Twenty-three
Not sure of her role, Naomi decided to make herself useful. Quietly, she went behind the bar, studied the hot beverage machine. She checked its supplies, opted for coffee because Loo didn’t strike her as the tea sort.
She found mugs, kept herself busy as Loo composed herself.
“I don’t know what to do,” Loo said. “I need something to do.”
“Right now, we’re going to sit down.”
As Xander steered Loo to a booth, Naomi called out, “I’m making coffee.”
Swiping at tears, Loo spun around. “That machine’s complicated,” she began.
“She practically grew up in a restaurant, Loo. Sit down.”
“She breaks it, you bought it,” Loo muttered. “And I’d rather have a whiskey.”
“Irish coffee, then,” Naomi said easily. “Xander?”
“Just a Coke.”
As she sat, Loo snatched napkins from the holder, blew her nose. “They don’t know dick. Sam came around here last night on the off chance she’d decided to stay home, was with me. Nobody knows squat about it, nobody’s seen her, heard from her.”
“I know, Loo.”
The dog worked his way under the table, laid his head in Loo’s lap.
He did have a way.
“She’d been talking about this trip for weeks—until you wanted to stuff a sock in her mouth. She tried to get me to go, nagged me brainless. I’ve got nothing against a couple days at a spa, but her sister’s a pain in the ass. If I’d said I’d go with her, if I’d been with her . . .”
“That’s bullshit, Loo.”
“It’s not.” Her eyes filled to brimming again. “It’s not! I’d’ve gone over there, picked her up.”
“And maybe you’d be the one no one’s seen or heard from.”
“That’s the bullshit.” After she swiped at the tears, she balled up the napkins. “I can handle myself. Donna . . . She’s just soft. She’s soft.”
Naomi came to the table with a glass mug of Irish coffee, expertly topped with whipped cream, and a glass of Coke.
“I’ll take the dog for a walk, give the two of you some privacy.”
“The dog’s fine right here.” Loo stroked Tag’s ears as she studied Naomi. “And so are you. Sorry about the in-your-pants remark. It was rude.”
“Well, he’s been in them a few times, so not entirely.”
Loo let out a bark of laughter, then went watery at the edges. “You’re fine here, too. Get a drink, sit down.”
“All right. I’m going to say something first. The only blame is on the person who took her. We can always say if I’d done this, or hadn’t done that, but it doesn’t change what is. The only person who could change what is, is the one who took her.”
While Loo stared into her coffee, Naomi went to get herself a Coke.
“She’s my closest friend,” Loo said quietly. “Since high school. We didn’t have a thing in common, but we just got to be friends anyway. I stood up for her when she married that asshole, just like she stood up for me when I married Johnny. And when he died, I don’t know how I’d have gotten through it without her.”
She sighed, sniffled. “And she told me not to marry Dikes. But when I did, she stood up for me again.”
She sampled the coffee, arched eyebrows at Naomi. “This is damn good Irish coffee.”
“I learned from the master.” She slid into the booth beside Xander. “I don’t know if it helps, but my brother’s here, and meeting with Chief Winston right now. He’s with the FBI.”
“Sam called the FBI?”
“To tell you the truth, I don’t know who called who—it got lost in translation—but we’ve got an FBI agent helping look for her.”
“He’s had her—whoever the bastard is—since Friday night. Word’s gotten out on what was done to Marla. Donna . . .”
Reaching over, Xander closed a hand over hers. “Don’t do that, Loo. We’ll go crazy if we do that.”
“I drove all over hell and back last night. Just driving the road, looking for her, for . . . something. With my baseball bat and my .32.”
“Jesus, Loo. You should’ve called me.”
“I nearly did.” She turned her hand over, linked her fingers with his. “Who else do I call when I hit a wall? Not that I often hit one I can’t bust through on my own. You’ll find that out if you stick with this one,” she said to Naomi. “If you hit that wall or your back’s to one, you want this one with you.”
“Come on, Loo.”
