Chapter 32
Elizabeth suffered through another sleepless night. More nightmares plagued her. The victims who had died that she’d known, all came to her throughout the night. Their faces ran together and she was talking to them. Court in his BMW, Mazie at the office, even Channing Renfro at what appeared to be the gates of hell as flames were drawing nearer, ever nearer. As if in a movie, their faces melted before her eyes.
She tossed and turned, throwing off the covers only to draw them up again, glancing at the clock as she awakened. In the middle of the night, she was caught in yet another dream, but it was different, so real and visceral. She was lying in her bed not alone, but with a naked man whose long sinewy body was stretched over hers. Strong arms held her, warm breath teased the whisper of hair at her temple, and a wet, wicked tongue played at her ear, then slid along her neck and down her breastbone, touching, flicking, tasting and dipping lower as need pulsed within her.
Her blood heating, she was eager to love him, anxious to feel all of him, her skin flushed with perspiration as he toyed with her, causing the blood to rush through her veins, heat and desire swirling inside her. Her toes curled as he touched her, fingers skimming, gooseflesh rising, nipples tightening.
God, how she wanted him, though he was but a stranger, a man she’d just met and whom she already relied upon.
Rex, she realized. All she wanted was to make love to him.
Eyes closed, she writhed on the bedsheets. Her entire world centered on what he could give her. “Please,” she moaned as he slid up her body, but then he stopped abruptly. His warm fingers turned to ice. Desire, so recently white hot, chilled.
As he dragged himself upward, his breath turned foul, his fingers skimming her ribs hard and bony, his hands burned and scaly. In the darkness, she saw his face, mangled and bloody, shards of bone poking through flesh where skin had melted off.
She woke on a shriek that echoed in her ears, heart galloping, sweat standing on her skin, another scream dying in her throat. The nightmare had been so real, so terrifying that she could have sworn the monster had been in bed with her. In the dark of her bedroom she waited, listening, willing her pulse to slow. Had she woken Chloe with her screams?
Half-expecting to hear frantic little footsteps charging her way, she let out her breath slowly. The house was silent as a tomb, until the soft rumble of the furnace blowing air throughout the ducts started up, a homey sound. Rolling over, she looked at the bedside clock glowing brightly, affirming the fact that it was three fifty-seven in the morning.
Ugh. Too early to get up, she thought, but climbed out of bed anyway to use the toilet and rinse her hot face with cool water. Grabbing onto her courage, she walked through the house but found nothing out of the ordinary. Thank God.
Before returning to bed, she slipped into Chloe’s room to check on her and found her daughter sleeping soundly, her face down on the mattress, covers pooling onto the floor, pillow pushed aside, one arm flung down the side of the bed. Out of habit, Elizabeth pulled the bedclothes back into position and tucked them around her daughter.
With a sleepy moan, Chloe rolled over and opened an eye. “Mommy?” she said groggily.
“Yes, sweetie, it’s just me. Go back to sleep.”
“I don’t want to die.”
Elizabeth shivered. “You’re not going to die. I’m here.”
Around a yawn, her daughter said, “But I don’t want you to die, either.”
“Of course not.” She patted her daughter’s little shoulder. “I’ll try not to. I think you’ve had a bad dream.” She knew all about bad dreams.
Chloe drifted off to sleep.
Elizabeth took another round through the house, snapping on light after light, opening closet doors, double-checking locks and latches until she was convinced she and Chloe were locked safely away from whatever terrors lived in the rest of the world.
But even as she told herself that they were safe, that nothing could harm them in their home, she experienced a frisson of fear slip down her spine. All that she’d known and trusted had been shattered in the past few weeks and she sensed the horror wasn’t over.
She walked to the living room window and peeked through the blinds. The neighborhood appeared serene and dark, bluish in the filmy glow from the street lamp. Elizabeth’s gaze scraped over the neatly trimmed shrubs, the few cars parked on the street. Her heart lurched painfully when she caught sight of movement, a black shadow in the night, then realized it was only a cat, scurrying across a neighbor’s lawn to disappear into the shrubbery.
“Get over yourself,” she whispered but experienced another little zinging feeling, as if there were a disturbance in the atmosphere, as if someone, hidden in the shadows, was staring back at her. She let go of the blinds with a snap, chiding herself for her fears.
And yet, though the blinds and shades were drawn, the doors shut and locked, she sensed that someone was silently observing her, almost close enough to reach out and touch.
