I’m Watching You (Richmond Novels #1)

Chapter Eighteen

Tuesday, July 8, 4:25 P.M.

Lindsay stood behind Zack as she watched the uniformed officer crate up her office files. Impotent rage roiled inside her. She’d worked for a year to make this shelter into something worthwhile, and in twenty-four hours it had fallen apart.

‘Do the cops have to mess everything up?’ Lindsay asked, unable to remain silent.

Zack turned. ‘Lindsay, wait in the kitchen. When Warwick returns, we’ll all talk.’

Frustration ate at her. A few hours ago, they’d shared a meal. She’d laughed with his sister. Now, he was all cop again. ‘Can I have my purse? I’d rather go back to Mental Health Services. At least there I can be productive.’

‘I’ll bring it out to you,’ Zack said.

The wall was back between them. ‘Great.’

She went into the kitchen. This time of day the kitchen should have been teeming with activity. Kids would be running around, residents would be talking, and the phones would be ringing off the hook. Now it was dead silence.

Needing something to do, she went on the back deck to the potting table. There were four six-packs of marigolds, a pot, and soil. All the supplies were still damp from yesterday’s rain. Careful to keep her back to the murder scene, she opened the bag of soil and poured rich, dark dirt into the pot. It felt good to have her hands in the soil. She gingerly removed a marigold from the plastic container and pushed it into the soil. She was reaching for the flower pack to get another when the back door opened.

‘Ms O’Neil,’ Warwick said, ‘could we talk?’

She shoved out a breath, wondering when he’d returned. ‘Sure.’ She headed back into the kitchen and washed her hands. Zack came into the room and the three sat at the kitchen table.

Warwick opened his notebook to a clean page. ‘We’ve got our warrant, which gives us open access to your files. You can help us by telling us those that should be red flagged.’

Lindsay had thought about that a lot last night. ‘It’s hard to say.’

‘We’ll get the names with or without your help. But your help will make the investigation go faster.’

She sighed. The sooner Harold’s killer was caught the sooner the shelter would reopen. ‘We’ve had some rough cases the last few months. Give me your notebook and I’ll write the top ten.’

Warwick pushed the notebook and a pen toward her. She scratched out the worst of the abusive spouses she’d dealt with.

Once she’d finished, Warwick studied the names. ‘Do you think any of these men could be the Guardian?’

‘I don’t know. But they’re all violent men. And none of them would want to help me.’

Zack leaned forward but remained silent. Clearly this was Warwick’s show.

‘When is the last time you saw Turner?’ Warwick asked.

She didn’t like his tone. ‘I told Detective Kier all this.’

Warwick flashed white teeth. ‘Again, please, for my benefit.’

She reviewed the details of her encounter with Turner.

‘And you confronted him at the party?’ Warwick said.

She felt that evening’s anger returning. ‘It wasn’t my intention, but, yes, I did have words with him.’

‘Remind you of your old man?’ Warwick said.

Angered that Zack must have discussed her past, she straightened. ‘Yeah, in a lot of ways Turner did remind me of him.’

Warwick tapped his index finger on the table. ‘It’s clear you love this place. The toys, the warm colors, and the flowers – they were all done by you, weren’t they?’

‘Sure.’

‘And you care about the women and children. I’ve leafed through a few files. Your notes suggest you really do want these women to succeed.’

She sensed a setup. ‘Cut the compliments. What’s your point?’

Warwick’s expression hardened a fraction and she had a sense he’d mentally taken off the gloves. ‘I went to your folks’s place in Hanover. It looked as if it had been a nice place at one time.’

A sudden weight pressed against her chest. ‘You were there?’

‘Kier and I read your mother’s murder file. We see how rough you had it.’

‘Why are you telling me this?’ Her voice was just above a whisper.

‘You grew up with an abusive man and then you run into someone like Harold, who reminds you of your father.’ He met her gaze head-on. ‘He gets in your face and in essence threatens to close the place you love. It would be reason enough to kill him.’

Zack said nothing, nor did he show any emotion. She’d never felt more alone.