“She should know you’re not just a pretty face.”
“I’ve seen prettier. I’ve had prettier,” Naomi added, and earned that bark of laughter as she’d hoped. “You need some art on the walls in here, Loo.”
“It’s a bar.”
“It’s a good bar. I’m not talking frilly, fussy, fern-bar art. There’s one coming in of the Wreckers—they have to buy that from me. But I’ve got one of Xander and Tag, a sunrise silhouette that I punched up so their blue eyes stand out. It’d work in here, and I’ll give it to you if you like it. It’d be exposure for me.”
“You’re not going to put me up on the wall.”
Loo arched those eyebrows again. “I will if I like it. It’s my bar.”
“It’s half mine.”
“So I’ll hang it in my half.” She gave his hand a squeeze, then a light slap, then went back to her coffee. “You’ve settled my nerves, both of you, and I’m grateful.”
“You should get out of here. We’ll go have lunch or something.”
Smiling a little, Loo shook her head at Xander. “When I’m this worked up I clean, but I’ll finish up here calmer than I was. If you hear anything from your brother, anything about where she is, you need to let me know.”
“I will.”
“All right. Go on now, and take this dog before I end up keeping him for myself. I’m all right now.”
“If you need me for anything, you call me.”
“I will. I’m going to hope I hear they found her, and she’s okay. I’m going to hold on to that.”
When they left her, she’d gone back to her mopping.
—
Since she’d decided to believe Mason would stay at least overnight, Naomi had Xander take her by the market—grateful they had limited Sunday hours. She picked up what she needed for one of his favorite meals.
Every local in the market had something to say about Donna, or would stop Xander to ask what he knew. She didn’t take a clear, easy breath until they were outside again.
“I should’ve known that, and made do with what I had at home.” She sat back in the seat, stomach knotted, headache brewing. “And it had to be harder on you than me. All the talk,” she added. “The questions, the speculation.”
“Everyone who lives here knows her, so they’re worried.”
“Maybe Mason will have something, anything, to add. I know he’s my brother, Xander, but he really is ridiculously smart. He notices everything, forgets nothing, and he’s studied for what he’s doing since he was a kid. I caught him once—he wasn’t quite fast enough to block my view of what he was looking at on his computer. Serial killers. I was so mad, so outraged that he’d do that, read about them. He just said he needed to know; the more he knew, the better he could deal with it.”
“It sounds right to me.”
“It didn’t to me. Why couldn’t we just be normal, live like everybody else? I was doing everything I could to be like everybody else, going to football games, working on the yearbook committee and the school newspaper, meeting friends for pizza, and he’s studying the pathology of serial killers, thrill killers, spree killers. Victimology and forensic countermeasures.”
“It sounds like you’ve read some yourself.”
“Some because he was determined to make it his life’s work, but . . . He’s gone back to West Virginia. He’s gone to see our father in prison. More than once.”
“That bothers you.”
“It did. Maybe it still does, a little, but I had to accept he wasn’t going to put it behind him.”
Better than therapy, she realized. Better this talking to a . . . friend wasn’t quite right, and yet he was. He was her friend. It soothed rather than stirred to say what was in her mind and heart to someone who stood as her friend.
“Mason? He confronts it, and tries to understand it, so he can stop the next. I know that, and can still wish he’d found another way to save lives. Become a doctor—another kind of doctor.”
“Has he saved lives?”
“He has. Did you hear about that man who was taking young boys—in Virginia? He’d taken five over a three-year period, killed two of them and dumped their bodies in a wooded area along a hiking trail.”
“They called him the Appalachian Killer.”
“Mason hates it when the press gives them names. But yes. He was part of the team that identified him, tracked him, stopped him, and saved the lives of the three boys he had locked in his basement. He saves lives, and to do it, he needs to understand the kind of mind that would take young boys, torture them, keep them caged up like animals, then kill them.”
When Xander pulled up at the house, she got out. “I’m proud of him, so I have to accept that he lives a lot of his life in a dark place.”