The hairs on the back of her neck lifted and a tremor swept through. She forced herself to open the door that led from the kitchen to the garage and peer inside. Nothing. Her Escape was just where she’d parked it, the garage door down, the room empty.
For the love of God, Elizabeth . . .
In her bedroom again, she left the door ajar so she could hear Chloe should her daughter wake with some other bizarre statement. Figuring there was no way she’d ever fall asleep again, she found a paperback she’d started a couple months ago and nearly forgotten. She found the spot she’d left off, remembered the thread of the mystery and read for twenty minutes, before the book became as heavy as her eyelids. She finally snapped off the bedside lamp and drew the covers close to her neck. Within minutes, she fell into a dreamless sleep and didn’t wake until nearly seven o’clock.
Chloe, too, slept in, so Elizabeth took advantage of the quiet time to make a fresh pot of coffee, run through the shower, and get dressed. With the dawn came a fresh perspective, and surprisingly she felt herself ready to tackle the day. The worries of the night before faded. Thank you, God. It felt like she was out of time, and maybe she was. She wanted to get everything taken care of in case the worst-case scenario happened and Driscoll found a solid reason to arrest her.
She considered what to do at work. She needed to double-check with Amy Ferguson about meeting with her tomorrow at Mazie’s house. She also needed to deal with the Sorensons, and a few others who had called, and check on the Staffords’ home as they were still on their monthlong tour of Europe.
Through the window she saw shafts of sunlight splintering through a thin layer of clouds while the palm trees in the backyard moved gently in the breeze.
Another beautiful day in Southern California. Her throat caught as she imagined herself behind bars, unable to see it. No. That isn’t going to happen. It can’t.
Drawing a breath, she set her jaw. She would call the attorney Rex had told her about, and then, depending upon his advice, probably come clean with the cops about her sense of foreshadowing and her connection to Officer Unfriendly and GoodGuy. It was what it was. They could do with the information what they wanted.
Would they believe her? Well, probably not, but maybe it was time to lay all her cards on the table.
At least she had Rex on her side and at the thought of him, the sexual dream came to her and she felt herself blush. Yes, it had turned into a nightmare, but before that it had been really hot. Mentally reviewing it, she felt a throb of desire in her nether regions that had her shaking her head in disbelief.
After downing the first cup of coffee, she left the cup near the coffeemaker, and headed down the hall to Chloe’s room where she found her daughter rousing.
“Don’t want to get up,” the little girl grumbled.
“Sure you do.” Elizabeth sat on the edge of her daughter’s bed and rumpled her curls. “We have a big day today.”
“Is Ravinia coming back?”
“I don’t think so. I was talking about school.”
“Oh.” Chloe wrinkled her little nose. “Don’t want to go.”
“It’s Friday. The last day of school for the week.”
“Don’t care.”
“Tell ya what. Why don’t you take a quick bath? We missed it last night and, oops, the night before. I’ll help.”
The bath, washing of hair, and brushing of teeth didn’t go all that easily, but a little over half an hour later Chloe was clean and dressed and plopped in front of a plate of peanut butter toast and sliced bananas. After a few bites, her sunny disposition returned.
“I’ll get the paper,” Elizabeth announced as she carried a second cup of coffee to the front door. She was determined to keep a smile on her face in front of Chloe no matter what her frame of mind truly was.
She stepped onto the porch and scattered a pile of envelopes left on the mat, then spent the next few minutes gathering them up. They were all addressed to her, just her name, Elizabeth, written in longhand on each one. Huh. Looking up and down the street, she cautiously opened the last one she’d picked up.
Elizabeth,
It’s all for you. Do you understand yet? I’ve been hiding my feelings for so long, but now finally, I can let you know. I’m sick, you see. Sick with love for you. Heartsick. Soul sick. I’m going to give you everything you desire. I am your slave, your genie in a bottle. Command me, and I will deliver. I grow stronger because of you. You don’t see me yet. I’m just a flicker in the corner of your eye. But you’ll see me soon, my love. Very, very soon . . .
She dropped the sheet of paper as if it had burned her. It fluttered off the porch and landed softly on the rolled up newspaper. She backed away, hand to her mouth, her eyes jerking back and forth, searching the quiet neighborhood.
“Mommy?”
Chloe’s voice made her gasp, and she stepped inside and slammed the door behind her. Her daughter was still sitting at the kitchen bar, leaning back and looking down the hall, trying to see her.
