At Risk (8 page)

“You sure? They look like Wal-Mart’s 99¢ special to me.” He grinned at her, exposing even white teeth and a dimple in one stubbly cheek. “I’ll buy you a dozen pairs, if you want.”

Liz shook her head. “Don’t waste your charm on me. No strings.”

“I didn’t think—”

Her eyes narrowed. “You said it yourself. We only go around once. Enjoy it while you can.”

“You have changed.”

“I’m not seventeen anymore.”

“Lizzy, about what happened with your sister—”

“That’s over. It happened a long time ago.”

“I’m sorry. I never wanted to—”

She held up her hands, palms out. “We’re not going to have this conversation. You did me a favor. Subject closed.” Her features brightened. “But you’re welcome to come in for that coffee—better yet, a beer. And I still make a mean grilled cheese and tomato sandwich.”

“Hmm. Tomato soup go with the offer?” How many afternoons had they spent alone in her house? Her dad didn’t always pay his light or phone bill, but he kept the cupboards stocked with canned goods. One thing about Donald Clarke—no matter how drunk he got, he never let his girls go hungry.

She chuckled. “Tomato soup and oyster crackers.”

“It’s a deal.” Jack stepped into his jeans and zipped them up. “You’re a hell of a woman, Lizzy Clarke. Kent County just hasn’t been the same without you.”

On Saturday afternoon, the Game Master went to
the sophomore’s
funeral. It was a rare treat, one he didn’t usually allow himself. It was such a false cliché—the serial murderer always attends services for the dead. The fools. What did the authorities know of him and his kind?

He saw them in the crowd, some in uniform, others poorly disguised as grieving friends or merely curious onlookers. A few faces he recognized, but he didn’t have to know them by name to label them—like they would pin labels on him, if they could catch him.

The thought was amusing, and he almost made the mistake of smiling. That wouldn’t do, wouldn’t do at all. He must look properly sorrowful, living the lie that this school of poor fish was enacting—pretending that the dead thing in the box was worth shedding tears over.

It was nothing now, worse than nothing.
The sophomore
had provided a little amusement, a brief relief from monotony. The Game Master could still taste her blood on his tongue.

He glanced at his watch, wondering how long this farce would go on. He had business to attend to, files to update. A sense of uncertainty loomed. This was always a dangerous period. Flushed with the excitement of victory, he had to set up the board for the next match. He couldn’t make the same moves twice, and he needed to take great care not to frighten the professor so badly that she ran away.

She had to die. Twice before, he’d selected women and then changed his mind, letting them live without their ever knowing of his interest. The professor would have no such luck. She was already too deeply into the game to survive. She was his, and she was special. Smart. Tough. The greatest prize yet. He’d waited so long for her, and his reward would be all the sweeter when he added her to his collection.

He closed his eyes, taking advantage of the strains of funeral music that echoed through the church. For an instant,
the hitchhiker
came to mind. So long ago, and he could remember her face as if it were yesterday.

It had been raining that night, and he was driving down from Delaware City along Route 9. It was late, close to two in the morning, and he hadn’t seen a car on the road for the last ten minutes. He was driving fast. He liked speed, the sight of wet blacktop flashing past, the rhythmic swish of the wipers, and the exhilarating gusts of wind and rain hitting the car.

Occasionally, he’d catch glimpses of the bay on his left. There was a riptide. Nothing beat being on the water on a night like that. The waves would be building to ten feet, and the powerful gale would drop an atheist to his knees and make him pray for mercy.

Waves of pleasure engulfed him as the memories of that night flooded back.

He’d nearly missed seeing the hitchhiker on the narrow bridge. The girl had worn dark clothing, and every scrap had been plastered to her skin by the pounding rain. She’d thrown up a hand to shield her face from the glare of his lights, and then waved frantically to try to stop him.

He’d braked a few hundred feet later, considering whether or not she was worth the risk. She was only his third premeditated victim, and he was still cautious, feeling his way in the game. But he hadn’t been able to resist. He’d pulled into an abandoned farm lane and turned the car around. She stepped farther onto the roadway as he drove back. Her thin face was chalk white against the black of her hair, her eyes wide with distress. She couldn’t have been more than sixteen.

