Feeling an almost tangible burst of heated fury from Dean, who stood beside her chair, Stacey shook her head once. Eyes narrowed, she dropped her elbows onto the table and stared, hard, into Lester’s bloodshot eyes. “You don’t want to compare balls with me, boy. Remember, I busted your naked ass for public indecency last year. So I know how small the chances are that you’ve got anything I’d be interested in.”
His companion, a big, hard-looking dude who rode one of the choppers outside, snorted at the put-down. “You better shut up while you can,” he told his friend.
Lifting his mug of beer to his lips, he drained it. Streams of amber liquid and foam slid down either side of his mouth to soak his thickly bearded chin. When the mug was empty, he slammed it down, the table shaking beneath the force of the blow. As if both fortified and confident of the manly display he’d made of his supermacho ability to chug a beer, he nodded at Stacey. “Go ahead,” he said. “Ask whatever you want.”
“But-” Lester interrupted.
“If you ain’t smart enough to remember what she can do with that club on her hip, I am.” The man rubbed his head, obviously remembering when Stacey had stopped him from breaking any more furniture right here in this room during a bender last fall. The big man’s fierce frown faded. “Besides, I know what you want to hear about. That little Zimmerman girl was messed up, but she was a sweet young thing once upon a time. And if somebody really murdered her, chopped her up, and fed her to some wild pigs, I hope you fry the bastard.”
Hearing Dean’s disgusted sigh, she contemplated correcting the crazy story. But it was already too late. The rumor mill was hard at work, and no matter what she said, the stories would persist, growing wilder, until Lisa’s remains were found and the cause of death made public. And even then the conspiracy theorists would continue to embellish.
“I might not be on your side most of the time,” the burly guy added, “and I might hate your guts. But I’ll help if I can. For that little gal’s sake.”
“Fair enough,” she said.
She flipped open her notebook, not entirely surprised at the man’s reaction, because even tough guys had a code. His line between right and wrong might be wider than Stacey’s, but he knew enough to recognize when it had been crossed.
Cooperation from one of the most badass regulars at the skankiest establishment in the county, that was a good start. But she knew it wouldn’t last. If she got cooperation from everyone else in the place, she’d trade in her badge for a case of Mary Kay cosmetics and her squad car for a pink Cadillac. Because things were just never that easy.
They were looking for Lisa Zimmerman’s body.
When he’d first heard the FBI was in Hope Valley, he hadn’t worried. What could that possibly have to do with him? He’d done nothing close to home in ages, nothing to draw attention to himself. His fun in the Playground couldn’t lead back here to his real door. He’d been far too careful for that.
Then he’d heard about them digging near Warren Lee’s place. That was a bit troubling, but still nothing to panic about.
Eventually, like always, the gossipers got everything jumbled up. The stories about Lisa’s disappearance and a potential murder victim being sought by the FBI had gotten twisted together into one big, very plausible rumor.
Then came the confirmation: It really was Lisa they were looking for.
As he sat alone in his most secret place Saturday evening-a room to which he alone had access, concealed from any prying eyes-he had to concede a certain sense of alarm. Not fear. He never experienced fear, just as he never experienced pain. He’d done far too much, inflicted agony and visited death on far too many, to worry about it coming for him. He was death, after all.
No, his concern was the inconvenience of it all. The descent of a bunch of FBI agents chasing bodies they would never find might interfere with his plans and restrict his movements.
It also might bring exposure of other things. Things he wasn’t responsible for. Someone else was.
“You asshole,” he hissed, suddenly enraged. Because if those other activities were uncovered, the interest in those crimes might spill over onto him. People might come around, ask questions, do a search.
“Don’t panic,” he reminded himself, focusing on the main issue. Lisa.
How did they know she was dead? For the past year and a half everyone had accepted the fact that the little slut had run off somewhere on her own. Why had that changed? What evidence could they have?
“They’re bluffing,” he told himself. “They must be.” Wanting a distraction from the worry, he busied himself tidying his special room. He kept it clean and normal-looking, on the off chance that anybody came in here. The idea of somebody invading his privacy, learning about his other life, was enough to make him sick. Nobody could interfere with that life. He wouldn’t allow it.
What if they know about the Playground?
Impossible. The security was rigid, the existence of it shared in cyber whispers. He doubted there was another person within two states of here who was a member.
Or perhaps his closest neighbor was.
That was one thing that made Satan’s Playground so wonderful.
But there had been a lot of extra security in recent weeks. Maybe someone hacked in…
Maybe he should quit.
Bile rose in his throat at the very thought of it. Quit? Leave the only place he’d ever belonged? No. He’d never do that.
In fact, he’d do whatever it took to keep that world safe and intact. Including removing anyone who threatened its existence. FBI agents. The sheriff. Anyone.
He could. So easily. They would never even realize he was the enemy until he took their heads off their bodies. Just as he had with that girl from the mall. The loud one. The mean one. The one who had screamed awful language and was no lady, just another whore. She hadn’t used those words on him for long.
Almost smiling as he realized just how little anyone in this drab, colorless place knew him, he was startled by a sudden ding from his computer speakers. He had mail. Not in the playground, but an e-mail to the identity he wore in the dirt world.
Not recognizing the generic address, he almost ditched it as spam. But the subject message-You’ll Want to Read This-intrigued him. It seemed different, though it was probably someone offering to make him wealthy, or teach him the secret to better sex.
Ha. There was no secret. Because sex could never be as good as draining the blood out of a woman until the light left her eyes and the spite left her lips.
Nothing could.
Bent over his chair, he leaned down and clicked on the message to open it, ready to delete it at once.
Then he read the words on the screen. His heart pounded.
He saw the image below the words. His pulse surged.
He read the final demand. And he slowly lowered himself to the chair.
The message was simple: I know what you did. Below it was a fuzzy, black-and-white photograph, apparently taken from a surveillance camera. It wasn’t very good quality. But it didn’t need to be. The image clearly showed the two most important things: his draped form putting a large, body-size wrapped object into the back of a truck. More disturbing-an easily recognizable license plate.
“No,” he began to whisper, the word rising in volume as fury crawled up his throat and began to choke him. “No! You can’t do this!”
But the message writer apparently thought he could.
The anonymous e-mailer wanted money. A lot of it, which he didn’t have. And he wanted it within seven days.
Or the picture would go to the FBI.