Strega (Strega Series) (15 page)

Though I wanted to savor it, I couldn't. I'd seen the whole thing in my mind a second before it happened. I turned back to my desk and sank into my chair, afraid to move. Afraid to think. Afraid to breathe.

It was late afternoon when I arrived at the police station for my weekly check-in with Detective Laine. It was always the same story. They were still searching for leads. Gram's case grew colder by the day. There was nothing to go on. No weapon. No suspects. That day though, I wondered if our conversation would be different.

Gram was the last person murdered in Newburyport. People were shocked. Our town was relatively crime-free. In fact, nobody could remember the last murder before her and certainly nothing so grisly. But less than two months later we were dealing with another, and it was just as horrific.

Detective Laine sat alone in his office with the door closed. The whole station was abuzz with talk of Mr. Whitmore's murder investigation. I knew he was busy. I stood outside with my back against the glass door, patiently waiting for him to notice me.

After one long minute, he called my name and signaled for me to come in.

"I saw you this morning outside the Cask," I said. "I knew Mr. Whitmore."

The question I wanted to ask was burning in my mind. Before I could broach it, Detective Laine spoke.

"My team is reviewing the evidence for a possible connection to your grandmother's case," he said, looking down as he organized the paperwork scattered across his desk. Then I saw it. A photograph of Gram. It was an image that had burned itself into my mind the night I found her. Seeing it in front of me again like that made me choke. When Detective Laine saw that my eyes were fixed on it, he scurried to cover it up.

"The evidence we've gathered so far is strangely similar in both cases. We can't ignore a possible link," he said, tossing the rest of Gram's case files into a folder. "It could be a coincidence. Two random acts of violence. But that does not sit well with me. In a town that hasn't seen a murder in more than forty years, the timing and method is very suspicious. I think we're seeing an M.O. surfacing. We may have a serial killer on our hands."

"He was killed the same way, wasn't he?" I blurted out, seeking confirmation for what I already knew to be true.

"It appears that way. The fatal wound is the same. And like your grandmother's case, no fingerprints have been found anywhere, and we cannot determine what weapon was used. If we didn't know better, we'd suspect that the cause of death was an animal attack."

He paused before he went on, ensuring that I was okay to talk about it. I urged him on but inside I was horrified.

"In both cases, their bones were shattered as if they were thrown a great distance. And the fatal gash on the neck appears to match cases of bear attacks reported in the northernmost parts of Maine and New Hampshire. This is an unlikely cause for either case given our location. If there was a bear wandering our streets, someone would surely notice. So there we are. Stumped. Still looking for a suspect. A motive. I'm still hopeful, but we have nothing yet."

He hesitated for a moment as if remembering the sensitivity of the subject.

"I'm so sorry, Jay. We're doing everything we can. I promise."

I sat down at the bar and ordered a glass of water. The bartender's forehead crinkled as he scanned through all the faces in his memory. "Hey, you're the girl that
—"

"Yes," I said. "I was hoping to catch you before it gets too crowded."

"I'm not counting on a crowd tonight. Not after what happened last night," he said, placing the icy glass of water on a cocktail napkin in front of me. "How old are you?"

"I'm seventeen."

"Just so you know...technically, you're not allowed to sit at the bar."

I sat alone at the counter. Most of the patrons that night were a little rough around the edges. Some hovered over their drinks in the shadowed corners. Others stared in my direction with lascivious eyes. Aside from an old haggard woman mumbling to herself at a table near the door, I was the only female in the place.

"I'll be gone in a minute," I assured him.

Sitting atop the tall bar stool, I felt like a flashing beacon. I was fresh blood in the company of hungry dogs. I crossed my legs and tugged at the hem of my skirt, hoping that by some miracle I could get it to cover my knees and stretch down to my ankles. Other than the questionable company that night, the bar had a rustic charm that matched the accompanying restaurant beyond the saloon-style doors. But it was foreign territory, dark, and on that night, it was particularly hollow.

