Jack of Diamonds Page 9

  Erica huffed and tapped on her tablet a little too aggressively.

  Alice’s phone let out a notification ding that Jack’s call had gone to voice mail.

  Aunt Haddie turned to look at Alice. “But . . . if I remember your schedule correctly, tomorrow you’re supposed to go over to the florist’s and see if you like the substitute ribbon for the boutonnieres. Can you bring the ribbon choices to Lorenzo’s studio and kill two birds with one stone?”

  Erica thought for a moment and nodded. “That works. Thank you.”

  As Alice gave Aunt Haddie a smile and a thumbs-up, her phone vibrated with a text. “Philip, would you please hand me my phone?” With a scowl, he picked it up and handed it to her.

  Alice’s breath caught in her throat as she read Jack’s message.

  911! YOU’RE IN DANGER!! CALL ME!!!

  14

  Jack stood next to the Charger, waiting for Morrison and Castillo to arrive. He kicked at the dirt in frustration and checked his phone for the hundredth time. Castillo treated this like the scene of an accident and not a crime. He should have found these bodies. The police had already cordoned off the house. Two rookies stood on the front porch, glancing around the property, eyes darting back and forth from Jack to the house, unsure what to do next. One of them had thrown up when Jack showed him the bodies. Jack gave him his last bottle of water, and he wasn’t about to ask for it back now.

  He’d called Alice even before calling 911, expecting her to freak out when he told her about the dead women, but she barely reacted at all, apparently incapable of processing any more stress. She recognized the threat, but emotionally, she seemed more concerned about Aunt Haddie being physically up for such a long visit than she was worried about a serial killer having her picture taped to his wall in the room where he’d hidden two bodies.

  Jack had sent Bobbie G. and Boomer out to be with Alice, so he knew she was safe. But still, he wanted to be the one protecting her.

  Morrison’s cruiser came barreling toward him, lights flashing, and skidded to a stop. Castillo got out of the passenger seat and walked toward him with a scowl.

  “What? How can you possibly be ticked off that I was right?” Jack said.

  “You broke into a crime scene!” Castillo’s eye twitched.

  Morrison stopped a good distance away, but he looked like a bull readying to charge. “Jack, what do you think you’re doing?” His voice sounded like gravel was stuck in his throat.

  “I didn’t break in.” Jack reached into his pocket and took out the rental receipt. “You declared the house no longer a crime scene, so I rented it.”

  “You—what?” Castillo marched forward and took the receipt from Jack’s hand.

  Morrison crossed his arms, but a slight grin had formed on his lips. He nodded, and Jack returned the gesture.

  “You’re not approving this, are you?” Castillo waved the paper toward Morrison. “His meddling could jeopardize our case.”

  “Calm down, Ed,” Morrison shot back. “We wouldn’t even have a case if Jack hadn’t kept digging. Good job, Stratton.”

  Castillo turned his back to both men, muttering a string of obscenities.

  “When you’re done running your mouth,” Morrison said, starting toward the house, “why don’t you join me and Jack inside?”

  Castillo turned back around and quickly fell into step beside Morrison and Jack. “You’re not going to let him into an active murder scene, are you, sir?”

  “Yes, and it’s not up for debate,” Morrison said. At the door, all three men slipped crime scene shoe covers over their shoes. “Did you come out here with anyone, Jack?” Morrison asked.

  “No, sir. Lady, myself, and the responding officers have been inside. The homeowner must have come out at some point prior to today. They cleaned up and left some gift baskets.”

  Morrison turned to the senior officer. “Go over to 1226 Jefferson and bring George Grady over here ASAP. He’s the homeowner. Bag his shoes. And if anyone else in the family was out here, round them up, too.”

  The officer nodded and headed for his car while the other stood guard at the door.

  Jack led the way to the back room and pointed out the trapdoor and the rug that had replaced the bloody one.

  “Looks like Donald wasn’t hallucinating,” Morrison said as he stared down at the two bodies wrapped in plastic.

