Читать книгу Final Warning - Sandra Robbins - Страница 11

5:00 a.m.

The bedside clock glowed in the early morning darkness. C.J. moaned and pounded her pillow into shape once more. Last night, when she had arrived home and checked her computer, she saw that another e-mail had awaited her. With shaking fingers she opened the message and read it, her eyes growing wider with each word.

You didn’t guess, my first move’s through,

Someone now is blaming you.

You should have stopped my fun-filled spree,

Death surrounds you, wait and see.

Fala

Chilled by the reminder of a maniacal laugh and a sinister message, she had cowered underneath the covers.

With a groan, she sat up in bed. She couldn’t sleep anymore because of her worry about Fala’s e-mail, so she decided to go for a morning run to distract herself.

A few minutes later she walked into the kitchen. Dressed in sweats, her key ring hanging from her wrist, she adjusted the band covering her ears and headed into the cold. Very few lights burned in the neighborhood houses on the street. How she envied those sleeping peacefully in their beds.

She approached the intersection at the end of the street, the slap of her tennis shoes on the pavement beating out a steady rhythm. She had laid out the square that composed her two-mile route when she first moved in the neighborhood, and it never varied. Left from her driveway, right on Crump Avenue, right on Knight’s Way, right on Bellevue and finally back onto Lansdowne. She always breathed a sigh of relief when she made that last turn onto her street and jogged into her driveway.

There were never many vehicles on the roads this time of morning. She liked it that way—alone with her thoughts, no sounds except the panting of her breath and her shoes hitting the asphalt. A car approached from the rear, causing her to glance backward. A black SUV moved toward her, its engine purring. She jogged to the edge of the street to let it pass, but it stayed behind her. Her chest tightened. In the early morning light it was impossible to tell for sure, but it looked like the car she’d spotted across from her house the day before.

Her heart pounded, and she picked up her pace. The vehicle maintained its slow speed. Taking a deep breath, she surged forward. The car sped up, but didn’t pass. Now she ran faster, the SUV’s engine humming in her ears. Certain that she was being pursued, she lengthened her strides until the muscles in her thighs screamed in pain and her lungs burned. The car crept behind her like a giant shadow, waiting to pounce.

Ahead she could see the turn onto her street, and she willed her legs to move even faster. As she turned onto Lansdowne, the newspaper delivery van rumbled toward her. With a roar, the SUV shot past her and disappeared down the street.

Panting for breath, C.J. stopped and leaned over, her hands propped on her knees. She gulped mouthfuls of air. The deliveryman paused to wave before flinging a newspaper onto a driveway. C.J. sank down on the curb and smiled in relief.

Had she really been followed or had her imagination run away with her? After a few minutes, she rose and trotted toward home. As she passed Mary’s house, she slowed and let her gaze travel over the brick structure. Something was out of place.

She stopped in her driveway and stared at the dark house. With a shrug she headed to her front door. Her sleep-deprived brain must be conjuring up problems where there were none.

Thirty minutes later, fresh from the shower and wearing jeans and a sweatshirt, she stepped into the kitchen. She poured herself a cup of coffee and remembered that she hadn’t yet brought in the newspaper. Hurrying out the front door into the driveway, she scooped up the paper, then stopped and stared at Mary Warren’s house. What was different this morning?

Her eyes widened. The closed living-room drapes. She’d never seen that before. Mary, who retired early every evening, was always up by this time, and she never drew the curtains in her living room. The newspaper dropped from her hand. She ran across the yard and stopped at Mary’s front door.

The unlocked storm door opened with her touch, and she pounded on the wooden front door. “Mary! Mary!”

From somewhere inside, Otto howled. C.J. cupped her hands around her eyes and leaned close to the small glass pane in the door. She looked into the dark, but could detect no movement. Otto wailed again.