“Or he lives a lot of his life tearing down those dark places.”
She’d reached for a market bag, stopped. “He does, doesn’t he? And I should learn to turn it that way.”
When they carried the groceries inside and to the kitchen, she got out a bottle of wine.
“I’m about to start some major cooking. Cleaning can work, but I lean toward cooking when I’m upset or stressed.”
“Lucky me. I was going to head out when your brother got here, give you guys some catch-up time. But you bought pork chops.”
“You bought them,” she corrected. “And everything else in these bags.”
“You have to contribute. I like pork chops.”
“Do you like stuffed pork chops, Mediterranean-style?”
“Probably.”
“Good, because that’s what we’re having, along with roasted herbed potatoes, sautéed asparagus, pretzel bread, and vanilla bean crème brûlée.”
He wasn’t sure he realized crème brûlée existed outside restaurants. “I’m definitely staying for dinner.”
“Then I suggest you clear out.”
“Give me a job.”
“A kitchen job?”
“Definitely not a kitchen job.”
He needed to work off the worry, too, she thought.
“Cecil’s holding a table and four chairs—so far—for me. I was going to have Kevin pick them up, take them to Jenny, but if you brought them here, just cleaned them up, we’d have an actual table to eat this magnificent meal on. And don’t say you don’t want to leave me here alone,” she added before he could. “I have the dog, I have an alarm system, and an excellent set of Japanese kitchen knives.”
“You’ll keep the doors locked until I get back—or Mason does.”
“It pains me as it’s a gorgeous day and I’d like the doors open, but for a dining room table, I’ll keep them locked.”
“Keep your phone on you.”
“I’ll keep my phone on me. Do you know how to lower the backseats in my car for the cargo area?”
“I’m a mechanic, Naomi. I think I can handle it. Let Cecil know I’m coming. It’ll save time.”
He hauled her in for a kiss, then pointed a finger at the dog. “You’re on duty.”
Naomi made the call, shoved the phone in her back pocket, then rubbed her hands together.
“Let’s get cooking.”
With the dog occupied with a rawhide bone, she focused in. It cleared her mind, pushed the terrible thoughts and worries away. The process, the textures, the scents and colors.
She had dough rising, potatoes in the oven, and the crème brûlée nearly ready to go into oven two when the dog scrambled up.
Maybe her heart tripped at first, maybe she glanced at the chef’s knife on her cutting board, but she ordered herself to keep to the task at hand.
And was rewarded when she saw Xander haul chairs onto the back deck.
Swiping her hands on the dish towel tucked into her waistband, she walked over to at least open the doors.
“He swore—I almost made him take a blood oath—these were the chairs you wanted.”
“That’s right.”
Xander looked at them—scowled at them. The faded, ripped, ugly patterned seats, the scuffed wood. “Why?”
“They’re going to be adorable.”
“How?”
“Reupholstered with this fabric I’ve picked out, painted. The ladderbacks a slatey blue, the armchairs a sagey green.”
“You’re going to paint them?”
“Jenny is. I’ve retired. They can be ugly until she takes them. I’ve got rags and wood cleaner. We can make them presentable for one meal.”
“They look like presentable kindling to me, but it’s your deal.”
“What about the table?”
“I get the table—needs a little work, but it’s a good piece.”
“I meant do you need help getting it out of the car?”
“Eventually.” Clearly unconvinced, he gave the chairs a final frown. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
“I’ll get what you need.”
She got the supplies out of the laundry room, filled a bucket with water, carted it out in time to see him coming back up the steps behind a forest of lilacs in a tall cobalt blue pitcher.
“There.” He set them on the table on the deck. “I brought you flowers and something to put them in.”
Staggered, she stared at them, at him. “I . . .”
“I stole the flowers, but I bought the pitcher.”
“It’s—they’re . . . They’re perfect. Thank you.”
He stood there, scruffy, scowling at the chairs he obviously considered a waste of time and money—and she had to swallow, twice.
