A Cold and Silent Dying Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  IN MEMORIUM

  Also by Eleanor Taylor Bland

  Copyright Page

  CHAPTER 1

  FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 7

  There is no time here. I don’t know what day it is or how many days I have been here. I have not had a shower in at least a week, maybe longer. I cannot remember the last time I ate a hot meal. Everything is sand—between my teeth, in my throat. It invades my socks, my boots, gets under the elastic in my underwear and grates against my skin. The heat is like standing in a furnace that is turned on full blast.

  But long after I have forgotten how hot it is here, I will remember the sand.

  Strange, isn’t it? You and I and Grandpa can sit down now and tell the same stories. The people we talk about will be different, the places might not be the same, the price of a beer or a whore will change, but our stories will still be the same. And with each telling we will be able to kill more people with less effort. One day my children will tell these stories, and then their children. Only the details will change. The world did not begin with war, and might not end with war. But there will be no peace in the time between. The sand shimmers in the heat and there are no mirages.

  Fred read the letter one more time, then folded it along creases so worn the paper was beginning to tear. Was this why he survived the Gulf in ’91? To get this last letter from his only son over a decade later? To read this for the first time a week after they came to tell him that Andy was dead?

  He took out Andy’s picture. Wallet size, unframed, frayed. Andy. Marine-blue uniform. Corporal’s stripes on his sleeve. The American flag behind him. The fifth generation in their family to serve this country. The first one to die. Fred looked at Andy’s picture, but remembered him the way he was when they brought him home. So still, as if a voice had said, “Attention,” and forgot to say, “At ease.” Fred looked at his son until his eyes hurt, and then he looked away.

  When the dog came and sat beside him, Fred reached down and stroked his fur. It was quiet here in the woods. Far from the sand, far from the heat, a long way from the desert, but not too far away to remember. He had once thought that if he just kept moving, didn’t stay in one place long enough for it to become familiar, that if everything around him was different, strange, that and a little wine, or perhaps a few shots of bourbon, and he could escape the memories. Instead, the only distance he had created was between him and Andy.

  Fred reached into his pocket, got a few treats, fed them to the dog. They had found each other when Geronimo was a pup and someone left him by the side of the road. In the months they had traveled together, having Geronimo with him had become much more than not being alone.

  Now they were here, Lincoln Prairie, not that the name of the place mattered. Trees, woods, no sand. That was all that was important. It was a narrow strip of land, maybe two blocks wide, and six long. He had been here for a week, hadn’t planned to stay that long, but had just been too damned depressed to move on.

  The burr oaks grew so close together that even with just a few brown leaves on thick, bare branches, they blocked out most of the daylight and insulated him from everything but nature’s noise. The path was maybe a foot wide, but the underbrush was so thick that the hard-packed dirt trail had all but disappeared. There were ravines with narrow, rocky beds nearby, with cold, swiftly flowing water for him and Geronimo.

  Fred reached out to Geronimo, felt the warmth of his tongue as the dog licked his hand. Then he looked at Andy’s picture, touched the letter, returned both to an envelope, and put that in his pocket. There is no time here. Today was Andy’s birthday. He would have been twenty-one.

  It was dark when DeVonte Lutrell left the building on Boswell Street where he rented an apartment. He was only a few blocks from the lake and the wind had picked up. Chicago was cold for early November. He put a knit cap on his head and jammed his hands into his pockets. He hated Chicago, except for the Cubs. But baseball season was over. And thanks to Sharon, his wife, and her cop friend, Marti MacAlister, he could never go back to the West Indies, the island of his birth, the place that was always warm, the place that he loved. Even here, in Juneway Terrace, where he could hear the voices and dialects and music of the Islands, and eat the foods he had savored since childhood, even here, perhaps especially here, he was not home. Worse, it reminded him so much of home that sometimes his anger became an orange haze. Then, more than at any other time, he wanted to kill, he knew he would kill. But everyone he killed was just a substitute for the woman he wanted to kill. He spoke her name aloud: “Marti MacAlister.” Just saying it made him tremble with rage.