She backed away, her legs shaking. Maybe Mary was sick or hurt. She raced across the yard and rushed into her house. Running to the bedroom, she grabbed the key ring she’d tossed on the dresser before showering. Months ago Mary had insisted that C.J. take a key to her house. It made her feel better to know that a trusted neighbor could get in if there were ever an emergency.

She ran out the back door and toward the gate in the fence that separated their yards, leaped onto the back porch, and pounded her fist against the door. “Mary! Let me in.”

Inside, Otto’s howl pierced the air, and he pawed at the door.

The keys jingled against each other as C.J. tried to jam the key in the lock. After several attempts, her shaking fingers finally inserted the key and turned it. Otto jumped up on her leg the moment she stepped inside.

She patted his head and stepped into the dark kitchen. An ominous silence hovered in the air. She stopped just inside the door and switched the kitchen light on. Otto ran to the door to the den and hesitated. He looked back as if inviting her to follow, then dashed from the room.

A strange smell assaulted her nose. She inched toward the den.

“M-Mary!”

Her voice echoed through the house.

Another step. “Mary, are you all right?”

The tapping of Otto’s paws on the hardwood of the den caused her to halt. He ran through the door and whined. “Where’s your mama, Otto? In her bedroom?”

C.J. switched on the den light and walked toward the dark hallway on the other side that led to the bedrooms. Otto ran ahead of her and stopped at Mary’s closed bedroom door.

She tapped on the door. “Mary, are you in there?”

As she pushed the door open, Otto wiggled past and disappeared into the bedroom. The rusty scent poured from the room and overwhelmed her. She staggered backward into the hall.

Otto rushed back to her, raised his head and howled before he leaned forward and nuzzled her leg, the red stain on his nose smearing her jeans. What was it? She reached down, touched his nose, and studied her fingertips. With a strangled cry she fell against the wall and stood there, her eyes transfixed on the bedroom door.

Slowly, she pushed the door open wide. Cold sweat popped out on her forehead. She swallowed and groped the wall for the light switch. The chandelier illuminated the room the moment she turned it on.

C.J. pressed her hand to her mouth to suppress the scream that welled up from the depths of her soul. The bedroom that Mary had so lovingly decorated looked like a chamber of horrors. Red stains soaked the carpet around the bed where Mary’s lifeless body lay. Blood covered the once-white sheets and comforter.

But that wasn’t the worst. On the walls red handprints, arranged much like a kindergarten fingerpaint project, covered the white sheetrock.

“No-o-o.”

Early mornings had always been Mitch’s favorite part of the day—a time when he could reflect on God’s promises. This morning, though, he couldn’t turn past the page in his Bible with the passage he’d underlined a month ago when C.J. broke their engagement.

Do not be yoked together with unbelievers.

How many times had he read that in the past few weeks? He’d known what the Bible said. Even Pastor Donald had cautioned him when he started dating C.J., but he thought he could change her. He should have listened and backed away before he fell in love. Now he was suffering the consequences.

His gaze drifted downward. What does a believer have in common with an unbeliever?

The words tore at Mitch’s soul, and he bowed his head. “Oh, Lord,” he prayed, “Forgive me for thinking I was smart enough to escape being hurt by disobeying your teachings. I thought I could bring her to You, but I failed. Please give me the strength to let her go now, Father, but I beg You not to give up on her.”

He sat with his head bowed for several minutes before he glanced out the window at the first light of day beginning to break, then at his wristwatch—6:30 a.m. He still had a few hours before he needed to check in at the station.

He drained the rest of the coffee and stood up to pour himself another cup. His cell phone rang, always a cause for concern this early in the morning. The station’s number flashed on the caller ID.

“Hello.”

“Mitch, this is Jennie at dispatch. Just got a call reporting a murder. First responders are already there, but the chief thinks you and Myra need to get over there right away.”

Mitch hurried toward the bedroom, the phone pressed to his ear. “Have you called Myra?”

“No, but I will.”

“Good.” Mitch reached for his wallet on the dresser and stuffed it in his pants pocket. “What’s the address?”