“This better be some dinner.” After taking one of the rags from her, he dropped it in the bucket. “Are you okay?”
“Yes. Absolutely. I’ve just got things going inside.”
“Go on, deal with that. I’ll clean up these butt-ugly chairs.”
She went inside, grabbed the wine on the way and took it with her straight to the powder room—the one that still needed lights, new fixtures, and a towel bar.
Her heart was tripping again. In fact it was tripping, stumbling, staggering all at the same time. Not a sensation she’d ever experienced before. Not a panic attack—not exactly, though she definitely felt considerable panic.
He’d walked up the steps with lilacs in a blue pitcher, set them down unceremoniously. Stolen flowers in an old pitcher, carried in big, callused hands.
And she’d fallen in love.
It couldn’t be that fast. It couldn’t be that simple. It couldn’t be.
But it was. She didn’t have to have felt it all before to know what tripped and stumbled inside her.
She breathed in, breathed out, took a good glug of wine.
What happened next?
Nothing had to happen next, she assured herself. Everything just continued, it just kept going until . . . something. But right now, nothing happened.
She had pork chops to stuff.
She heard him laughing, talking to the dog out on the deck. She saw the lilacs—so lush, so sweet. And had to press the heel of her hand to her heart, order it to behave.
But she pulled out her phone, angled herself, and took several shots of the flowers.
By the time she began making the stuffing, she heard Mason’s voice and, glancing up, saw him step onto the deck from the stairs.
Xander moved into the opening. “We’ll get the table. The chairs are clean, but they’re still ugly.”
“Their charm is simply yet to be released.”
“Whatever. I’m going to want that food once we get the table up. It smells good.”
“Food’s an hour off.”
“That’ll do.”
While she finished the stuffing, they hauled up the farmhouse table. Mason stepped in.
“Are those . . . stuffed pork chops!”
“I know how to soften you up.”
He kissed her cheeks. “Thanks. Why did you buy such crappy chairs?”
“They won’t be crappy when they’re fixed.”
“If you say so. I like the table. Is that barn wood?”
“It is.”
“Built to last.”
She finished stuffing the chops, slid them into the oven, and stepped out on the deck. “Oh, look how the cleaner brings out the grain. It just needed some tending.”
“It’s got some dings and scratches,” Xander told her.
“It’s called character. And Jenny said she could fix anything that needed fixing. I don’t want to spoil anything, Mason, but I thought if we could talk about what you did, found out, think since meeting with Chief Winston, we wouldn’t have it hanging over us at dinner.”
He gave her a long look, then nodded. “I can’t tell you much you don’t already know. All indications are Donna Lanier was abducted from the parking lot shortly before midnight on Friday. Her car was locked, hasn’t been moved since she parked it when she came on shift at four. Three other employees worked until closing. One, Maxie Upton, came out the back of the building alone a few minutes before Donna, Gina Barrows, and Brennan Forrester. Routinely Maxie parks in that same section of the lot, as most employees do, but her car was in the shop. Yours,” he said to Xander.
“Yeah, she drove in on a flat just after I closed, and had four tires as bald as my uncle Jim. I wasn’t going to let her drive around on them, made her a deal. I’d work the price of the tires down, take her to work—and she’d call her father to pick her up. She was going to walk, and after what happened to Marla, I wasn’t having her walking home or to a friend’s alone at midnight.”
“She’s lucky you provide such personal customer service.”
“I’ve known her since she was . . .” Xander straightened from his slouch against the rail. “Are you saying he was looking to take her? Was waiting for Maxie to walk to her car?”
“It’s possible. I lean toward probable. She’s younger, blonde, more like the first victim physically than Donna. I talked to her when Chief Winston did a follow-up. Her father wasn’t waiting when she came out, and she was alone out there for about twenty seconds—and now says she got nervous, thought about going back in. She thought it was because you’d spooked her about not walking, not being alone. Then her father came, and she didn’t think any more about it.”
