The Kill

CHAPTER 12

Kyle Bolks had nothing to add to Sean’s information, and in fact didn’t even remember what day Jenny had been abducted. Olivia listened to Zack on the phone calling his partner to accompany a sketch artist to the Miller house. Sean’s mother would have to give her consent, but Olivia didn’t think that would be a problem. Most people wanted to help.

She stared out the window as Zack drove from the Benedicts’ new home development into the Davidsons’ more established neighborhood several miles and a bridge away. Large maple trees lined the sidewalks, curbside mailboxes were decorated with elegant numbers. Long narrow walkways led to quaint, well-maintained older homes that reminded Olivia more of Vermont than the West Coast.

Zack had been quiet during the fifteen-minute drive across town, but that was fine with Olivia. She was still uncomfortable from their conversation prior to their meeting with Laura and Tanya. But what really unnerved her was the expression on Sean Miller’s face when he realized the man he saw in the park earlier the day Jenny was abducted was likely her killer. That it could have been his little sister. It could have been someone he loved.

Olivia pictured the eagle tattoo and involuntarily shivered. There was no doubt in her mind the man Sean saw killed not only Jenny Benedict, but her sister, Missy. He was in Seattle. Readying himself to prey on another unsuspecting victim. Waiting for the right time to come in for the kill.

Stop. She had to put all her feelings aside. Zack Travis had already proven too perceptive. If he even thought she had another motive for being in Seattle, he’d send her packing. Call up her boss and have her fired. Without her job she had nothing. She’d built her entire adult life around helping other people the best way she knew how-with science. Without it, what could she do? Who would she help? Without her job, she would no longer be fighting for the rights of the victims, fighting for justice for those they left behind. But Olivia was willing to risk everything she had, everything she was, to stop this predator. When and if Zack learned the truth, she would deal with the fallout. Until then she had to keep her wits about her and stop feeling guilty. There was time enough for guilt later.

Zack stopped the car in front of a two-story Victorian-style home with a wraparound porch, complete with hanging swing. He made no move to get out. “I hate this.”

Olivia glanced over at him. He stared straight ahead through the windshield, his jaw tight.

“They can see you care,” Olivia said quietly, chastising herself for worrying about her own plight when there was more than her future at stake. “Sometimes that’s all you can do.”

Zack looked at her, and she was surprised that a man of such physical and emotional strength would allow the pain of a troubling investigation to cloud his expression. If she allowed the pain and anger to surface, she’d never be able to put it aside.

She swallowed, determined not to let him see anything but a professional sitting next to him. Inside, the weight of her deception sank her spirits lower. What right did she have to even question Laura Adams? Or Sean Miller? Or to be here outside a house full of grief?

Abruptly, Zack got out of the car before Olivia could even think of voicing her conflict. Good thing. Focus, Olivia. Focus. Keep the goal firmly in mind: stopping Missy’s killer before he stole another life.

She would deal with the repercussions-internal and external-later.

Anyone entering the Davidsons’ home would instantly think family. Pictures of three children-two girls and a boy-filled every available surface and many of the walls. Shoes in several different sizes were kicked against the wall just inside the door. A coat rack in the hall separating the entry from the kitchen boasted cubbies for lunch boxes, hooks for outerwear, and a corkboard for notes.

Olivia stared at Michelle’s message board.

We love you, Michelle.

Coming here was not a good idea. She should have remained at the station reviewing the evidence logs. Focusing on the facts, the science, that would see this case through. Not talking to child witnesses, and certainly not facing the parents of one of the victims.

You’re in over your head, Liv.

“Can I get you coffee?” Tall and slender, Brenda Davidson walked as if each step sent a bolt of pain up her spine.

Zack declined for both of them and Mrs. Davidson nodded, as if the effort exhausted her. Dark circles framed her large blue eyes, eyes bright with thinly concealed pain.

She led them down the hall, through the large open kitchen, and into the family room. Again, family was the operative word. Kids’ videos overflowed from bookshelves on either side of a large-screen television. Board games filled another built-in shelving unit. And pictures. Everywhere, pictures.

Olivia picked up a silver frame and stared at a girl who could have been Missy. Same long, curly blonde hair. Same big green eyes. Olivia’s lip quivered. What bastard could hurt such a sweet, innocent child?

“That was taken last year, when Michelle turned ten.”