Jennie took a deep breath. “417 Lansdowne Drive.”

His fingers tightened around the gun he’d just picked up and he felt his heart constrict. “What did you say?”

“C.J. called in the report. She just found her neighbor Mary Warren murdered.”

He lowered the gun back to the dresser top and swallowed. “Mary? Murdered?”

“I’m sorry, Mitch. I know you were fond of Mary. From what C.J. said, it’s really bad.”

He pressed his hand to his forehead. “Is C.J. all right?”

“She’s pretty upset. She was practically hysterical when she called.”

Mitch shook his head, grabbed the gun again and straightened his shoulders. No time to be upset. He had a job to do. “Call Myra and tell her to meet me there. I’m on my way.”

He flipped the cell phone closed and headed for the door, his thoughts whirling. The memory of Mary’s concern yesterday flashed through his mind.

Guilt pierced his soul. He’d thought about checking on Mary the night before. A call had come in just as he was leaving work, and he’d been tied up until late. When he finished, he’d thought C.J. might be home from the station. He needed to stay away from her, and he wasn’t sure he’d be able to do that if he saw her lights on. So he’d gone back to his apartment, warmed up some pizza and watched a ball game until it was time for bed.

Suppose he had gone to Mary’s. Could he have saved her life? He stopped beside his car and pounded his fist on the roof. He would never know the answer to that question, but he knew it would weigh on him for a long time.

C.J. stared out the window over Mary’s kitchen sink. Otto lay on the back porch, his head resting on his outstretched paws. His cries of distress had now dissolved into soft whines.

She slid into a chair at the table and sat there, staring into space, her hands folded on the tabletop in front of her. Hushed voices drifted from the living room. From time to time the front door opened and closed, and new voices joined those already in the house. Every few minutes another officer, his face pale, would appear in the hallway outside the kitchen, lean against the wall and offer a weak smile in her direction.

Mitch had often told her he had never become immune to the horrors one human being could inflict on another. She realized that some of these men hadn’t, either, although they appeared to be seasoned veterans. She could understand their need to step away from this horrible crime scene for a minute.

Her stomach heaved, and she ran to the sink. She leaned over until the sickness passed, then turned the water on full force and washed up.

A hand touched her shoulder. She screamed and whirled around. Mitch stood behind her, his eyes filled with concern. She collapsed against the side of the sink and stood there, staring at him. With a cry, she threw her arms around him and pressed her cheek against his chest. His arms encircled her and rocked her back and forth.

It felt good to be in his arms. Now that he’d arrived, everything would be all right. “Oh, Mitch, I’m so glad you’re here.”

After a few moments she pulled away and gazed up at him. His jaw twitched. “Are you okay?”

Her stomach rumbled again, and she pressed her palms against it. “Did you see her? Why would anybody do that?”

He raked his hand through his hair. “I don’t know. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

She could barely stand to ask the next question, but she had to know. “Did the killer dip his hands in her blood and then touch the walls?”

“Yes.”

“Then you can get fingerprints, right?”

“It looks like he may have worn some kind of gloves.” C.J. dropped into the chair again, and the key ring in her pocket rattled. She touched the bulge of keys, her eyes growing wide. “The house was locked. I had to use my key to get in. How did the killer leave all the doors bolted?”

“We don’t know, but we’re just beginning our investigation.” He paused a moment, then eased into the chair next to her. He reached out and covered her hand with his. “Which brings me to what I have to do next. We need to ask you some questions.”

“We?”

“Myra and I.”

Of course. Mitch didn’t check out any crime scene without his partner.

Myra walked into the room, sat in the chair across from C.J. and pulled a notepad from her pocket. Her fingers flipped the pages until she found a blank one. A tiny bead of perspiration slid down the side of Myra’s face, and she swallowed several times before she looked up. “I can understand how upset you are. We’ll make this as brief as possible.”