“Just a second, honey,” she called in a voice pitched several notes higher than her usual tone.
Were they all love letters? Sick, strange love letters?
Cautiously, she reopened the door. Darting glances all around, she stepped out and grabbed up the pile of envelopes, then ventured down the steps to where the newspaper and the first letter lay, snatching them up as well. She scurried back into the house, shut and locked the door, and stalked quickly down the hall to her bedroom. Chloe couldn’t read yet, but she sure as hell would see how shaken Elizabeth was. She needed to pull herself together.
“Mommy?” Chloe called again.
“I’ll be right there,” Elizabeth yelled back. She opened another envelope at random and read another message. The same, only darker . . . more obsessive. Her pulse elevated. Who did this? Why? Panic rose within her and she tried to tamp it down, keep hold of herself. Her dream flitted across her memory, and the uneasy feeling that she was being observed.
Something evil was going on. Something she didn’t understand.
Why? Who?
Hearing the thump of her daughter’s feet hitting the floor, Elizabeth straightened her spine and went back down the hall to meet her.
“Mommy? Where are you?”
“Right here, honey.” She put a smile on her face. Seeing Chloe standing by the front door, she said, “Hey, are you finished? We’d better get your shoes on and pick up your lunch pail. Today we take home your preschool blankets and wash them. Gotta get ready for next week.”
Chloe stared at her. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I’m just . . . lots to do, and I’m making lists in my head. Let’s get those shoes on and head to school. We’re late.”
“Again?”
“Yep.” She turned Chloe around and down the hall to search out her shoes, then race-walked back to her own bedroom, gathered up the envelopes, and shoved them in her purse.
In the kitchen, she snagged Chloe’s lunch box and was standing by the door to the garage when her daughter appeared, her shoes on the wrong feet. Quickly, Elizabeth exchanged them and then said, “Let’s go,” much too brightly.
Chloe frowned at her, but didn’t make a comment as she buckled herself into her seat.
Driving through the familiar streets, Elizabeth kept checking her rearview mirror, her thoughts whirling in her head. Who left those notes on the doorstep? Who would be so bold? And who wrote them? Someone who said they were in love with me, but what kind of love was that?
Who?
“Chloe, that man you heard in your head who said he loved me? The one who did bad things? Do you know what he looked like, by any chance?”
“I don’t see him.”
“Okay.” It was stupid to question her daughter. She was grasping at straws.
Hands slick on the wheel, she thought about Gil Dyne whose wife had maybe committed suicide and who’d taken a real interest in her. And Peter Bellhard. He still was calling and trying to connect with her. She’d hoped he would give up, but apparently he wasn’t a man to take no for an answer.
When people love each other, they stop at nothing.
That was the tone of the letters, she realized, shooting a glance in the rearview mirror at her daughter. Just exactly like the words that had come out of Chloe’s mouth.
She dropped Chloe off at school and checked her in. They were late enough that she didn’t see any of her friends. After handing her off to the preschool teacher, Elizabeth said, “I’ll pick you up later,” and then hurried away, her purse feeling inordinately heavy with the notes inside. She realized she’d left her briefcase at home, but didn’t care.
At the office, Elizabeth shoved her purse under her desk then called Rex on her cell. As the call connected, she again thought of the sexy dream where Rex was her lover. When he suddenly picked up, she felt a thrill race through her.
“Hey, Elizabeth,” he said, obviously recognizing her number.
She damn near fell apart at the sound of his voice, but she held herself together. “Something’s happened,” she said quietly, just in case Pat or Connie or someone else decided to cruise by. “I’d like to meet with you again. The sooner, the better.”
“What is it?” he demanded, his voice was sober.
She swept her gaze to where she’d stuffed her purse. “I got some letters. Left on my front porch. I want you to see them.”
“Who are they from?”
“Anonymous.”
“Left on your porch?”
“In the middle of the night. I stepped on them this morning. They’re . . . disturbing.”
“I’m working from home today. You mind coming over here? It’s private. Ravinia’s out trying to re-up her minutes.”
“What’s your address?” Realizing she might be overstepping her bounds, she added, “I mean, if you have time.”
“I’ll make it.” He rattled off an address in Costa Mesa. “You okay?”
“I think so. Yes.”
“You want me to come to you?”
“No, no, I’m fine.”
“Where are you?”
“At the office. Chloe’s at preschool.”
“You want to drive over now?”