Olivia jumped, almost dropping the picture. Carefully, she placed it back on the shelf and turned to Mrs. Davidson. “She’s beautiful,” she said, shifting her feet. She clutched her purse with both hands.

Mrs. Davidson’s swollen eyes brimmed with tears, the grief etched in every small crevice of her skin. “Did you find him?”

Zack spoke. Olivia had almost forgotten he was there. “We’re working every lead, ma’am. We have a lot of good people working on the case.”

Lead. What did they have? A teenager who saw an eagle tattoo and a man about fifty in sunglasses. Maybe something would come of it, but before another girl was killed? Before the predator slipped away?

Zack glanced around. “Is Mr. Davidson here?”

“He’s sleeping.” While her voice was a monotone, Olivia detected a hint of anger in her eyes.

Zack shot a glance at Olivia, then said, “We don’t mean to bother you, but it would help us if we could review the day Michelle was kidnapped and see if you remember anything at all about the truck your neighbor saw. If you saw it in the neighborhood. Any little thing might help.”

Mrs. Davidson sank into the sectional sofa and worried an afghan in her hands. “I’ve gone over every minute of that day, every second. Nothing. Nothing. I’ll never forget it.”

“It’s not your fault, Mrs. Davidson,” Zack said.

“I taught Michelle about strangers,” she continued as if Zack hadn’t spoken. “I told her what to do if a strange man approached. What to do if anyone tried to hurt her and, and…” She stifled a sob.

Something fluttered out of the corner of Olivia’s eye. She turned her head slightly. A petite blonde child stood just inside the kitchen, about six or seven. She hung back, just outside of her mother’s sight.

“My sweetheart. My perfect little angel,” Mrs. Davidson mumbled into her hands.

“Mommy?” The girl’s voice was a squeak. Brenda Davidson didn’t seem to notice her standing in the threshold, but Olivia couldn’t take her eyes off her. Inside, she was five again, watching her own mother fall apart.

“Michelle was a dancer, you know,” Mrs. Davidson said. “Beautiful dancer. She had the lead in the spring recital. She would have had the lead this fall…” Her voice trailed off as she gazed at another picture on the wall.

“Mommy?”

Mommy? Missy isn’t coming back, is she? Olivia heard her own childlike voice in her mind, the memory of her mother clearer than ever. Her mother hadn’t answered her question. When she looked at Olivia, she didn’t see her. When Olivia spoke, she didn’t hear her.

“Mommy?” the child whispered, her large round eyes so much like her older sister’s, blinking rapidly as she fought against crying. Olivia remembered the feeling all too well, trying to keep her own tears under control because her parents didn’t want to see them and she didn’t want to hurt them.

“Tell me you know who he is,” Mrs. Davidson said, her voice suddenly harsh. “That you’ll find him. That you’ll have him executed for what he did to my baby!”

“We’re working every day and night to see that he’s brought to justice, Mrs. Davidson,” Zack said. He placed a business card on the end table. “If you think of anything, even if it doesn’t seem important, please don’t hesitate to call me, day or night.” He sounded defeated.

Defeated, just like the little girl who took a step back into the kitchen as her lower lip quivered. Amanda. Olivia remembered her name from the reports. As Olivia watched, Amanda opened the door of a cabinet and crawled inside. Disappeared. Olivia stared at the cabinet, remembering hiding in her own sanctuary, her bedroom closet. She’d fallen asleep there many nights. Her parents never knew. They never checked on her.

Melissa was so good, so perfect. She didn’t deserve to die.

Her mother’s voice again, speaking as if she were in the room. Olivia shivered, a ghost touching her skin. Olivia loved her sister, but when she died, she’d become a saint in her mother’s eyes. Perfect. An angel.

And Olivia… wasn’t.

“Mrs. Davidson,” Olivia said firmly. “Where are your other children?”

The grieving mother blinked. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Do you know where they are?”

“Of course I do. They’re upstairs.”

“Are you sure?”

“Agent St. Martin, I think-” Zack attempted to interrupt, but Olivia ignored him.

“Do you care where they are? Are you so wrapped up in your grief that you can’t see that there are two kids who still need you?”

“I assure you, Ms. St. Martin, that we are all thinking about Michelle. Michelle is what matters right now. You should be out finding her killer rather than accusing me of being a bad mother!”