"I was just hoping you could tell me something," I said. "I knew Mr. Whitmore. He was a friend. Do you remember what he ordered when he came in last night?"

"Wow, of all the questions you could ask, that's what you want to know?"

"Well, it's a start."

"You really do ask strange questions. Um, he always ordered Scotch and tonic."

"Always?" I asked. "Did he come here often?"

"A few nights a week." he said. "I've been working here awhile. He started coming in a few months back, sometime in the spring. He'd order a drink, stay just long enough to finish it, and then he'd leave. Nothing out of the ordinary."

"How about last night?"

"Same thing," he said confidently before his eyes narrowed. "Though last night he did stay a little longer than usual."

"How long was he here?" I asked.

"He got here a little after eight, give or take. He ordered a second drink, which was unusual too. He left just before ten." He drew in a sharp breath and wrinkled his brow. "Uh...I know you said you knew him, but why do you want to know all this? Are you a reporter or something?"

"Did he talk to anybody while he was here?" I asked, ignoring his question.

"No, never did," he said. "He always kept to himself. Last night though, he did seem a little more agitated than usual. Do you work for the police department or something? No wait, you're seventeen..."

"Did you hear anything or see anyone strange coming in or leaving last night?"

"No," he said. "I didn't hear a thing. Not a scream. Nothing. The strange thing is, I hear everything that goes on out there. People walking by. Talking. Laughing. If you listen right now, you can hear it too. If he screamed or yelled out for help, I would have heard him."

"Did you see him leave? Was it through that door?" I pointed to the exit door that led to the alley out back.

"No, I don't think so. He always left through the front door. He parked on the street."

He started shaking his head back and forth, and pressed his fingers into his eyes in distress, rubbing them hard and letting out a deep exhale.

"My shift ended last night at midnight. That poor man was lying out there for two hours while I was in here, and I didn't even know. It's so disturbing. I've been on edge all day. To tell you the truth, if I didn't need the money, I wouldn't be here."

"Who found him?"

"Someone that lives up there in one of those houses saw him lying there this morning and called the police. They called me around seven this morning to come down and answer questions. Seriously, why do you want to know all this?"

"I am an intern at the paper," I finally said. "But I'm not here on business. This is completely personal. In June, my grandmother—Teresa Ahearn—was killed. Detective Laine thinks her murder and this one might be connected."

"Oh god, the woman that was killed up on High Street...that was your grandmother?" His face hung with shock. I nodded. "I am so sorry."

I stared at the back door that led to the alley. Something so awful, so hideous, happened just outside this place last night and nobody had any idea who did it. I watched two men playing pool in the corner while their friends leaned against the wall, waiting for their turn. Others were playing darts. Pitchers of beer and half-empty glasses were scattered across the table. In the far corner, sitting in the shadows beyond the dim ceiling lights, was a man I hadn't seen when I first walked in. Dressed in black, his dominating stature cast its own shadow on the wall. His large hand wrapped all the way around the short glass in front of him. His dark hair and scruffy beard shrouded his face, pulling him deeper into the dark corner. My eyes strained to see his face until a speck of light reflected in his eyes, and I realized he was looking right at me.

Embarrassed and terrified, I tore my gaze away from him and turned back to the bar. I sat completely still for a moment, as wide-eyed as a deer staring into oncoming headlights and waiting for fatal impact. I knew his face. It was Vince.

This was the second time I'd seen him since my life had begun to spin out of control. Again, he made no effort to talk to me. Instead he stayed away and watched me like a predator. I panicked. Something was not right.

"Do you know that man?" I asked the bartender, gesturing with my eyes toward the corner where Vince was sitting. He finished pouring a drink and then lifted his eyes.

"Who?" he asked, staring into the corner with uncertainty.