  “He must have come into the room when the trapdoor was open,” Jack said.

  Castillo nodded. “He must have seen the body before the killer hit him over the head.”

  Jack was about to point out that Castillo had abandoned his theory about the redneck alarm pretty quickly, but he kept his mouth shut. He didn’t often agree with Ed’s theories as a detective, but there was no reason to rub his nose in his mistake, as tempting as it was.

  “What’s the ETA on the ME?” Jack asked Morrison.

  “Neil should be here within half an hour.” Morrison looked at Jack. “You’ve reached out to Alice?”

  Jack nodded. “She’s with friends. I’ll be heading there with Lady as soon as we’re done.”

  “We might be a while.” Castillo crouched down and took out a flashlight. “Is it just the two bodies?”

  “It is,” Jack replied. “Neither look like they’ve been dead long. The woman on the right is definitely in one of the sketches. I’m pretty sure the one on the left is, too.”

  “What did you do, memorize their faces?” Castillo asked.

  Jack held up his phone.

  “You took pictures of my crime scene?” Castillo stood, his arms stiff at his sides, his face flushed.

  “I had the phone in my chest pocket and the camera just kept going off,” Jack lied.

  Castillo thrust a finger at Morrison. “Sir, that’s a crime.”

  “Get your hand out of my face, Ed.” Morrison stepped up beside Jack. “Show me.”

  Jack scrolled through the pictures until he found the sketch of the woman on the right. “See that mole on her lip? It’s small but visible.”

  Morrison looked at the body of the woman in the hole and nodded. “It’s her. But she looks younger in that sketch. Like it was drawn years ago.”

  “She’s definitely older now.” Jack flipped through the other sketches until he came to one of a young woman with her hair pulled up in a bun, wisps of hair framing her face. “I think this may be the one on the left.”

  Castillo squinted, looking back and forth between the sketch and the body. “The nose is all wrong.”

  “It’s different.” Jack zoomed in. “But her cheekbones and facial structure are the same. Maybe she got a nose job?”

  “It could be her,” Castillo admitted. “But only if that sketch was drawn thirty years ago.”

  “Or the artist sketched it from an old photograph,” Morrison offered.

  “There were four dozen pictures on that wall,” Jack said. “There’s a definite possibility that there are more bodies someplace else. You need to call in a profiler, sir.”

  Castillo took in a deep breath. Jack clenched his fist, ready to erupt if Castillo protested, but the detective nodded. “I agree with Stratton. This could be really big.”

  “Agreed.” Morrison nodded. “Ed, take Jack’s official statement right now, then cut him loose.” Morrison’s eyes met Jack’s.

  Jack’s throat tightened. He’d worked a lot of crime scenes with the sheriff, but he’d never seen the fear that was now etched on Morrison’s face. His brows were furrowed and his eyes wide. The tension was thick in the air, a new electricity buzzing around the men.

  The sheriff wasn’t trying to get rid of Jack to keep him away from the investigation. Morrison knew that Jack was Alice’s best possible protection.

  15

  This isn’t right. It isn’t fair! Even more police cars are arriving at the house now. I should have ended it before it came to this. I should have stopped Jack when he came back with that mutant mutt of his.

  I knew he’d come back. It’s m
y fault, really. I should have moved the bodies right after the police left. Did I subconsciously leave them there on purpose? Because I knew Jack would come back?

  My hand tightens into a fist as anger burns through me. I feel my face flush with my next thought. Now I need two more.

  For balance. Symmetry. Art.

  I should have stopped Jack. He’s stronger than I am, but I could have shot him. But then I’d have had to shoot Lady, too. I should have killed them both when I had the chance.

  But I know why I didn’t. Because Jack needs to live. He needs to see, even if it’s only for a moment, even if he doesn’t really understand it. I’ll let him see my art, and then I can kill him. If I want. But there will be no need.

  Seeing it will kill him. Slowly. He’s seen so much already, but he won’t be able to get my art out of his mind. Waking. Sleeping. Eyes open or closed. He’ll always see.