  He knew it was dangerous to let the rage control him. He made mistakes when it did and had to move on. And this time he couldn’t just up and leave. There were things he had to do. He took several deep breaths, tried to concentrate on the cold air that entered his nose. He had planned everything this time. He had spent weeks finding out what he needed to know. He had even bought a little house in Louisiana. For the first time, he would have someplace to hide. Always, until now, he just ran. Always before, it didn’t matter much who he killed. But this time he would finally get the woman who had ruined his life.

  He had traveled back and forth from Grand Bahama Island to Fort Lauderdale for three years before Sharon came along. He married her because it was the only way he could get to her money. He preferred to meet a woman in the States, get as much of her money as he could, then invite her to his island condo for a few days of sun, surf, and gambling at the casinos. Somewhere between Florida and the island, the woman would go quietly to the depths of the Atlantic. And because older women who had wealthy husbands had to be careful about who they were seen with, nobody on the ship knew that any of these women were with him.

  Sharon was the fourth woman he had to marry. The deaths of the first three had made divorce unnecessary. He had intended to kill Sharon, but almost died himself when a hurricane struck the island. Looking back, he knew it had been a mistake to get involved with her, but at the time, she was irresistible—so needy, so eager, so helpless. Sharon was the kind of woman his mother—for whom he hoped hell was a real and never-ending place of torment—had warned him about. Like his other wives, Sharon was totally useless to herself and the rest of mankind. It almost made him smile to think of her.

  DeVonte crossed the street before he reached the corner of Jonquil, and paused to look at the large, multiunit building he had just left. He could see the bedroom windows in his apartment. The light was still off in Lynn Ella’s room. Lynn Ella was the bait in the trap that would catch Sharon, and Marti MacAlister. She was Iris MacAlister O’Neill’s daughter; Iris was Marti’s long-lost sister-in-law. She was such a strange child, though, too tiny to be eight years old, afraid of everything. She insisted on sleeping in the closet even though she had her own bed. Yes, Lynn Ella was a strange child indeed. Was she imagining things that were not there, or was she a conjurer? He would have to find out, although he wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

  His car was parked near the cemetery a f
ew blocks away. It was an older model Chevy Cavalier, four cylinder, with a few dents, a little rust that blended with the brown chassis, and a trunk big enough to hold a body. It was not the kind of car that would get beat cops’ attention or attract thieves. By the time he reached it, he was shivering. He should have worn a warmer jacket, even though it seemed too soon to dress for winter. He took the gun out of the glove compartment and tucked it under his seat. He didn’t like guns. They made everything too easy. The challenge was in persuading someone to do what he wanted, not ordering them to with a fake gun. The car started at once, but the heater wasn’t likely to kick in until he was halfway to Lincoln Prairie. He couldn’t kill that cop yet, the bitch. Until he could, someone else would have to do.

  Traffic was light and it was only an hour’s drive to the first shelter DeVonte planned to check out. It was almost ten o’clock and the shelters had closed their doors for the night, but he might be able to pick up a straggler. He would have preferred to arrive earlier, but he had wasted almost an hour trying to convince Lynn Ella that she should eat the cheeseburger and fries he had picked up at Po’ Boys, the take-out joint down the street.

  “No. It be in there,” she said.

  He wondered if someone had spit on the burger and the child had the eye and could see that but was unable to explain what she saw.

  She pointed to the sandwich, said, “It be in there,” again and backed away from it.

  He wished the hell he knew what “it” was, what she could see that he couldn’t. If she wasn’t a conjurer and didn’t have special sight, maybe someone had worked root on her.

  “What’s in here?” he asked. “This is just food. You need to eat. Aren’t you hungry?”

  She shook her head. As skinny as she was, she looked as if she must be close to starving. Not that it wouldn’t be easier for him to get rid of her if she starved to death, but he needed her, at least for a while. If she was a conjurer or a seer, it would be best just to let her be. If she wasn’t, there were places here where she could rest forever undisturbed.

  DeVonte drove past several shelters before he saw the woman standing in the doorway of a storefront not far from the church. He slowed and rolled down the window. The wind had picked up and the air was cold.

  “It’s late,” he called. “They won’t let you in now.”

  The woman was hugging herself and he could see that she was shivering. Long dark hair hung below her shoulders and a knit hat almost reached her ears. Her skirt stopped just above her knees, but she was wearing slacks underneath. Her jacket looked thin, but the turtleneck of a sweater covered her throat. Layers, he thought, a good way to keep warm. He pulled over to the curb.

