The Seance

Afraid for her own sanity?

Maybe.

She could move out, she supposed. If this were a movie and bad things were happening in a house, she would be irritated with the people who lived there, thinking that if they had any sense at all, they would move out.

But this was real life, not a movie, and to move out…

To move out would be to betray everything that had meant anything in her life, everything that had formed her. It would mean abandoning her past and all her wonderful dreams of the future.

A dog, she decided, would solve everything. A huge one that would strike fear into the heart of any would-be invader, human or otherwise.

Her mind made up, she drove away.

It was frightening to see just how much alike the victims looked when they were lying on the autopsy table, Jed thought.

She was lying there as if she were sleeping, but this was the forever kind of sleep.

Doc Martin was droning on about tearing and bleeding, and the absence of fluids, fibers or any other trace evidence that might help. Like the other victims, she had been manually strangled, a clear indication that the killer had strength. There were signs of force once again, but no signs of torture.

Jed stood silently by Jerry’s side, listening. Doc Martin had spent a long time telling them what they didn’t have, but the fact that they didn’t have anything still gave them something.

The killer wore gloves, but not cloth gloves, that would have left fibers behind.

Were they looking for a doctor or a nurse, both of whom would have had easy access to plastic gloves? Or, for that matter, a dishwasher?

The women had been forcibly taken and raped, but not tortured before death. The high, the climax, was in the killing.

“She was beautiful, huh?” Jerry said softly.

She certainly had been, Jed reflected. Young and beautiful, with long hair highlighted with brilliant red.

Doc Martin continued to talk into his recorder as he prepared to open the corpse, and Jed turned away, striding from the autopsy room. He didn’t need to see the invasion of her body; he didn’t need to be there at all. If they learned anything new, anything pertinent, he would hear about it soon enough.

He wasn’t optimistic, though. Their killer was clever, and so far they had found almost nothing scientific with which to work if and when there was a suspect. It was a case now for the most basic kind of detective work, and that meant hitting the street and asking questions.

He was surprised when Jerry followed him out. Jerry looked a little green, which was strange, since he’d seen dozens of autopsies. As soon as they got outside the building, Jerry lit a cigarette.

“Thought you quit,” Jed said.

“I only smoke after I’ve been in there,” Jerry said as he drew heavily on his cigarette, then coughed. He took another drag. No cough that time. “Think this guy knows his victims?” he asked after a minute.

“I don’t know. He either knows them or he has the kind of charm that puts them at ease. Think about Ted Bundy. Young women knew there was a dangerous predator out there, so he made himself look completely nonthreatening by wearing a fake cast, then lured his victims into helping him.”

“So you think this guy is pretending to have some kind of a handicap?”

“I think it’s a possibility,” Jed said. “Unless he knows them or snatches them before they can fight free, it’s either a fake handicap or he has some other way to appear to be nonthreatening.”

Mal O’Donnell joined them then, and Jed arched a brow at him. Doc Martin couldn’t have finished with poor Patti Jo so quickly.

But even Mal had apparently decided that staying to the bitter end would be pointless. He scowled at the other two men. “He said he’ll call us later about the tox report and her last meal,” he said.

“They won’t find alcohol or drugs,” Jed predicted.

O’Donnell looked irritated. “Hey, you gave up the cop thing, remember? Unless you got the killer, keep your opinions to yourself.”

He shoved past them both, and Jerry looked at Jed. “He’s just pissed because the FBI are on their way,” he said. “The heat we’re getting is unbelievable.”

“I can believe that.”

“You get anything, call me,” Jerry said.

“Will do.”

Jerry handed him a sheet of paper before heading after his partner. “Don’t be pissed at Mal,” he called over his shoulder. “We’re going to be dragged through the official ringer this afternoon, and you get to walk away.”

When Jerry was gone, Jed looked at the paper he was holding. It held a list of names and addresses. Patti Jo’s friends and co-workers, and the last place she’d been seen alive.

The newest theme park, Jed noted.

And Dan McDuff was listed as one of her co-workers.

There was a new animal shelter in the area where Christina was certain she would find the ideal companion. The place ran on donations, and she was happy to give a large one. And because they had so much land, they were able to take in large dogs. Perfect.