  More cars are coming now. Vans.

  And there’s Jack. He’s not a policeman anymore, but cops are hanging on his every word. King Jack, out on the porch talking, holding court. Even the sheriff listens to him.

  My chuckle slowly builds to a laugh. It’s my work they’re admiring, not Jack’s. Now they’re listening. Now that they’ve found the bodies, they’re scared.

  Standing on the porch, Jack turns and looks straight toward the spot in the woods where I’m standing. Can he see me? No. The shadows are too dark. I’m too well hidden.

  Does he sense me?

  He does. I know it. My chest is warm. I lick my lips. He knows I’m watching. I savor the moment, let it wash over me. But now is not the time.

  I slip silently back, further into the woods and the shadows. Soon the darkness grows deeper. The trees are closer together, the ground spongy underfoot. It’s not a beautiful place now, but it once was. A hundred years ago, a handful of houses popped up here, on the outskirts of Darrington. Two large farming families came together, joining their acreage. They even built a little church.

  It’s hard to tell where the forest used to end and the church property began. The trees grow right up to the dilapidated building, shielding parts from the sun attempting to poke through the canopy. Many of the once-beautiful glass panes have cracked, and the wooden tiles and the tall steeple have darkened from decades of growing exposure to water and mold. I pass by the family cemetery. No one besides me has been here for years, the old, carved stones now blocks of green foliage and the occasional monument in view tangled with vines. It’s so sad. The graves are really special.

  Crypts, technically. Little stone buildings with brass doors. Each held several coffins.

  That made things easier for me. I didn’t have to dig.

  There’s still enough light to see easily as I slip in the back door of the church. I prefer to go in that way. I feel like I’m peeking in on my masterpiece in all its glory. And it’s such a beautiful spectacle.

  I glide over to the vestibule door and peer into the sanctuary. Everyone’s there, waiting. The pews are filled with all the guests. I had to invite the original church members, of course, which is why it was so nice that I didn’t have to dig. I did my best to keep couples together, and I ignored the whole “groom side, bride side” nonsense. It’s a wedding, after all. A celebration. I was so glad that the crypts held so many men, since most of my special guests are women.

  The two spots that are still vacant spoil my mood. They’re ruining my art. Like blank areas on a canvas, they beg to be filled in with color.

  Stupid Jack Stratton.

  But he won’t stop me. I’ll just have to find two more.

  I slip inside the sanctuary. The service hasn’t started yet, so I’ll go unnoticed, as always. I can’t remember how many weddings I’ve been to, but no one would ever recall my being there. Unbelievable, really. It’s like I’m invisible.

  “Oh, no, Mrs. Oliver.”

  Mrs. Oliver is slumping forward in the pew. Her flowered hat is now resting on the back of Mrs. Fletcher’s head. That will never do.

  It takes me a little while to rearrange Mrs. Oliver. I only got her two weeks ago, and it was so difficult to make her sit still. Rigor mortis always presents such a challenge—perhaps the biggest. My compositions would not remain exactly as I designed them to be if it weren’t for the countless hours I’ve put into honing my craft. But working with death is like working in any other medium in art—it takes a lifetime to master. I should call them my decompositions.

  I smile at my own wit and continue to shape Mrs. Oliver’s stiff body until I’m pleased with the pose.

  There.

  I slip back into the shadows. Everything is almost ready. I still have some empty spots, but those should be easy to fill. I’ve never had too much trouble inviting people.

  But . . . am I being too selfish? After all, most of the guests are mine. I had to invite them so they could see the wedding. But what about the bride? Should I invite some of her family?

  Or Jack’s? He was adopted, but now that he’s found his real mother and grandmother, there are so many to pick from. His adoptive parents should be here soon, too. Another couple would be nice.

  Or . . . maybe I need some diversity. That’s it! And she could be included in both the bride’s and the groom’s family!

  I silently clap my hands together.

  It’s perfect. I’ll just have to invite Aunt Haddie to the wedding.