“Let us worry about finding her killer. You have two children who need you to be a mother, not close yourself off in your grief. I’m so very sorry about what happened to Michelle, but Amanda and Peter are still alive and they need you now more than ever.”

“How dare you!”

“Excuse us, Mrs. Davidson.” Zack grabbed Olivia by the arm. She was shaking. She’d gone too far. She knew it, but she couldn’t stop herself.

If she could save one little girl from being neglected, it will have been worth it. She should have found a way to be more professional, more diplomatic, something! But all she could see was little Amanda Davidson crawling into the kitchen cabinet. It was like watching herself.

Zack pulled her outside. “What has gotten into you?” He didn’t wait for her answer, which was good because she didn’t have an answer to give. She didn’t know what had possessed her to jump down the woman’s throat. The way she talked about Michelle? Or the way Olivia remembered her own mother talking about Missy?

“Get in the damn car and wait for me. You’ll be lucky to have your shield when this investigation is over.”

He stormed back into the house.

Olivia stood by the passenger door and rested her forehead on the roof of the car. She couldn’t control the shaking, and focused every molecule in her body to just stop. Slowly, she regained control and took a long, hiccupping breath.

Brenda Davidson was not her mother. What had she done? How in the world could she have lost control like that?

Worse, she didn’t regret it. Had she become so callous in her own pain that she couldn’t see the anguish of others?

Her job was already on the line, and she may have just dug her own professional grave. She almost laughed at Zack’s comment about having her shield. What shield?

It would be worth losing everything she had, everything she was, if she could stop Michelle’s little sister from growing up like she had.

Zack didn’t know if he was more angry with Olivia for attacking a grieving mother or himself for watching it unfold and not stopping her before she crossed the line. He hadn’t known Olivia for long, but antagonizing victims was the last thing he expected of her.

He couldn’t speak, couldn’t even look at her, as he drove too fast out of the Davidsons’ neighborhood and to a nearby lake he’d frequented as a teenager. He didn’t know why he was drawn there, except that it was where he used to do a lot of thinking when he was torn between going home to an empty house or getting into trouble with his friends.

He braked as soon as he pulled into the gravel parking lot and wished he had his bike. He needed a good hundred-mile-an-hour venting session.

Zack pushed the automatic gearshift into park with his right hand and hit his left on the steering wheel. “What the fuck was that about?”

Olivia wouldn’t look at him, and that angered him more. She stared straight ahead, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, like a prim librarian. The only sign that she was even mildly disturbed was the slight tremor in her body, as if she were shaking and doing her utmost to stop.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. Too calm. Too composed. “If you would like to file a report with my superior, I’ll-”

“Oh, fuck that!”

He wrenched the car door open and slammed it shut, walking as quickly as possible to the edge of the water.

He stared out at the lone fisherman sitting in a rowboat on the far side of the small lake. The sun was beginning its descent; he’d lost track of time.

He took deep breaths, staring at the still water, regaining his composure.

Something was up with Olivia St. Martin. Everything he’d seen since she arrived yesterday afternoon told him she was a professional through and through. She’d been upfront about the information she had and didn’t have. She shared more than he’d expected. He’d been so impressed with the way she handled the interviews with Laura Adams, Tanya Burgess, and Sean Miller. Everything until that tirade directed toward Mrs. Davidson.

He replayed the scene in his mind, thinking back to what had set her off. There was something, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. Was it when the little girl walked into the room? But-she hadn’t been there when Olivia was lecturing. Where had she gone?

“Do you know where your children are?”

“Of course I do. They’re upstairs.”

But the little girl wasn’t. Amanda Davidson had come downstairs. And something about her appearance had upset Olivia.

Zack was determined to find out what, but first he had to control his anger.

He took a deep breath and remembered the first time he’d lost his temper on the job. He’d been a rookie, not even six months out of the Academy, a beat cop. He and his partner, an old, wise, black cop named Kip Granger, were called out on a domestic violence case in the economically depressed Central District. The guy had been pummeling his wife into the ground with a dozen bystanders gawking.

Zack reacted on instinct and rushed the guy. The husband had a knife. Zack almost got himself killed.

He rubbed his arm where he still bore a scar from that night. He’d learned the hard way to not let his temper control his actions.

Zack sensed Olivia’s presence before he heard her footfall. His anger was only part of the complex emotions that were assaulting him. While he didn’t completely understand Olivia and what had happened at the Davidsons’, he had a strong suspicion something very specific had set her off.

