dead. The killer’s
probably long gone but I’m not about to search the woods alone.”
“Stay in the car,” Dixon yelled. “I’m on my way.”
My allegro pulse didn’t calm, but my mind started to
function. Opening the car door, I thrust my legs outside. I rummaged through my
wallet, extracted a credit card and used the stiff plastic to rigorously brush
off the ants clinging to my trousers and shoes. After jettisoning as many of
the suckers as possible, I closed and locked the door.
My metal cocoon felt claustrophobic. Nervous sweat soaked
the shirt beneath my jacket and my skin grew clammy. At any hint of a rustle,
my flashlight beam probed the canopy of greenery.
Is the killer out there?
My thoughts returned to Bea and Monday night’s real estate
gala. Everyone at our table knew about her allergies. Yet it was doubtful my
dinner companions belonged to an exclusive club. Bea probably vented frequently
about insects. That meant lots of folks would realize how simple it would be to
sentence Bea to death. Find an ant hill, immobilize the woman, and dump her.
Who wanted to see Bea dead?
The list of candidates would fill an entire notebook. Even
Gator’s junior partner, Sally, had vocalized her fervent wish that the second
Mrs. Caldwell would “make like a frog and croak.” Amazingly, Sally never
bothered to hide her loathing from Gator. She expressed her sentiments about
Bea with the woman’s husband sitting at her elbow.
The rest of us politely waited until both Caldwells were
absent to hurl our epithets. However, wishful thinking and acting on homicidal
fantasies were two different matters.
The minutes in my solo vigil stretched on, leaving time to
puzzle over the murderer’s choice of victims. Stew was as well liked as Bea was
reviled. Stew was male. Bea, female. Stew worked as an appraiser. Bea’s sole
job was pampering Gator and Feng Shui’ing corporate digs. Stew and Bea didn’t
move in the same social circles, and I’d wager there were no amorous ties. Bea
wouldn’t risk her princess status, and Stew had better taste.
Yet the crime scenes shared the same nightmarish signature.
Some sort of stunner to cripple victims. Smart-alecky messages printed in
capital letters.
While repulsed, I was also intrigued by the killer’s M.O.
Why stun the victims? His methods were indirect, time-consuming, risky. The
killer had to work fast to hogtie his prey before the initial jolt of
electricity wore off. Then he had to wait around long enough to make certain
there was a final curtain call. That upped the threat of discovery. Did it also
give him an adrenaline rush? Who knew?
I cringed, thinking of Stew and Bea waiting to die. Unable
to move or scream, trapped inside their paralyzed bodies while their killer
manhandled them. It was beyond hideous. Beyond bizarre—it was evil. Who could
do this? And why? What did the killer plan next?
A sense of determination gripped me. Since Jeff’s death, I’d
been floating. The sight of Bea’s grotesque face filled me with righteous anger
and a surge of energy. No one deserved to die like this. Not nice guy Stew and
not even poor, stupid Bea—their lives reduced to freakish jokes.
We had to catch this sick bastard before he killed again.
SEVEN
The lonely vigil with Bea’s remains lasted less than ten
minutes but felt like an hour. Bill O’Brien, the former Army medic who served
as our fire department’s Emergency Medical Service guru, kept his
first-to-arrive honors.
Seconds later, Chief Dixon’s four-wheel drive Cherokee
followed the ruts left by the EMS truck and churned to a stop in the spongy
marsh mud. Braden rode shotgun. My reaction surprised me.
Too bad I have my own coat tonight. I need you to wrap
those arms around me.
O’Brien pronounced Bea dead and speculated about the foreign
object visible on her tongue. Using a sheet of plastic to shield himself from
the ants, the medic almost rubbed noses with the corpse as he maneuvered for a
closer
probably long gone but I’m not about to search the woods alone.”
“Stay in the car,” Dixon yelled. “I’m on my way.”
My allegro pulse didn’t calm, but my mind started to
function. Opening the car door, I thrust my legs outside. I rummaged through my
wallet, extracted a credit card and used the stiff plastic to rigorously brush
off the ants clinging to my trousers and shoes. After jettisoning as many of
the suckers as possible, I closed and locked the door.
My metal cocoon felt claustrophobic. Nervous sweat soaked
the shirt beneath my jacket and my skin grew clammy. At any hint of a rustle,
my flashlight beam probed the canopy of greenery.
Is the killer out there?
My thoughts returned to Bea and Monday night’s real estate
gala. Everyone at our table knew about her allergies. Yet it was doubtful my
dinner companions belonged to an exclusive club. Bea probably vented frequently
about insects. That meant lots of folks would realize how simple it would be to
sentence Bea to death. Find an ant hill, immobilize the woman, and dump her.
Who wanted to see Bea dead?
The list of candidates would fill an entire notebook. Even
Gator’s junior partner, Sally, had vocalized her fervent wish that the second
Mrs. Caldwell would “make like a frog and croak.” Amazingly, Sally never
bothered to hide her loathing from Gator. She expressed her sentiments about
Bea with the woman’s husband sitting at her elbow.
The rest of us politely waited until both Caldwells were
absent to hurl our epithets. However, wishful thinking and acting on homicidal
fantasies were two different matters.
The minutes in my solo vigil stretched on, leaving time to
puzzle over the murderer’s choice of victims. Stew was as well liked as Bea was
reviled. Stew was male. Bea, female. Stew worked as an appraiser. Bea’s sole
job was pampering Gator and Feng Shui’ing corporate digs. Stew and Bea didn’t
move in the same social circles, and I’d wager there were no amorous ties. Bea
wouldn’t risk her princess status, and Stew had better taste.
Yet the crime scenes shared the same nightmarish signature.
Some sort of stunner to cripple victims. Smart-alecky messages printed in
capital letters.
While repulsed, I was also intrigued by the killer’s M.O.
Why stun the victims? His methods were indirect, time-consuming, risky. The
killer had to work fast to hogtie his prey before the initial jolt of
electricity wore off. Then he had to wait around long enough to make certain
there was a final curtain call. That upped the threat of discovery. Did it also
give him an adrenaline rush? Who knew?
I cringed, thinking of Stew and Bea waiting to die. Unable
to move or scream, trapped inside their paralyzed bodies while their killer
manhandled them. It was beyond hideous. Beyond bizarre—it was evil. Who could
do this? And why? What did the killer plan next?
A sense of determination gripped me. Since Jeff’s death, I’d
been floating. The sight of Bea’s grotesque face filled me with righteous anger
and a surge of energy. No one deserved to die like this. Not nice guy Stew and
not even poor, stupid Bea—their lives reduced to freakish jokes.
We had to catch this sick bastard before he killed again.
SEVEN
The lonely vigil with Bea’s remains lasted less than ten
minutes but felt like an hour. Bill O’Brien, the former Army medic who served
as our fire department’s Emergency Medical Service guru, kept his
first-to-arrive honors.
Seconds later, Chief Dixon’s four-wheel drive Cherokee
followed the ruts left by the EMS truck and churned to a stop in the spongy
marsh mud. Braden rode shotgun. My reaction surprised me.
Too bad I have my own coat tonight. I need you to wrap
those arms around me.
O’Brien pronounced Bea dead and speculated about the foreign
object visible on her tongue. Using a sheet of plastic to shield himself from
the ants, the medic almost rubbed noses with the corpse as he maneuvered for a
closer
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