  16

  Jack paced back and forth across his living room, rubbing the tension out of his neck. Alice watched him from the center of the room with her arms crossed. Bobbie, Boomer, and Shawna sat on the couch, following the conversation with rapt attention.

  Jack stopped pacing and faced Alice. He took a deep breath, knowing there was nowhere to run from the bomb he was about to detonate, and said, “We have to cancel the wedding.”

  Alice looked like she’d stepped on a live wire. Bobbie slapped his forehead. Boomer rolled his eyes.

  “Oh, you didn’t just go there,” Shawna said.

  “We have no choice,” Jack said.

  “Are you kidding?” Alice’s arms shot down stiffly at her sides. “There is no way I am canceling our wedding!”

  Jack took a step back. “Maybe ‘cancel’ was too strong a word.”

  “Ya think?” Shawna said.

  “Reschedule,” Jack said.

  Alice marched forward, her eyes shooting green sparks. “I am not canceling, not postponing, not changing one single thing about our wedding. It will go on as planned. I don’t care what crazy psycho may or may not come after me. Believe me, at this point, they should be a lot more scared of me than I am of them!”

  “I believe it!” Boomer said, raising his hand.

  “Me, too!” said Bobbie.

  Lady began to bark.

  “Hush, Lady. Alice, you need to listen to reason,” Jack said. “This guy has killed at least two women. He had forty-eight pictures up on his wall, and you are in one of them. Sheriff Morrison is bringing in an FBI profiler—”

  Boomer raised his hand again. “I saw this episode of The Real World of Serial Killers, and it took the cops like twenty years to catch this one dude.”

  “Shut up,” said Shawna, pulling his hand back down.

  “No. Boomer’s right,” Alice said. “You don’t expect us to delay our wedding twenty years, do you?”

  “I’m not saying that,” Jack said. “But there’s a killer out there.”

  “I know, Jack! What do you want me to do about it?”

  Jack cracked his neck. There was no way she was going to like this plan, but he couldn’t think of an alternative. “I think you should go away to a safe place while I hunt the guy down.”

  Alice walked into the kitchen, picked up a plate, and shattered it in the sink.

  “I think that’s a no,” Boomer said.

  “Of course it’s a no!” Alice shouted, coming back into the room. “We’re a team, Jack! Do you think I’m going to run and hide while you risk your life?”

 
; Jack swallowed. “I was kind of hoping you would.”

  “Would you do that? If the situation were reversed and someone was threatening you—would you hide while I looked for the guy without you?”

  Boomer laughed. “Not Jack. No way.”

  “You can’t stay here,” Jack said.

  “You can’t make me leave.”

  “Alice . . .” He ran his hand through his hair again.

  Her lip started to tremble. “Is there some other reason you want to cancel the wedding?”

  The question rocked Jack onto his heels. “What? No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Sure about what? Marrying you? Of course I am. I mean, I’m nervous, but—”

  Alice burst into tears, raced into her bedroom, and slammed the door.

  Boomer shook his head. “Never hesitate.”

  “Shut up.” Shawna stood up. “You’re not helping.”

  Jack rubbed his forehead. “How is this possibly turning around on me?” he asked no one in particular. “There’s a serial killer on the loose.”

  Shawna put a hand on her hip and leveled her gaze at Jack. “If you had any idea of the stress that girl is under, you’d cut her some slack.”

  Jack’s voice rose. “I’m just trying to keep her safe!” He let out an exasperated sigh.

  Bobbie G. shook his head. “Well, good luck with that. There’s no way Replacement’s running.”

  Even in his current mood, Jack couldn’t help but crack a small smile at hearing Alice’s nickname. He walked to the kitchen and started picking the pieces of broken plate out of the sink. “Then what am I supposed to do?”

  “Catch the guy,” Boomer said.

  “You just said it yourself, sometimes it takes decades to catch a serial killer.”

  “I was right about that?”

  Shawna slapped Boomer in the back of the head.

  “You can still guard her,” Bobbie suggested. “Just stay by her side.”

  “Then how do I catch the guy? I can’t do both.”