What she told him was far worse than he imagined.

“I told you last night that my sister was murdered.”

Her voice was quiet, but it had lost the soothing quality from earlier, when she’d spoken to the girls. She now sounded defeated and scared.

He didn’t say anything, didn’t turn to face her for fear she’d not say another word, but his heart quickened as his temper cooled and his compassion warmed.

“I was five. Missy was nine. I was there when she was abducted. I couldn’t stop him. He just-picked her up. I-I ran home.”

Olivia’s voice cracked and now Zack did turn around to look at her. For the first time he saw raw pain in her eyes, as if an invisible shield had evaporated to reveal her soul. The unspoken pain angered and moved him in ways he could only grasp ethereally. Some unknown bastard had killed her sister and affected Olivia so deeply it still haunted her. Had this pain been buried for so long, only to be brought out by this investigation? Or were her feelings always simmering beneath the surface, unknown to anyone who looked at her because she was so good at keeping up that protective guard?

“My parents never got over it.”

He waited for her to say something else, but she didn’t. Her silence didn’t fool him. There was more, Zack thought. So much more. He could tell by the quiver in her chin, her pale complexion, the tears in her eyes. Tears. He didn’t think she cried much. And they didn’t spill over, just formed a light sheen to brighten her gaze.

“And?” he prompted.

“They forgot about me.”

Her voice was so little, she sounded almost like a child herself.

“Olivia,” he whispered as he ran a hand through his hair. He took a step toward her, desperately wanting to take her into his arms, to protect her from her personal demons. But dammit! She’d crossed the line, and no amount of understanding or compassion could make him forget what had happened at the Davidsons’.

“I’m so sorry. But just because your parents couldn’t get beyond their grief doesn’t mean Michelle’s parents will neglect their children. You can’t treat the living victims that way.”

He saw a hint of understanding and guilt in her eyes.

“But who’s thinking about Amanda?” she said, a lone tear sliding down her cheek. Zack watched it reach Olivia’s chin, quiver, then drop. She didn’t notice, and no other tears followed.

“Did you see her?” she asked urgently. “Really look at her? She tried so hard to blend into the background, her mother didn’t even notice. Didn’t notice she was in the room when her mom said her ‘perfect angel’ was gone. How did that make Amanda feel? That she isn’t perfect? That it should have been her? That she was the one who should have died instead of her perfect sister?

“Not one time did she acknowledge Amanda. Not once. Not one time did she touch her, hug her, tell her she loved her.”

“You don’t know that-”

“You can tell by the way she talked!” Olivia’s jaw tightened, her growing anger burying the deep sadness. “The house reeked of anguish. Brenda Davidson can’t see beyond her pain to those who are left. I’m sorry! I’m sorry I overstepped my bounds, but if I can spare Amanda Davidson a lifetime of neglect and guilt, then I’m glad I said something! If only someone had told my parents-”

Olivia stopped suddenly, her hands covering her mouth, her eyes wide with shock. “I didn’t-I-”

“What?” Zack wanted to know everything. He took a step closer, grabbed her by the arms, and shook her once. Voice low, he said, “Is that why you’re here? Because of your family? Your sister? Are you too close to this?”

He looked at her vivid eyes, her smooth complexion, her red mouth. There was so much here in this little package, so much depth and intelligence and need-she was a loner who needed someone. But dammit, he wouldn’t jeopardize the case because she was too emotionally involved.

“I promise. I’ll control myself. I don’t-I don’t know why-I never do things like that.”

He believed her. She didn’t do things like that because she suppressed her feelings. And it had taken six-year-old Amanda Davidson to bring it all to the surface. No, not all. There was more, and he was going to find out exactly what was going on.

She wasn’t telling him everything. He took a step closer, his hands on her shoulders. He tilted her face upward to look at him.

“Olivia,” he said, his voice soft but firm, “I believe you. But there’s more to this than you’re telling me. Right now, tell me the truth. Why-”

His cell phone rang. “We’re not done with this conversation,” he said as he flipped open his phone and took a step away from her. “Travis.”

“It’s Doug Cohn. I think I have something.”

“What?”

“It’s not much, but I talked to two lab directors who remembered the blonde girls. One in Austin, Texas, the other in Colorado. Both remembered the marks on the forearm. They e-mailed me photographs from the files. I think you need to see them.”

“Why?”