‘I didn’t kill Harold,’ Lindsay said, teeth clenched.

‘You have no alibi, Ms O’Neil.’

‘I told you that I was home asleep.’

‘A fact you can’t prove.’

Jordan Turner may not have wanted her help but Nicole Piper did, and Lindsay wouldn’t tell the cops about her. Richard had contacts in the San Francisco Police Department, and she couldn’t risk inquiries from the guys on this end. She’d find a way out of this mess somehow. ‘No, I can’t.’

Warwick closed his notebook. ‘I suggest you get an attorney, Ms O’Neil.’

She glanced at Zack, expecting some kind of support. ‘I need an attorney?’

Zack showed no hint of emotion. ‘It wouldn’t hurt.’

Abruptly she rose. ‘I can’t believe this,’ she said. ‘I’ve got some nutcase out there sending me body parts and now the cops are breathing down my throat. I didn’t kill Harold. But I’m the first to admit I hated the guy and I won’t lose any sleep over the fact that he’s dead.’

Zack stood but said nothing. He shoved his hands in his pockets and rattled change.

Warwick was unfazed by her outburst. ‘Get a lawyer.’

‘Are you going to charge me?’ she demanded.

‘Not yet.’

Lindsay couldn’t believe this. All she’d done was stand up for herself when Turner had tried to browbeat her and now she was a murder suspect. ‘Can I have my purse?’

Warwick slowly rose. ‘Yes. It’s on the banister by the front door.’

‘Thanks.’ She started down the hallway.

‘Don’t leave town without calling me, Ms O’Neil,’ Warwick said.

She didn’t glance back. ‘Right.’

She snatched up her purse and dug out her keys. She didn’t bother with a sideways glance into her office at the jumble the cops had made of her files as she pushed through the front door.

Once in her Jeep, she cranked the engine and backed out. As she drove home the surge of adrenaline from her interview began to fade.

Lindsay felt weary and so alone. She couldn’t tell the cops about Nicole. The woman was just getting her life back. She prayed the real killer would be found soon so the spotlight would leave her.

Fifteen minutes later, she pulled in front of her town house. She moved up her walkway and shoved her key in the lock. God, all she wanted now was a hot bath and a cup of tea.

‘Lindsay!’

Sam’s cheerful voice had Lindsay turning. He wore khakis, a white button-down shirt, and loafers without socks. The late afternoon light pulled red highlights in his thick sandy blond hair.

In a flash she remembered her promise to have dinner with him tonight. ‘Sam.’

‘Sorry I’m late,’ he said.

She glanced forlornly at her home. God, but she wanted to get into bed and pull the covers over her head. ‘Oh, no problem.’

Creases formed around his blue eyes. ‘You forgot, didn’t you?’

She glanced down at her keys in the door and grinned. ‘Or maybe I saw you drive up and was headed out to meet you?’

He laughed. ‘We can go with that story, if you like.’

She could feel her blood pressure dropping. ‘Works for me.’

Sam’s eyes grew serious. ‘If you want to bag tonight, it’s fine. You look like you’ve had a tough day.’

Her hand went to her ponytail, which had sunk low on her head. ‘I’m good. I need a night out or I’ll sit at home and stew.’

He grinned. ‘Good. There’s a new French restaurant out on Patterson.’

‘I should change.’

‘Naw, you look good. Besides, it’s casual.’

She wasn’t hungry. Lunch had been filling. Still, an evening out that wasn’t emotionally draining would be welcome.

Sam guided her to a sleek Audi and opened the door for her.

Lindsay couldn’t help but smile. ‘You’re spoiling me.’

‘You could use that once in a while.’ He closed her door and came around the front. The car’s interior smelled new.

He slid behind the wheel and started the engine. The soft scent of his aftershave reminded her that this was a date.

Crap. Didn’t she have enough on her plate?

They’d not driven a block when his cell rang. He glanced down at the number and sent the call to voice mail.

‘Why don’t you answer that?’ Lindsay said. Zack always took his calls.

‘It’s not important. You are.’