From her car, she could hear the barking. Most of it was coming from the many wired-in runs that surrounded the main building. Some of it was coming from inside.

Christina headed in, where she saw a harried-looking young blonde behind a counter, and a middle-aged couple on their way out, beaming and leading what looked like a large Belgian shepherd. There. Just the kind of dog I want, Christina thought.

“Hello,” the woman behind the desk said.

“Hi. I’m Christina Hardy, and I’m looking for a dog.”

“What kind of dog are you looking for?” the girl asked her.

“Honestly? A guard dog,” Christina told her.

The young woman sniffed. “You and every woman in the county,” she said, shaking her head. “The thing is, we don’t want frightened people taking our pets, leading them on, making them think they’re loved—then dumping them back here when the killer is caught.” She shivered. “If the killer is caught.”

“I promise you, I have a big house and a big yard. I won’t be bringing back my dog,” Christina vowed.

“You’ll have to fill out an application, then wait to be approved, no matter what,” the blonde told her.

“Okay,” Christina said.

“We do a thorough background check,” the woman warned. “Take a seat, Miss Hardy. And fill this out,” she added, handing over a clipboard holding the application.

Christina did as ordered. When she went to hand the application back, she noticed that there was a stack of papers on the counter, applications bearing a large stamp that said they’d been approved.

The door to the runs in the back of the building suddenly burst open, and Christina heard a ferocious bark.

The girl behind the counter cried out in alarm. “Oh, no! It’s Killer!”

Jed returned to his town house first, where he forced himself to be methodical and read over the twelve-year-old files from the original case first, focusing on the victims’ lifestyles.

Janet Major had not been an entertainer, though she had worked in the business office of one of the local dinner shows. Grace Garcia had worked in a nearby restaurant as a singing, tap-dancing waitress. The others had worked at the theme parks, full-or part-time.

Surrounding every venue was an enormous parking lot.

Had they been taken from the parking lots? How? By force? Or had the killer appeared so trustworthy or nonthreatening that they never even suspected him?

Jed looked at the résumés of the two recent victims, both of whom were also connected to the entertainment business in some way.

Even so, he didn’t think it was the show-business aspect that drew the attention of the killer. He thought it was the killer’s ability to get to the women that made them the victims he wanted. He jotted down notes about the last time each woman—then and now—had been seen alive. As he stared at his notes he realized that, in his own mind, he was convinced.

Beau Kidd had never been the Interstate Killer.

So why had he drawn his weapon when Larry Atkins approached him?

Jed left his house and headed for the new park. Things were going to get a lot trickier now, since he didn’t have a badge. However, he had learned long ago that the impression of authority was often worth more than authority itself.

When he reached the park, he was quickly given access to one of the entertainment managers, and he accompanied the man as he made his rounds to check on the performers. He learned that Patti Jo had been playing a vampire princess before she had scrubbed herself clean of makeup and headed out. She had been seen in the locker room by one of her best friends, Marcie McDonnagh, who had herself left soon after, and no one had seen her since. Not even in the parking lot. The trail ended right in the park.

“This is so awful,” Ben Smith, the entertainment manager, told Jed. “October is such a big time of the year for us, and these killings are going to scare off the tourists.” They passed a tall man adjusting a bloody pirate mask. “Hank, tuck your hair in,” he snapped.

“Yessir, Mr. Smith,” the pirate called back.

“One of your employees has been brutally murdered, Mr. Smith,” Jed reminded him.

At least the man had the decency to look ashamed at that point. “I know, and it’s terrible, but I assure you, the park is totally innocent of any wrongdoing. We allow nothing sexually explicit on the grounds, we stop serving alcohol an hour before closing…we’re working hard—”

“To be a contender?” Jed cut in.

“I’m being serious. Patti Jo didn’t get into a car with some stranger in a monster mask,” Ben Smith said.

Jed tended to agree.

They had reached the employee cafeteria, and Ben Smith pointed to a woman at a nearby table. “That’s Marcie McDonnagh. The guy with her is Dan—Daniel—McDuff. I’ll introduce you and you can speak to Marcie. If she wants to speak to you, anyway. She was pretty shaken up by the whole thing. And she talked to the cops just a little while ago.” ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">