Where had Hooded Man gone after he’d disappeared? Where was he now?
“Jackson will kill you if he finds out.”
My jaw tightened. I didn’t want to give in to fears. Hooded Man had relayed his information and was now long gone.
Stubborn imaginings chewed my mind.
Unclothed, skin still wet from the rain, I battled cold worse than ever.
Exhaling aloud, I wrapped myself in a towel and traversed the chilly bathroom tile in my bare feet. I walked out into my bedroom, crossed the room, peered down the hallway. Nothing. Just my house. Lit. Safe.
Why couldn’t I believe that?
With a firm hand I shut my bedroom door. Locked it. No harm in being cautious.
Back in the bathroom, I locked its door also.
The shower pelted hot water, steam rising from the tub. My soaked skin couldn’t bear another minute of cold. I hurried over to the tub and stepped inside. Yanked the shower curtain shut. Eyes closed, heart thumping, I surrendered myself to blessed heat.
SIX
Hot water never felt so good.
I stepped out of the tub, body red and muscles throbbing with heat. The long shower had beat my headache back to a dull pinch. My thoughts had settled into grim determination. I would find Melissa Harkoff. And I would start tonight.
Bruce Whittley and the other skips I was being paid to find would, by necessity, still claim my work days. So what if I lost a little sleep working on Melissa’s case after hours? And for the moment I still had the rest of the weekend.
My fingers itched to get started.
Quickly I dressed in a sweat suit and super-warm socks and blow-dried my hair to keep my head warm. A new and volatile wind moaned around the back corner of my house. It taunted that I would never find Melissa. That she’d made herself as invisible as the brazen air that formed its groaning.
When I shoved those thoughts aside, questions about Hooded Man nibbled my mind. Had he driven out to Stillton and waited to flag me down as I returned from Dineen’s house? If so he’d stashed his car on some turn-off. Or had someone dropped him there, prepared to pick him up after the message was delivered?
A bloody-cheeked mask. Why had he chosen that? Didn’t he know such a visage on a wild-weather night would be frightening? Why not wear a clown mask, or a Richard Nixon, for that matter?
Right, Joanne. As if those would be any less scary.
Whatever the reason, Hooded Man had obviously gone to great lengths to hide his identity. A telephone call would have been so much easier. But he was no doubt paranoid about the number being recorded. Maybe he knew just enough about skip tracing to think I had super capabilities on both of my phone lines. I didn’t. My home line would record a number just like anyone else’s—if the ID wasn’t blocked. But I did also have a “trapline” using an 877 toll-free number, which recorded all incoming numbers whether the ID was blocked or not. Traplines are one of my many crafty tools.
In a skewed sort of way Hooded Man’s paranoia bound us together. We were both scared of what Baxter Jackson would do if he discovered my mission.
I sat down before my office computer. The clock read 9:18 p.m. Outside, the rain clawed my windows like some monster come to beg.
A shudder kicked across my shoulders.
It could be a late night, depending on how long it took until I exhausted my online tricks. This wasn’t exactly the time of day I could pick up the phone to verify information I unearthed. I’d need two things to get me through: Jelly Bellies and music.
In my bottom drawer, I consulted my Jelly Belly stash. All fifty flavors were there, each labeled in its own plastic zip bag. I pulled out Sizzling Cinnamon—my flavor for mad. Cappuccino for raw determination. Green Apple for sassiness. The last one was a lie, but I needed all the encouragement I could get. I ate two of those green babies, one after the other.
From my iTunes I selected my huge playlist of classic rock and clicked shuffle. Chicago flicked on—“Baby, What a Big Surprise.”
Apropos.
Pumped up and ready, I opened a new file, then hesitated in naming it. If the worst happened and Baxter somehow discovered what I was doing, I didn’t want Melissa’s information easily found on my computer.
My fingers typed in “HM” for Hooded Man.
The familiar thrill skidded down my spine. The hunt had begun.
SEVEN
JUNE 2004
Melissa stumbles up the hall from her tiny bedroom, arms against the thin walls for balance. The smelly trailer lists to one side, as if it’s about to fall over. Melissa’s feet slide and drag, the hallway never-ending. She’s heard a noise and needs to see what has happened. It’s something terrible. Now it’s so eerily quiet, not a peep from her mother. “Mom!” Melissa calls, but the only response is the echo of her own frightened voice. She tries to move faster, but her muscles feel like they’re weighted with lead.
The trailer stretches, stretches, until it’s as long as a football field. Chill bumps pop out on Melissa’s arms. Way at the end she can see the back of their ragged couch, the metal frame around the front door. Beyond the living area lies the tiny, crusted kitchen. No movement there. No stream of mumbled cussing. Where is her mother?
Cigarette smoke thickens the air. Melissa sucks the biting odor into her lungs with every panted breath. Fear and rage swirl in her head until she can’t tell one from the other.
The trailer shifts. Suddenly she’s in the living room. She focuses across the small area, over the stained carpet onto broken linoleum at the kitchen’s edge.
Sticking out from behind a cabinet is a bare, yellow-toenailed foot.
A squeak pushes up Melissa’s throat. She runs around the couch, cuts left toward the kitchen. She jumps past the cabinets—and sees the blood.
Her mother lies on the floor, face up, eyes open and glazed. A shocked expression wrenches her hardened face, as if she’s just stared into hell. A gash digs into her forehead, blood smeared down her temple, into her ratty fake red hair. One hand lies on her motionless chest, fingers spread. The other is fisted upon her hip. A foot away lies a bottle, half its contents spilled on the linoleum. The sharp-sweet smell of whiskey clogs Melissa’s nose.
Whiskey—this early in the day?
A strangled cry dies on Melissa’s tongue. Her feet cement to the floor. She stares at her dead mother, disgust and anger and panic squeezing her lungs. Thoughts hit her so fast and hard she staggers beneath their blows. Her despicable mother is gone. Melissa is alone. What will she do now? Where will she go?
Melissa moans aloud and drops to her knees. This can’t be. She wants her mother. She never hated the woman, not really. “Come back, Mom. Come back!” She buries her face in both hands and sobs. And the next thing she knows, her mother’s blood has flowed across the floor, up her legs to her arms. She pulls her hands away and stares at them, at the red ooze in the lines of her palms.
Melissa’s jaw unhinges. She tilts her head toward the ceiling and screams—
A grating whir in her throat jerked Melissa awake. Her eyes popped open, sleepy gaze fixing upon a pale blue wall. She lay on her side, right hand scrunching the flowered coverlet on her queen-size bed. Morning sun filtered between drawn curtains at one of the large windows in her bedroom.