Not all men were like Zack.

And that was a good thing. Right?

Alone in the car, this close to Sam, she felt a bit awkward. If he’d been Sam the friend, she’d have had no trouble talking to him. But Sam the date felt like an entirely different person. Suddenly pressure existed where there’d been none before.

‘So how was the hospital today?’ she said.

He kept his gaze on the road. ‘Same old, same old.’

Normally, Sam had half a dozen stories to tell about his day in the ER. And his unexpected silence had her scraping for something else to say that would keep the conversation going. ‘No war stories?’

‘None. Ever notice we always talk about work?’

‘Yeah.’

His expression turned serious. ‘Let’s do our best not to talk shop tonight.’

Suddenly she was tongue-tied. What would they talk about? First Zack and now Sam. Why couldn’t she carry on a conversation with an adult male? ‘That doesn’t leave much.’

He grinned. ‘There’s the weather.’

She laughed but realized seeing Sam like this felt dishonest somehow. She was legally separated from Zack and a signature away from finalizing the divorce. She was rebuilding her life without him. Dating was okay.

Sam pulled into the restaurant’s parking lot and parked in a spot close to the door. She got out and met him at the front of the car. He placed his hand into the small of her back and guided her into the restaurant.

It was a quiet, small bistro that had only opened a couple of months ago. Most weekends the place attracted large crowds. Tuesdays offered a slower pace.

The hostess led them to an intimate table in the back near a fireplace filled with votive candles that flickered in the dimly lit room. ‘Stop indulging me.’

He chuckled and took his seat. ‘You deserve to be spoiled once in a while.’

Lindsay spread her napkin over her lap. ‘I’m so used to taking care of everything. Being spoiled makes me feel uncomfortable.’

The waitress arrived and Sam ordered a bottle of wine as well as a sampling of appetizers. Within minutes they arrived. The wine was excellent, as was the display of cheeses.

As he swirled the Merlot in a glass, his gold signet ring winked in the candlelight. ‘So why are you so used to taking care of yourself?’

She shrugged. ‘Long, long story, Sam.’

Sam laid his hand on hers. It was warm, soft. ‘Is there anything I can do to make this day better?’

Her hand felt steadier as she raised her glass to her lips. ‘Know any good defense lawyers?’

The Guardian watched a drunken Burt Saunders stagger out of the bar on Third Street. In less than twelve hours the bastard had made bail. No wonder people said the American justice system was in the toilet.

Anger roiled inside the Guardian as Saunders lumbered down the sidewalk toward a red Lincoln with a white convertible top. A pink parking ticket lay flat under the windshield wiper. Saunders tossed the ticket in the gutter and fumbled in his pockets for his keys.

He didn’t realize that Death stalked him.

Saunders dropped his keys on the street by his car door. He wobbled forward and patted the ground for the set. He lost his balance and hit his shoulder hard against the car door. He swore.

The Guardian moved closer until inches separated them. ‘Looks like you’re having a bit of trouble tonight.’

Saunders’s bloodshot eyes narrowed. ‘Fuck off.’

No manners. Typical. ‘You look like you could use a score.’

Saunders found his keys and snatched them up. ‘Like I said, fuck off, bitch.’

Killing this fool was going to be a true pleasure, one destined to be savored. ‘I’ve got some coke if you’re interested. It would go a long way to taking the edge off.’

Licking his lips, Saunders glanced around to make sure no one watched. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

The fish had taken the bait. ‘I can make all the pain go away.’

‘You look like a cop.’

‘Follow me and I’ll show you what I’ve got.’

‘I don’t need you.’ To punctuate his statement, he tried to put his key in the car door lock. His hands trembled so badly that he couldn’t manage the task.

‘Suit yourself.’ To be too eager would spook the prey. Saunders was a mean son of a bitch but he wasn’t stupid.

The Guardian started to walk back toward an alley.

Saunders hesitated and then staggered forward. ‘How much?’

‘Fifty.’

‘Thirty is all I’ve got.’

‘Make it forty.’

