’m only ten minutes from work, and I can be here on hand in case your attacker comes back.”

She said nothing for a while, listening to the clatter of raindrops on the deck outside. This man had admitted that he thought her father guilty. Could she stand to share living space with someone who so openly doubted her father’s innocence? All she wanted was for one person to believe her, just one single individual to support her investigation. When Ryan had rushed to her aid, she had briefly hoped he might be that person, but now those hopes were dashed.

“You should know that I use this house to coordinate the campaign to free my father,” she said. “So if you’re likely to be offended by that, you should look for another place.”

“I don’t share your opinion,” he said calmly. “But I’m not offended by it.”

She wanted to shout and scream, to tell him that her opinion was correct. But doing so would be a pointless waste of energy.

“Some of the townsfolk might turn on you,” she added. “Lodging here could seriously damage your reputation.”

“My reputation can take the hit,” he said. “Please don’t worry about me, Kitty. You’re the main concern here.”

She had to make a decision either way. She would feel safer with someone else here. And the electricity bill was overdue. “When would you like to move in?”

“Tomorrow afternoon?”

She swallowed her doubts and took the plunge. “Okay. I’ll get the place ready for you.”

“Thank you. I appreciate it.”

Following him to the front door, she said, “The only thing missing from the apartment is a kitchen, so you’ll have to share mine. Maybe we could decide on a roster so we won’t get in each other’s way.”

“I won’t get in your way. You won’t even know I’m here.”

Somehow, she doubted that very much.

“Lock all the windows and doors when I’m gone,” he said. “And if the intruder returns, call me immediately.” He handed her a card containing his contact details. “Even if it’s the middle of the night.”

She took the card, rubbing her finger over the embossed lettering of Chief Deputy Ryan Lawrence, and watched him sprint through the rain to his truck. The air temperature had plummeted with the storm and she shivered, feeling the sinister presence of her masked attacker all around her.

The intruder would return. Of that she was sure. The only question was when.