She was smiling with relief as he slowed the vehicle. He’d waited, savoring the moment, before stomping the accelerator. The thud of steel colliding with flesh and bone is unique, thrilling on a basic level. He remembered how her slight body soared like a seagull, up and over the railing, into the black water below.

Quick but efficient, he thought. And far too easy.

The Game Master swallowed. Ah, for the innocence of his early days of experimentation. There was satisfaction in primitive emotion, but he was long past such simple pleasures. There were rules to follow for one on his level, and paramount was the preliminary preparation of his new object, the lady-in-waiting, as it were. He covered his mouth with a hand to conceal his smile.

It was time to begin
the daughter’s
harvest.

Liz, Amelia, and Sydney attended Tracy’s funeral together. Most of the Somerville staff was present at the Methodist church, including Cameron Whitaker, Ernie Baker, and two other security guards from the school. The small frame house of worship was filled to overflowing, and a crowd of mourners gathered by the entrance. Tracy’s Aunt Charlene, garbed all in black, hung weeping on the arm of a red-faced and ponytailed man with a bad complexion and a protruding beer belly.

After the service, Liz, Amelia, and Sydney waited until Charlotte’s escort led her out of the church before rising to continue on to the interment. They were nearing the door when Liz noticed Michael’s wheelchair in the back of the church. He waved, and she whispered to Amelia that she’d meet them at the cemetery.

“It’s a big turnout,” Liz said when she reached Michael’s side.

He nodded. “Some come out of respect. Others out of ghoulish curiosity.”

Liz had never seen Michael in a suit and tie before, and he looked positively handsome. He’d polished his black shoes to a glass finish, and the creases in his steel-gray trousers were impeccable.

“I’m surprised that the funeral wasn’t delayed,” he said. “What with the murder investigation, an autopsy usually takes longer.”

“The dean is a personal friend of the governor,” Liz said. “At least that’s what Sydney heard. For the sake of the family and for the school, they wanted the funeral to take place as soon as possible. Bad publicity for Somerville.”

“Figures. It’s not what you know, it’s who you know.” Michael glanced at a couple near the rear door. The man, who appeared to be in his thirties, held a fussy toddler in his arms. “Do you know them?” Michael asked.

“No,” Liz replied.

“The woman is Tracy’s cousin, the baby’s Tracy’s.”

A wave of compassion washed through Liz. “Oh. I didn’t know she had a child,” she murmured with a catch in her voice. “Is the father—”

“Wayne Boyd. At least she claimed he was the father. A buddy of mine on the force told me that she was suing Boyd for child support.”

“And now the baby’s orphaned. How tragic.”

“The cousin’s applied for custody. Been married five years, no kids of their own. She drives a school bus. Her husband works for the City of Dover.”

“It’s good there are relatives willing to take the child.”

“Better than going into a foster home or being adopted out. The state’s supposed to weed out the crazies, but they’re no better at that than keeping drunks off the road,” Michael said. “Lots of kids are worse off in state care than they were to begin with.”

Liz nodded. Michael had told her that he’d spent most of his childhood in foster homes. He’d never elaborated, but she had gotten the impression that his memories were unhappy ones.

“You heard about Boyd’s truck?”

“Yes.” She didn’t tell him that she’d seen the rescue squad pulling the vehicle out of the Murderkill River. If she did that, she’d have to tell Michael whom she’d been with, and she knew he wouldn’t approve.

“No body yet, but if it washed out into the bay, they may never find it. Lot of water out there.”

“You think Wayne murdered Tracy and then committed suicide?”

“Maybe. Or maybe he’s on the run and wants police to think he drowned.” He glanced around to see that no one was close enough to hear. “A warrant’s been issued for his arrest. Forensics is still examining the oyster knife for fingerprints.”

He took hold of her hand and squeezed it. “I’m making crab cakes for supper if you’d like to stop by about six. I caught a few decent-sized jimmies at the end of my dock.”

“I may take you up on that. Can I bring dessert?”

“As long as it’s ice cream. Any Cookies and Cream in your freezer?”