Saunders considered the counteroffer and then nodded. ‘Fine.’

Gotcha. ‘In the van in the alley over there.’

The drunk nodded and followed. In the moonlight the shadows were long and narrow, shrouding the alley in the darkness. The scent of garbage and urine clung to humid air.

Saunders’s large feet shuffled as he moved away from the street. He pulled two crumpled twenties out of his pocket.

The Guardian thought about Saunders’s wife, Gail. The woman had been broken and afraid when she’d run from the hospital yesterday. She’d tried so hard not to cry when she’d fumbled with her keys in the hospital parking lot. So brave. So much like Debra. ‘In the van.’

Saunders climbed in, the hunger bright in his eyes.

From a jacket pocket, the Guardian pulled out a baggy filled halfway with white powder. Saunders tossed his money on the seat and snatched the bag.

As he turned to leave the van, the Guardian pressed a Taser to Saunders’s neck. The tall man’s body jerked and convulsed and he fell back against the seat.

Fear sharpened the haze in Saunders’s eyes. ‘What the fuck?’

The Guardian jabbed the Taser to the soft flesh of Saunders’s neck again. The man convulsed painfully. His eyes rolled back in his head and his chest rose and fell as he struggled to suck air into his lungs.

‘Retribution is mine,’ the Guardian whispered, uncapping a syringe and shoving it into Saunders’s arm.

Within seconds Saunders’s eyes glazed over. The Guardian started the van and eased into the street. There was no hurry tonight. No nervous fear either, like the other night with Turner.

Lindsay couldn’t fall asleep. Today had started off as a good day. She had finished her first week in kindergarten and was excited about the day she’d just spent in school. Her teacher had shown the class how to make paper butterflies. Lindsay had loved the colors and the way the crepe paper folded and made delicate wings.

But the joy she’d felt at school had quickly faded when she’d returned home. Her mother had been edgy and worried. When Lindsay’s father came home the tension had gotten worse. Her father didn’t like the dinner her mother had prepared and he seemed determined to find fault with everything.

Now Lindsay lay curled on her side in her bed with the covers pulled over her head. Her father was shouting at her mother and her mother was crying.

‘Who gives you the damn right to talk to him about our problems? I’m your family.’

‘He’s my brother.’

‘A brother who’s not been around for years. I’ve been here all along. I’ve been the one putting food in your mouth and clothes on your back. He hasn’t.’

‘He was just worried about me. And I missed seeing him.’

‘Well, if you think he’s so damn great, you go and live with him. But Lindsay stays with me.’

‘I’ll never leave her.’

‘She’s mine. Just like everything else in this house. So if you want to leave, you leave with the shirt on your back.’

Footsteps sounded down the hallway toward Lindsay’s room. Her mother was crying louder and her father was shouting more. Lindsay’s door opened and light from the hallway shone into her room.

‘Don’t touch my daughter!’ her mother shouted.

Flesh smacked against flesh and someone stumbled back. Lindsay peeked out from under the covers and saw her mother fall.

Lindsay started to cry.

*

Lindsay’s cell phone, perched on her nightstand, rang just after midnight and jerked her awake. Accustomed to being awakened in the middle of the night, she sat up and answered it. ‘Hello?’

No answer.

She shoved back her hair and glanced at the clock on the bedside table. Sam had dropped her off over three hours ago and she’d fallen into bed exhausted. ‘Hello?’

There was breathing on the other end. Normally, when she got late-night calls, it was a frightened woman hiding out from her abuser, too afraid to talk. Often she had to coax the woman into speaking.

But tonight, she didn’t sense someone in trouble. She sensed danger. Her voice harsh, she demanded, ‘Who is this?’

There was a moment’s pause. And then the line went dead.

Lindsay checked the incoming number and discovered it was blocked. She closed the phone. Fully awake, she swung her legs over the side of the bed and clicked on the bedside lamp.

A chill slithered through her.

It wasn’t like her to be so easily spooked. She got out of bed, clad only in an oversized T-shirt. The air-conditioning chilled her skin.