“Yes.” With that she grabbed up her purse again and hurried back to her car.
Rex met Elizabeth at the door and was reminded once again how beautiful she was, but he ignored it as he led her to the kitchen. She spread the letters on the table. He avoided touching the missives, all written in a clean, sharp hand, and all with messages of a twisted, one-sided, obsessive love. Dangerous love. Possessive love. One even going so far as to explain the “dark side” of love.
Whoever wrote them was one sick fuck.
And obviously involved in the recent killings.
He read the words over again.
I watched you tonight. Are you receiving my mental messages. . . we will both be transcended . . . soon the unveiling will happen . . . It’s just us against the world.
Rex’s guts clenched. Whoever wrote these was stalker-esque and obsessive. “You have no idea who sent these or dropped them off?” he asked and noticed how pale she was, how worried.
“None.” She took a seat at the table, her back to the sliding glass door. She glanced outside and said dully, “You have a nice house. I like the backyard.”
“I’m thinking of selling. Know any good real estate agents?”
She blinked at him, clearly deep inside her own head, processing. She could scarcely get past her fear and he didn’t blame her.
“Anyone you know who could have written them?” he asked, spreading his hands above the scattered pile.
“No,” but after a moment she reluctantly named two possible candidates. Gil Dyne and Peter Bellhard. “The tone of the letters doesn’t really sound like either one of them.”
Rex made a note to check them out. “What about people you meet who aren’t friends, in other social or professional settings?”
“I have my Moms Group of friends and their husbands. That’s where I met Gil. I have some clients, none of whom come to mind. Oh, and I recently went to a grief group, but that’s all women.”
“What about someone from your past? Old boyfriends? Lovers?”
“There really wasn’t anyone but Court,” she said, shaking her head.
Rex tried to explore that angle some more, but Elizabeth had nothing much to add. He was scheduled for surveillance again today, and going into the office later, but he’d cleared his schedule after she called. Nothing he was doing trumped her safety, and from the looks of these notes, she wasn’t safe. “You’ll have to hand these over to the police.”
“You think that’s a good idea?” she asked anxiously.
“It shows there’s another player, and maybe that player left some of his DNA around.”
“What if there is no DNA? What if the police think I sent them to myself?” Her voice was rising.
Rex said soothingly, “Let’s not borrow trouble.”
“I don’t think the police are on my side. They could twist this around on me.”
“You’ve got to trust someone.”
She looked at him through moist, blue eyes. “I trust you.”
That look got to him. He could feel every protective fiber in his body come alive. “I’ll call Tatum. No, I should call Driscoll. Don’t want to antagonize the man any further by going around him.”
“Why did he send them? What does it mean? And why write so many?”
“Whoever it is, is making their play. You’ve got a stalker, Elizabeth, and that person is ratcheting up, growing bolder. More dangerous.”
Her bones seemed to melt as she sank farther into the chair. “You think he killed all those people? Officer Unfriendly and GoodGuy and maybe Court? Mazie? I don’t know.”
“This guy’s MO reminds me of John Hinckley Jr. The nut case who shot President Reagan to impress Jodie Foster.”
Her face turned ashen. “Oh, God. No . . . no . . . he killed Detective Thronson, too. It doesn’t make any sense!”
“Who says it has to make sense? You’re talking about a psycho. And this note . . . where is it? Here we go.” He read, “Did you see, Elizabeth? Have you been watching? He got what he deserved and now he abides in whatever special hell is reserved for scum like Channing Renfro. I know there are others working against you. I’ve heard them, seen them, sensed them. But don’t worry, we’ll take them out together, one by one. I’m right behind you, love. Your savior, your soldier.
You don’t see me yet, but you will when I’m ready.
All for you, my love . . . all for you.”
Rex stopped reading and said, “This is a confession. Whoever wrote these notes is behind the deaths. We have to go to the police.”
Elizabeth seemed about to acquiesce when his doorbell rang. She started.
“Stay here,” he ordered, then walked to the front door and peered through the window for a view of the front porch.
Staring back at him was Ravinia.
Dressed in her uniform of dark jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt, a jacket and backpack slung over her shoulder, she motioned that she didn’t have her key. She’d taken off on foot this morning to re-up her minutes, but it looked as if that hadn’t worked.
Rex hesitated. Did he really want her to see the letters? Did he want her involved in Elizabeth’s case?
She glared at him. Her expression said it without words. Well, are you going to let me in or what?