“No, but I’ll stop and pick some up on the way home. Are you coming outside for—”

He shook his head. “I want to stop by the school and run through the tapes of the security videos again. I know that they weren’t working in your wing, but we have tape of the main entrance. The police couldn’t find anything unusual, but I’ll feel better if I check myself.” He smiled at her. “Besides, graveyards aren’t the best surface for these treads.” He indicated the wheels on his chair.

“I’d be glad to push,” she offered.

“No, thanks. Six o’clock. With ice cream.”

For a fraction of a second, she thought she saw pain in his eyes, but then his tough-guy mask slipped into place. She’d insulted his pride by offering to help with his chair, and she was sorry. “Six,” she agreed as she bent to hug him. “Love you, Michael.”

His eyes twinkled. “Love you, Elizabeth.”

Jack was waiting just outside. He took a puff on a cigarette and dropped it to the ground. After stamping on the half-smoked butt, he picked it up and shoved it in his pants pocket.

“I thought you’d given that up,” she said.

“Me too.” He fell into step beside her. “You didn’t call me yesterday.”

“I know.”

“I offered to call you, but you didn’t want that.”

“No.” She avoided his gaze.

“Was I that much of a disappointment?”

“You know better than that.”

“They’re having a spread at the fire hall for Tracy’s friends and family,” Jack said. “Mom will kill me if I don’t show my face. Would you like to come with—”

She shook her head. “No, thanks. I’ll just go home after this is over at the cemetery.”

“Lots of funeral ham and potato salad.”

“Tempting, but no thanks.”

“Can I come by later?”

“Not tonight. I have plans with a friend. Call me in a day or two.” What had happened between them was too new. It had been good, better than good, the best sex she’d ever had. She needed time to decide whether she wanted it to happen again, and if he came to the house, she knew they’d end up in bed. Jack was as complicated as he’d ever been—and she was still putty in his hands.

“You know where to find me, Lizzy.”

She could tell he was hurt by the look in his eyes. “Jack—”

“Later.”

He strode away and joined two other men that Liz recognized as watermen. She hurried to catch up with Sydney and Amelia.

“Who was that you were talking to?” Amelia asked as they picked their way through the tombstones.

“Just someone I used to know,” Liz replied.

“That’s right—you grew up around here, didn’t you?” Sydney said. “You must know half of Kent County.”

Amelia chuckled. “If she’s anything like these other Delawareans, she knows all the natives, and two-thirds are relatives.”

“Pay her no attention,” Liz said. “From what I understand, her DeLaurier in-laws are related to everyone in Baton Rouge and the four surrounding counties.”

“Amen to that,” Amelia said. “I thought I had a lot of relatives until I married into my husband’s family. Thomas has at least five aunties on his mother’s side, and only God knows how many uncles. He has twenty-some cousins. One cousin has seven children, and another has six. It’s pandemonium at holidays.”

After a second brief service at the gravesite, Liz said her good-byes and started home. She felt another headache coming on. The base of her skull felt as though someone were driving a spike into it. She almost wished she hadn’t agreed to have dinner with Michael that evening.

He was her best friend, and being with him was always enjoyable, but she needed time alone. It wasn’t that she regretted having sex with Jack so much as she felt she needed time to consider what she was getting into. Becoming involved with Jack again wasn’t high on her list of good choices.

He was trouble. He always had been. The last thing she needed now was complication in her life. And Jack Rafferty had a way of getting to her that no other man—including her ex-husband—had ever done.

She supposed she had only herself to blame. It had been months since she’d been on a date, let alone been intimate with a man . . . unless you could count her time with Michael. And they hadn’t done it.

Yet.

She lowered the driver’s window and took a deep breath of the warm May air.

There it was—the question she’d kept pushing to the back of her mind. Did she and Michael have something more than friendship between them? Was she seriously considering something more permanent? And if she was—why was she letting Jack ruin it?

Michael Hubbard was solid and respectable, perfectly suitable for a professor’s life partner. He was smart and funny and sexy. They shared a love of books, music, and the outdoors. God knew, he doted on Katie. Showered her with gifts. And Katie liked him well enough to call him Uncle Mike. He’d make a terrific stepfather.