Careful not to wake Nicole, Lindsay hurried past her roommate’s closed door and went down the carpeted stairs to check the lock on the front door. She peered out the peephole. Nothing. Then she went to the back sliding glass door. Locked. She moved from window to window checking them. All locked.

She flipped on the floodlight and it shone over her backyard garden. She stared into the yard looking for any sign of movement.

Nothing moved.

And yet she had the feeling that someone was watching. Hugging her arms, she stared into the darkness inside her home. There was no one there.

She shoved stiff fingers through her hair. This was insane. She was driving herself nuts over what was likely a wrong number. She shut off the backyard light. ‘Too much caffeine.’

She opened the refrigerator and peered inside at the carton full of leftovers from the bistro. She opened the container of chocolate cake and sampled a piece. It melted in her mouth. After closing the door, she moved into the living room, switched on a light, and sat down. In the silence, she ate the cake, savoring every bite.

As she rose to pitch the takeout container in the the kitchen trash bin, she spotted the door under the stairs. Behind it was a small storage place where she kept a box of old pictures. She tossed the carton, wiped her hands, opened the door, and removed the worn box. She carried it to the couch, sat, and dug among the photos, careful to avoid the ones with Zack. She’d never organized or put the photos in an album, but she’d written dates and notes on the back of each.

There were pictures of Lindsay with her friend Joel. They were at the pool, smiling. Joel had his arm wrapped casually around her shoulder. She smiled as she traced Joel’s face. Joel and his dad had been the ones who’d gone back to the house after her mom died and gotten these photos and her clothes.

Going deeper in the photo box, she found a picture of herself as a baby. Other pictures of herself at swim and tennis meets with her father and mother smiling proudly behind her. They looked so happy. Picture perfect.

And yet, behind the smiles, there was tension in her parents’ eyes. Most wouldn’t have noticed it, but she did.

She found deeper in the box black and whites of her mother as a young girl before she’d married her father. Her mother had had a bright smile, dark wavy hair that set off her hazel eyes and peaches-and-cream complexion. In one photo, Lindsay’s mother stood with her older brother, who was fifteen years older than her mother. He looked to be about twenty-five in this photo. His arm was slung casually around her mother’s shoulders, and he wore a sailor’s uniform that accentuated his trim waist and broad shoulders. She had no memories of her uncle except for the rare story her mother told.

Buried at the bottom of the box were pictures of three-year-old Lindsay holding a baby boy. The child had been her younger brother; he had died of crib death when he was just seven months old. Her mother had rarely spoken about her brother, Bobby, but Lindsay knew the boy’s death had left a hole in both her parents’ hearts that had never healed.

Maybe if Bobby hadn’t died. Maybe if …

These stupid mind games weren’t going to change her past. It was what it was. A mess.

She dropped the pictures back in the box, unable to bear the sadness. She replaced the lid and put the box back in the closet under the stairs.

Suddenly very tired, she climbed the stairs and got into bed. The sheets felt cold against her skin. Despite her fatigue, her mind was restless.

She reached for the light. She’d searched the house and assured herself that she and Nicole were alone. And yet, she still felt as if someone stood over her.

Watching.

The Guardian checked Saunders’s bindings. Secure. The man lay unconscious, his arms and legs stretched wide and tied to stakes driven in the concrete floor.

After turning on the three TVs, the Guardian flipped on the evening news reports. He wanted to see what the press was saying about him.

The first two stations had nothing to report beyond that police were still trying to unravel the murder of a local attorney. He flipped to Channel 10 to see Kendall Shaw reporting.

… a troubled past marred by the violent murder of her mother. When I spoke with Lindsay O’Neil earlier this spring, she talked about her passion for saving women in abusive relationships. But Lindsay O’Neil harbored a dark secret. Her father, Frank Hines, a garage owner in Hanover, a church leader and well known in his community, routinely beat his wife – Lindsay’s mother.

Two days before Lindsay’s seventeenth birthday, Hines killed his wife and then shot himself.