“Thank you, Myra.” C.J. glanced from Myra’s pale features to Mitch, whose fingers still clutched hers. Even if they were trained police officers, C.J. realized that the murder scene in the next room had left both of them shaken.

Mitch cleared his throat. “Okay, can you tell us what made you come over here this morning?”

Where to begin? With the e-mails and the call or noticing the closed drapes?

“Did you hear my show last night?”

Mitch shook his head. “I was on a call until late. Why?”

“Because, because…” Her lips trembled. She glanced around the kitchen where she’d visited with Mary many times. Otto’s leash hung on a peg at the backdoor. The teakettle sat on the stove. She and Mary had shared many cups of tea together, but they never would again. C.J. covered her face with her hands. “Because it’s my fault Mary is dead,” she wailed.

Mitch touched her arm. “What are you talking about?”

Tears squeezed between her fingers that still covered her eyes. “I should have solved the riddle.”

Mitch’s chair scraped on the floor as he pushed back from the table. He reached for a paper towel at the sink and wedged it into her hand. “Here.”

She wiped at her eyes and blew her nose. “Thanks.”

Mitch sank back down in his chair and cleared his throat. “What’s this about a riddle?”

She twisted the paper towel between her fingers. “Harley said nobody would admit they were going to commit a crime, but I thought Fala really meant it.”

Mitch and Myra exchanged glances. “Fala?” he said.

The paper towel was now reduced to shreds in her hand. “Mary was just the first. The riddle said there would be four murders. And I don’t know who they are.” She jumped up and stared down at Mitch. “You’ve got to stop Fala!”

Mitch rose to stand beside her and put his arm around her shoulders. “You’re not making any sense, C.J.. Who is Fala, and what does that have to do with Mary’s murder?”

C.J. slumped against him, and he eased her back into her chair before sitting beside her. She took a deep breath, straightened in her seat and thought back to the events of the morning before. “It all began yesterday…”

Concentrating on the first e-mail and everything that happened afterward, she related each message and the call from Fala. When she’d finished, she looked to Mitch, then Myra. “In the last message Fala said the first move had been made. Mary must have already been dead by the time I received that e-mail.”

As C.J. finished speaking, Myra made another notation in her notebook. “We’ll need copies of those messages.”

C.J. nodded. “I deleted the first one, but I don’t think I’ve emptied the trash yet. Maybe I can retrieve it.”

Mitch stood up. “Good. Why don’t we go over to your house and do that right now?” He glanced at Myra. “I’ll go with C.J. if you’ll finish up here.”

Myra scribbled one last word in the notebook and closed it. “Sure. No problem.”

“Detectives, could I see you for a moment?” They all turned to stare in the direction of the deep voice. A young man, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt with latex gloves on, stood in the doorway. Mitch and Myra stepped over to him.

Mitch’s broad shoulders blocked C.J.’s view of the man. “Did you find something, Jeff?”

“Yes, sir. We found a blond hair in the victim’s hand.”

Mitch and Myra seemed unaware that C.J. now stood directly behind them.

Myra leaned toward Mitch. “Interesting. Maybe the killer left a calling card.”

“Don’t know about that,” the man said. “That’ll be for you guys to decide. Just wanted you to know.”

“Thanks,” Mitch said. C.J. started to step back, but Mitch turned before she could and plowed into her. “Sorry. Didn’t know you were right behind me. Ready to go get those e-mails?”

Just then a howl rose from the back porch. Tears welled in C.J.’s eyes again. “Otto. What’s going to happen to him?”

Mitch shook his head. “I don’t know. We’ll send for the Humane Society. They’ll take care of him until they can find him a home.”

C.J. turned toward the back door. “I want to go out through the backyard so I can say goodbye to him.”

She paused before stepping outside and glanced in the direction of the bedroom. Biting her lip, she said a silent farewell to her friend. She wished she could tell Mary how sorry she was for not solving the riddle, but that was impossible. The only thing she could do now was try to stop Fala before three more people died.