I slowly turned my head, relying solely on my peripheral vision. I was too scared to look him square in the face again. But when my eyes finally reached the dark corner, the table was empty. I spun around and scanned the rest of the place, but Vince was gone.

***

I swirled the remaining inch of water around in my glass, staring into it as if it held all the answers I so desperately sought. Was Vince following me? If he wanted the athame, did he kill Mr. Whitmore for it? And if he'd gotten what he wanted, then why was he still after me? What puzzled me more than anything else was how any of it was connected to Gram.

As the bartender wiped the counter with a white dishcloth, I leaned in again.

"Did you see Mr. Whitmore writing on a napkin by any chance?"

"Yeah, actually, I did. How do you know about that?

"I actually saw it earlier today. Detective Laine had it."

"Oh wow, he never mentioned it. Does he think it's significant?"

"I'm not sure," I said, rubbing my forehead. My head was pounding.

"I didn't think anything of it really," he said. "I figured he was just doodling or jotting down a note. He was really focused though, now that I think about it. Grunting and shifting around in his seat."

He continued to wipe down the bar as he recollected these moments from the prior evening, until suddenly his forehead scrunched up.

"You know...I heard him say something. What the hell was it?" He pressed his hand against his forehead as he tried to remember. "I didn't think anything of it at the time. Didn't even remember until now honestly."

Suddenly his eyes opened wide and the word burst out of his mouth. "Triune! That was it. Triune. Though I don't know what the heck it means."

The word gripped me and instantly I fell through time, back to a day so far in my past I'd forgotten it. I was sitting on the edge of Mom's bed, talking to her while she was in the shower. I spotted a book that was lying open on a shelf in her closet. It was big and thick, with a brown leather cover and golden yellow pages. I'd never seen it before. I wandered in to get a closer look, and there on the open page was a peculiar drawing of a beautiful woman with flowing hair. She was radiant. I couldn't take my eyes off her image. Before I could read what was written on that page, Mom pulled me away. I didn't even hear her come out of the shower. But I did remember one thing. One word written larger than all the rest at the top of the page.
TRIUNE
.

I pulled out a five-dollar bill and left it wedged under my glass.

"Thanks so much for your help. I've gotta go." I was nervous to walk out alone. I'd parked right out front, but I was beginning to realize that didn't matter.

"No problem," he said as he poured a drink and gave me a distracted wave. "Hang in there, kid."

I couldn't stop thinking about Mom's book. After that day, I never saw it again. Mom quickly ushered me out of her closet, closed the book, and put it on the highest shelf out of my reach. Days later when I looked for it in that same spot, it was gone.

I always wondered why she hid it from me. In the back of my mind, I always hoped I would run across it again. When Mom and Dad died, Gram packed most of their things and brought all the boxes to her house. I described the book to her with as much detail as I could remember, hoping she'd seen it, but she hadn't. As I thought about it again for the first time in so many years, I knew there was a chance it was somewhere in her house. And more than ever, I was determined to find it.

My eyes were fixed on the rearview mirror the whole way to Gram's house. I parked out front and made sure nobody had followed me before I got out.

Gram left her house to me. She left me more money than I ever knew she had. She set up accounts to cover utilities and maintenance bills for years, in case anything ever happened to her. The landscaper, electric company, phone provider—she kept all the numbers in a binder in the kitchen and always made sure I knew where it was. I was the beneficiary on her life insurance. She had a college fund for me that would cover my expenses for four years. It was almost as if she knew something was going to happen to her. When I was thirteen, she bought a burial plot and pre-ordered a headstone. She told me she was just taking care of it so I wouldn't have to worry about it when the time came. I thought it was so morbid. I told her I didn't want to talk about it or even think about it. But when she died, I finally understood. She knew how hard it would be for me to lose her, and she did what she could to make it a little easier. When she died, I couldn't think beyond the moment or concentrate on anything. I still hadn't figured out how to put the pieces of my life back together. I didn't have many pieces left.