Dead Giveaway

21

The address Burl gave me was off the toll road that Jeff mentioned Verna Mae traveled every week. Had the storage facility been her regular destination? Would Burl and I find some important truth hidden there?

My heart was thudding against my chest as I made a conscious effort to stay within the speed limit. The last thing I wanted was to be delayed by a ticket. With it being past nine p.m. on a Sunday night, the highways were deserted. Burl thought he'd be arriving about nine-thirty, but I knew I'd get there before him.

Indeed, I arrived at the U-Store-It at nine-twenty, just as my cell phone rang. It was Burl. He was tied up in traffic thanks to a major accident on the Baytown Bridge. He told me I could wait in my car until he arrived, or go on home and he'd let me know what he'd found tomorrow. Yeah, right. Like I would do that.

He had no idea I had copies of those keys to unit B-109—the number I remembered from the tag—and since I was as fidgety as a zoo animal at feeding time, I had to use them.

I got out of my car and bypassed the card swipe– equipped barrier, a wooden arm blocking a direct drive-in route to the rows of storage units. Instead, I used the key similar to a house key and opened a tall iron gate.

I soon learned the B row was at the end of the A row to my far right. As I walked toward the B units, doubts began to creep in. Burl would play this by the book, which meant he'd want a warrant or the manager out here. In fact, he might have a warrant in hand and a manager on the way to meet us.

Damn. I'd been chasing cookie crumbs for days and I knew in my gut this place was important. I wouldn't let a traffic jam make me wait while I chewed my fingernails down to the quick, not when I could be in and out before Burl knew the difference.

The front entrance had been well lit, and though each unit was supplied with a halogen light over its wide door, the farther back I walked, the darker it seemed. Hurricane fencing ran behind all the units at the edge of the property, but it wasn't tall enough to keep anyone out. Heck, I could have crawled over if I wanted to risk scratches and bug bites from the overgrown weeds. Could be an electric fence, though, or one that triggered an alarm.

I finally reached B-109 and used the hem of my shirt to hold onto the padlock securing the door, not wanting to destroy any prints that might belong to someone other than Verna Mae.

I keyed the lock, and the padlock snapped open. I slid open the door, and a blast of air-conditioning hit me as I peered into the darkness, the halogen light worthless since it was mounted to illuminate the driveway. I used the small flashlight on my key chain to hunt for a light switch. If there was air-conditioning, there was electricity. I focused my light on the left wall and saw what I was looking for. I flicked the switch. Nothing happened.

Great. No lights.

I swept my meager tool from left to right, and even with such little light, what I saw raised chill bumps on my arms.

"Damn," I whispered. The whole place had been set up as a shrine to Will.

On a small low table near the back wall sat Will's high school graduation picture. I went there first and squatted in front of the table, saw that the photo was flanked by candles... and so much more. To the left were snapshots of Will as an infant, held by a smiling Verna Mae. Definitely the same baby I'd seen in Verna Mae's albums before they disappeared. The blanket he was wrapped in grabbed my attention, too. I didn't need to see the POSH PRAMS label to know I had taken a picture of this blanket and had held its twin at Marjorie McGrady's house. To the right were photos of Will holding a baseball bat, playing basketball as a teenager, and the most recent of him in his UT basketball uniform.

When I started to get up, I noticed the velvet kneeling rail along the front of the table, the kind you see in church. A whole platoon of goose bumps climbed my neck this time. Verna Mae Olsen had more than a few spokes missing from her wheels. Did she come here and pray in front of this altar she'd made? Make the trip week after week for the last nineteen years?

I tried to ignore the sick feeling in my stomach and swept my light to the right and saw another set of framed pictures on a small covered table. I stepped over there. The large one in the center was Sara Rankin dressed in a white ball gown—the kind Mardi Gras princesses and debutantes wear. Her unsmiling expression made me think she might also have had on barbed wire underwear. I could think of only one reason Verna Mae Olsen had that picture here in the Church of Will Knight.

The photo next to it interested me, too. I picked up the framed picture and held my light directly over it, squinting in thought. Two women, one of them a much younger, trimmer Verna Mae than the one I'd met. She had her arm around a teenage girl about her same age. A sister or a friend, or—

I heard a muffled voice behind me say, "Thanks."

"Burl," I said, whirling, my face already heating up with embarrassment.

Uh-oh. Not Burl.

The man was dressed in black, his face hidden by a ski mask. I stepped back, wishing I could melt through the wall like a ghost.

"Turn back around the way you were," whispered the man. A harsh stage whisper. Nasty voice. However, the gun he held offered far better incentive for me to do as I was told.

I moved slowly, my legs rubbery and reluctant to comply. I hung on to my puny flashlight and keys while thinking about the gun I'd left in my glove compartment. Man, I could use that .38 about now.

If he got close enough, I could use a key to gouge this guy's eyes—but he was breathing down my neck before I even finished the thought. He wrapped a forearm around my chest, his gun hand and weapon crushing into my left shoulder. He quickly snatched my keychain and light and tossed them away, then yanked my hands behind me. I felt plastic cuffs being snapped on.

The adrenaline had kicked in, that all-over shaky feeling like after I've avoided a major collision. Except I'd avoided nothing. I was in a wild bull's pasture without a tree.

"Down on your knees," he said.

My stomach tightened, and the image of Verna Mae's battered face flashed through my mind. This was her killer. My turn now. Would he put a bullet in the back of my head or—

"I said get down," he rasped.

"Can we talk first? We—"

"Do it."

Damn hard to use your brain when you're so scared even your underwear is quivering.

I bent one knee, ready to do what he commanded, but apparently not fast enough. He pushed me, and I fell forward onto the floor. I tasted dirt first, then the blood from my busted lip. He sat on my back and tied my ankles together.

Then a soothing mantra started in my head, a mantra born of common sense. "He could have shot you already. He could have shot you already."

He got off me, and I heard him walking around. I turned my head in his direction but could only see dark feet traveling the perimeter of the unit. What the hell was he doing? Then came the sound of breaking glass. Now I got it. He was smashing open the picture frames. Yes, but—

I smelled the gasoline before I heard it splashing around me, the odor so strong instant nausea rolled in my gut.

Holy shit. A bullet would be welcome compared to burning to death. One by one, small crackling fires were springing up within a few feet of my head, their flames jumping in the darkness.

Then he lit the cloths draped over Verna Mae's makeshift altars and the whole unit brightened with a horrible whoosh. I took in a deep breath and held it, not wanting to inhale the smoke.

If being scared out of my mind wasn't bad enough, the worst moment came a second later.

He caressed the back of my head, his gloved fingers trailing down my back.

"Sorry," he whispered.