Now exactly twelve years after the Hines murder/suicide, the body of a murdered man has been found behind the women’s shelter O’Neil created. The victim, Harold Turner, a local attorney, was seen just weeks ago arguing with O’Neil at a local fund-raiser.

Tension rippled through the Guardian’s body.

Kendall Shaw’s news report bordered on hateful. She’d all but called Lindsay a murderer.

Facts could suggest that O’Neil could have embarked on her own plan of revenge.

Kendall Shaw’s raw ambition had driven her too far. She was twisting facts to suit her own purposes. She was a liar and a manipulator and very much like the men who abused their wives. She abused the public trust with her half-truths and innuendo.

The Guardian turned back toward Saunders. He was out cold. No good. He needed to be awake.

He needed to feel pain.

A broken ammonia capsule waved under his nose woke Saunders instantly. Wide-eyed, the man stared around the room, trying to take in his surroundings. He muttered several foul words through his gag and tested the ropes that held him.

‘We’re in a basement, Mr Saunders. It’s very secluded. Very private.’

Bloodshot eyes focused on the Guardian. Confusion gave way to anger. Saunders jerked at his restraints.

The Guardian was pleased. ‘You’re not going anywhere. Not until you’ve learned a few lessons.’

Saunders kicked his legs, trying to loosen the ropes. They didn’t budge. He screamed into his gag.

‘You’re a fighter. I like that.’ The Guardian grabbed a black bag. ‘Harold Turner caved when I cornered him. He cried like a baby. You aren’t going to cry are you, Mr Saunders?’

Saunders’s eyes narrowed.

‘Good. I don’t like criers.’

From the black bag came the machete. The shiny blade reflected the dim lamplight. ‘You know what this is? It’s the blade I used to cut Harold’s hand off.’

Saunders swallowed. His fingers clenched into tight fists.

The Guardian traced the flat side of the blade over the man’s left wrist. ‘Are you afraid?’

Defiant, Saunders clamped down on his gag. But the Guardian saw the sweat beading on his upper lip.

‘Fear is an uncomfortable feeling, isn’t it, Mr Saunders?’

When he didn’t budge, the Guardian traced the sharp blade over Saunders’s wrist. This time bravado gave way to terror.

‘Fear is what Gail lives with every day. You put that fear inside her. Didn’t you?’

Saunders stared, his eyes wide as he shook his head ‘no.’

‘You enjoyed seeing her afraid. You enjoyed knowing you had total power over her life.’ When Saunders didn’t answer, the Guardian drew the blade over the inside of his arm, splitting the skin and spilling blood.

Saunders groaned as the pain burned.

‘Did you enjoy hurting your wife?’

He nodded.

‘And now you will be punished.’

Saunders strained at his bindings. He screamed, the sound swallowed by the gag.

‘I shot Harold first and then took my trophy. But this time …’

Saunders’s muffled screams filled the room as the Guardian raised the machete high. In one clean chop, he brought it down and severed Saunders’s left hand from his wrist. Blood splattered.

Saunders’s eyes rolled back in his head and he pissed on himself. He screamed through the gag. The thick scent of urine filled the air as the coppery blood drained out of the stump on his left arm and pooled on the basement floor.

Energy surged through the Guardian as life seeped from Saunders’s body. Nothing had ever felt sweeter.

‘You should be feeling some relief now. Your sins have been cleansed with your own blood.’

Saunders’s body began to shake. He was going into shock.

The Guardian watched, anticipating a river of blood. He expected Saunders to bleed out in minutes, but as the minutes ticked by, the blood flow began to slow. Ten minutes later the blood flow was little more than a trickle. Saunders was still breathing.

‘Damn.’ The arteries had sealed. ‘You’re a tough old bastard. Foolish to think I could destroy evil so easily.’

Undeterred, the Guardian grabbed a knife from the workbench and sliced through the femoral artery in Saunders’s leg. Saunders screamed. And this time the blood did flow. Saunders was dead in five minutes.

The Guardian hovered, mesmerized by the sight of Death, and with trembling hands combed Saunders’s hair until it was smooth. ‘There are so many more to kill.’