“They’re identical. I thought maybe they were made by something he used to transport the victims, something that had sharp edges. And even when Gil said it was a sharp object, I was thinking it was stationary. There didn’t seem to be a different pressure in the cuts, like someone was intentionally marking the girls. But now-I think it’s his signature.”

“He’s signing his name?”

“Not his name, but maybe his mark. Like ‘Z’ for Zorro. There are twelve marks. It must mean something. When I spoke to Massachusetts, the lab director told me two of the girls were marked, two they couldn’t see any detail because the bodies weren’t in good shape.”

“I’ll be right there.” He hung up and turned to Olivia, but he didn’t have to repeat the conversation. She’d heard enough.

Horror and disbelief in her voice, she said, “He’s branding his victims.”

The police were all over the woods, but they weren’t knocking on doors.

Yet.

He was cautious by nature, which had served him well over the years. He seemed to have a sixth sense about when to pull back. When to move on.

That odd sense started tickling the back of his neck. Just a light touch, and when he rubbed his head, it disappeared.

He couldn’t move on. He’d already seen the next angel he had to set free.

She was waiting for him.

He had work to do first. He hadn’t located a truck yet, but it was only a matter of time. If the police knocked on his door, it would only be to ask questions about the day the girl disappeared. He would tell them he remembered the news about it, but didn’t have any real memories of what happened on that day. He wished he could be of more help, but it was three months ago. Him? Well, he worked for a local restaurant, came here for the job well over a year ago. He’d met most of the people who lived on the island. He liked it here.

Don’t talk too much, keep it conversational, a tad somber.

He’d done it before and no one suspected anything.

No, he couldn’t leave. Not yet. He had one more angel to free, then he would be at peace for a time.

He readied himself for bed. It was early, not yet nine, but he had the breakfast shift tomorrow. It wouldn’t do to miss a scheduled shift. Being late-because he was never late-could arouse attention. Not that he’d ever slept late. His internal clock woke him every morning at five.

His bedtime ritual was always the same. He showered. The thought of sliding into sheets with the filth of the day on his skin terrified him.

He always checked the doors and windows, even if he remembered securing them. Lights off, no nightlight, no bathroom light. Blinds down. He’d replaced the flimsy curtains in the cottage bedroom with shades that blocked all light.

He slept in boxers, his shoes next to his bed. He could slip into them instantly if necessary, a holdover from three years in the military.

In the dark, he could sleep. Sometimes.

And sometimes, like tonight, his mind couldn’t rest.

Sometimes, like tonight, he thought of her. Angel.

The ache in his heart spread until it became almost unbearable. He missed her so much. Her breath on his face. Her smile. He missed the way she smiled just for him.

And like always, when he thought of Angel before he slept, he remembered far more than he wanted to.

They were moving to Los Angeles, the seventh time they’d moved in his eleven years. But this time was different.

This time they left without his mother. She was dead.

“Suck it up, boy. Stop acting like a sissy.”

Bruce wasn’t his father, but he didn’t remember his father. His mother hadn’t married him, just like she hadn’t married Bruce. But, except for some isolated feelings that alternately disturbed and warmed him, he couldn’t remember a time when Bruce wasn’t in the house. He wanted him to leave. He wanted the time when he didn’t have to share his mother with anyone. When she let him sleep next to her in her soft, warm bed.

He missed his mother. But he still had Angel.

She was so beautiful. Her blonde hair, as white as snow when she was little, now had darkened to shimmering gold, natural white highlights shining in the sun.

She was his little girl as much as she was Bruce’s and his mother’s little girl. He loved her more, took care of her more. Bruce and his mother argued and then did things to each other that made his mother’s sheets smell funny. When she went to work and Bruce left him to go down to the bar on the corner, he would often lie on his mother’s side of the bed and remember what it was like to be held by her. He’d wrap himself with her blankets and pillows.

But it didn’t smell the same. It smelled fishy and dirty and more like Bruce than his mother.

Now, his mother was gone. First her scent, now her body.

On that long, long car ride to Los Angeles, Angel reached over and took his hand. Tears welled in her big green eyes. She missed their mother, too.

Or was she already scared of her father?

He leaned over and whispered in her ear. “I promise, I’ll take care of you. I won’t let him hurt you.”

She squeezed his hand, her face too old for her seven years. “It’s too late.”

Three years and nine moves later, she was dead, too.