“You said Donna came out with Gina and Brennan.”
“Just after Maxie’s father picked her up. And they walked off together—they’re in a relationship—leaving Donna locking up.”
“He took Donna because she was there?” Naomi asked.
“There’s a reason we don’t consider a serial until there are three like crimes.”
“Mason.”
“But I believe the same person took Donna. I believe he’s an opportunist—he saw an opportunity with Marla Roth, took it. He saw one with Donna, took it. At the same time he was in that lot or close by, he was most certainly lying in wait, which tells me he’d observed the routine of that restaurant, and I believe he’d probably selected his target. Circumstances caused him to miss that opportunity. He took the next.”
“Christ.” Xander turned away, stared hard out over the water.
“There’s a young woman, and her parents, who are never going to forget a set of bald tires or the man who demanded a promise. Chief Winston has already looked into like crimes, but I’m going to look again, narrowing the parameters, and adding in missings. He has deputies, and rangers, checking rental houses and cabins within a twenty-five-mile radius.”
“Because he needs a place,” Naomi stated.
Like a cellar, an old root cellar deep in the woods.
“Yeah. I’m not discounting a local, but I respect Winston’s firm opinion that this is an outsider—and the low crime rate helps support it. Still, he’ll take a harder look at individuals in the area.”
“No one believes it’s someone they know, someone they’re close to,” Naomi said. “Until it is.”
“He’s a good cop. Smart, thorough, and not so territorial he won’t take help from outside. He’s doing all he can do. For now, I can help him do more. I reached out to one of our geeks, and he’s getting names on the rentals—owners, tenants. We’ll run those in addition to the knock-on-doors. I’m sorry. I wish there were more.”
“You came.” Naomi went to him, put her arms around him, her head on his shoulder. “That’s more. You’ll stay a few days?”
“Tonight, at least. Maybe tomorrow. I want to get out of this suit. I’ve got a bag in the car, if you tell me where I’m bunking.”
“It’s not much more than bunking now. A real bed next visit, I swear. Let’s get your bag, and I’ll show you.” She glanced at Xander. “I’ll be right back, help you get the table inside.”
Alone, Xander looked out at the water, into oncoming evening. Her brother agreed to stay the night, he thought, because he expected to find a body in the morning.
—
After the meal, and the fancy coffee Naomi made in her fancy machine, Xander rose. “I’m going to go on.”
“Oh.”
“You’ve got stuff. I’ve got stuff.” And with an FBI agent sleeping down the hall, she’d be safe. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Okay, but—”
He just pulled her to her feet, and into a hard, hot kiss. Maybe it was a little like marking his territory, with her brother right there, but he wasn’t sorry about it.
“Thanks for dinner. Later,” he said to Mason, and walked out.
“He didn’t have to leave on my account,” Mason began. “My sharp deduction skills ascertained he’s sleeping here.”
“He wanted to give us time alone, and he wants to go be with Loo. His business partner. She and Donna are close friends.” Automatically, she began clearing dishes.
“Sit down a minute. Just for a minute,” Mason said, taking her hand. “I’ve got to ask. How serious is it with you and the mechanic?”
“You say that like he doesn’t have a name.”
“I’m working on it. Give me some room. My vagabond hermit of a sister suddenly has a big house in the middle of rehab, has a dog, and is sleeping with a guy I just met. It’s a lot in a short time.”
“It doesn’t feel as short when you’re in it. I’m not going to get all”—she circled her index fingers in the air—“and say I recognized the house. But I recognized the potential of it, and its potential for me. I didn’t know I was ready to plant until I saw it, then I was ready. The dog wasn’t going to happen, and then he did. Now I can’t imagine not having him around.”
“He’s a great dog.”
Even more, she thought, he’d become her family. “I’d have taken him to the shelter if Xander hadn’t blocked me, every time.”
“Why didn’t he take the dog?”
“He just lost his.”
“Ah.” Mason nodded, understanding completely. “You haven’t answered the actual question. We call that deflection.”
“I’m not deflecting, I’m working up to it. It’s more serious than I planned. More serious than I thought I’d want, and more serious than I’m sure I can handle. But he’s . . .”
She wasn’t sure she could explain it, to him or to herself.
“He makes me feel more than I thought I ever could or would. He figured out who I was. He had Simon Vance’s book on his wall of books—you have to see that wall of books. I have pictures.”
“Check out my shocked face,” Mason said, and made her laugh.
“Anyway. Apparently I didn’t hide my reaction to seeing Vance’s book as well as I thought, and Xander figured it out. But, Mason, he didn’t say anything to me, or change toward me. He didn’t tell anyone, even his closest friend. Do you know what that means to me?”
“Yeah.” Now Mason covered her hand with his. “And it goes a long way for me deciding he has a name. I liked him, and I know that matters to you. And I’m going to be up-front because you matter and tell you I ran him.”
“Oh, for God’s sake.”
“You’re my sister, you’re my family. And we share something most don’t, most can’t understand, and shouldn’t. I had to do it, Naomi. A couple of bumps in his late teens, early twenties, if you care.”
“Which I don’t.”
He rolled over that. “Disturbing the peace, destruction of property—bar fight that reads like he didn’t start it, but sure as hell finished it. No time—plenty of speeding tickets up until he hit about twenty-five. And that’s it. I’m going to add I feel better knowing he had a couple of bumps, got them out of his system. I like knowing he can finish a fight. No marriages or divorces, no children on record. He’s sole owner of the garage, half owner of the bar, and half owner of the building that holds the bar and an apartment. Winston thinks highly of him.”
“Are you done now?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. Now we’re going to get these dishes done, FaceTime the uncles, then you get the grand tour.”
“Okay. I’ve got one more thing, but I’m really done. Does he make you happy?”
“He does, and that was a shock to the system. And he makes me, or helps me, think beyond the moment. I’d gotten too much in the habit of only right now. I like thinking about tomorrow.”
“Then I may start calling him Xander. But what kind of name is that anyway?”
“Really, Mason Jar?”
“Shut up,” he said, and pushed away from the table to help her clear.
—
He waited until just after two in the morning to drive the quiet roads to the woods near the bluff. He parked on the shoulder.
Maybe they had patrols out at this hour, looking for the likes of him. But in his considerable experience it was far too early in the game for it, considering the two-bit town and half-ass police force.
And this wouldn’t take long.
He had her wrapped in a standard sheet of plastic. Trial and error had proven this method worked best. He had to put some muscle into hauling her out and up over his shoulder—fireman’s carry. He took some pride in being stronger than he looked, but she was a heftier package than he preferred.
All in all she’d been a disappointment. No fight or sass in her, not after the first couple hours anyway. It just cut into his fun when they didn’t try to scream or beg, when they stopped fighting, and she’d gone downhill so fast he’d nearly killed her out of sheer boredom.
Too much like that scrawny old bitch he’d grabbed up in godforsaken Kansas when he couldn’t get the one he’d had his eye on.
Or that fat-ass in Louisville. Or—
No point in dwelling on past mistakes, he assured himself as he shifted the dead weight on his shoulder and used the hunter’s light on his hat to light the track.
He just had to stop repeating them, remember patience was a virtue.
He’d already scoped his ground, using Naomi’s website pictures as a guide, and gratefully dropped Donna’s body between the track and a nurse log. With practiced moves, he rolled it out of the plastic, studied it while he folded the sheet to take with him.
Waste not, want not.
He took out his phone, switched to camera mode, and took his last souvenir pictures of Donna Lanier.
Then he walked away without giving the woman he’d killed another thought. She was the past, and he had his path set for the future.
He cruised the road just far enough to bring the house on the bluff, its spreading silhouette against a starstruck sky, into view.
Sleep well, Naomi, he thought. Rest up. I’ll be seeing you soon, and we’re going to have some fun.