  “The church over on Bellingham will take you in if you get there before eleven and they’re not filled up. Get in and I’ll drop you off.”

  The woman took several steps back and turned away. She was young, with honey-colored skin like his mother’s. Unlike his mother, her face was marred by pimples and several small black moles. She wasn’t pretty like his mother either. There was something almost masculine about the line of her jaw and the thickness of her eyebrows.

  “All right,” he said. “But if the police see you here they will arrest you for vagrancy.”

  She stared at him for a moment, then looked away.

  “I’ve got to take this to my mother.” He held up a prescription bottle filled with aspirin. “Bellingham isn’t too far out of my way.”

  She looked again, hesitated.

  “Come on,” he said. “I’ve also got to walk the dog before I can call it a night.”

  When she took a step toward him he leaned across the seat and opened the car door.

  “Cigarette?” he asked. He himself didn’t smoke and hated the odor.

  The woman shook her head.

  “Maybe you could do something for me?”

  She sort of laughed.

  “What’s funny?”

  “Life. Nothing’s ever free.”

  “This ride is,” he said. “I just thought maybe you could let my girlfriend know I’m on my way. I don’t like to drive and talk at the same time.” He nodded toward the glove compartment. He hadn’t spoken to Sharon since that day on the island two years ago, when the storm surge had swept him away before he could kill her.

  “Her name is Sharon. You’d better tell her you’re Johnny’s sister, Iris. I wouldn’t want her to think …” He smiled. “Anyway, just tell her you’re with me. I’m DeVonte by the way. Tell her I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  He gave her the number, then listened, smiling as she repeated what he had told her to say. When she said, “But it is me, Sharon. Iris, Johnny’s sister.”

  “Iris MacAlister O’Neill,” he whispered. The woman repeated it, then said, “I wouldn’t—”

  He took the phone. “Hi, hon, it’s me. Just giving Iris a ride home.”

  “DeVonte! You’re lying.” Her voice was high pitched, sounded shaky. “That can’t be Iris. She’s dead.”

  “Is she?”

  “Please, whoever she is, don’t hurt her.”

  “You know me well.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Look, I’ve got to get Iris home. I’ll give you a call back when I’m on my way.”

  “Don’t hurt her,” Sharon said. “Please.”

  He laughed and turned off the phone.

  “Thanks. I’ll just drop this off at my mother’s on the way.” The woman didn’t answer.

  “What’s your name?” Again, she said nothing.

  “That’s okay. I’ll just call you Marti.”

  He drove to a street that was familiar, and pulled into the driveway of a house he had been to before. This time a man wearing army fatigues was standing beneath a tree in the woods nearby and urinating into the undergrowth. Just another bum, DeVonte thought. Just like in the city. The man looked in their direction, then disappeared among the trees.

  DeVonte pulled out the fake gun and pointed it at the woman. He put one finger to his lips and toward the side door of the darkened house. The woman nodded. She slid across the seat after he got out. He looked into her eyes, expecting to see fear, but her expression was closer to indifference, as if she didn’t care. He enjoyed killing them more when they were afraid.

  As soon as she hung up, Sharon rushed to her daughter’s room. She eased the door open and saw Lisa, all of sixteen, still sleeping with that shaggy old teddy bear. She sagged against the door frame. That couldn’t have been Iris. Johnny’s sister had taken off years before he and Marti got married. Johnny had tried to find her until he died, and then, periodically at least, Marti had continued the search. But Marti had as much as admitted that she thought searching for Iris was hopeless, that she believed Iris was dead.

  That woman couldn’t be Iris. She and Johnny and Marti were sixteen that summer when Iris went out one morning and never came back. She was doing drugs, got caught up in the life, that was what everyone assumed. What had she told DeVonte about Iris? Everything. He was always so interested in her past, her friends.

  No, that wasn’t Iris. It couldn’t be. Marti would have found her by now if she was still alive. Whatever was going on now was all her fault. She had brought DeVonte into their lives. No, she had welcomed him. DeVonte Lutrell, the ultimate Mr. Wonderful: kind, thoughtful, handsome, charming. A real killer, as Marti had said, “to die for,” and she almost had. She had put them all in danger when she married him. She was endangering them again. Her daughter didn’t deserve this. Neither did Marti. They had been children together, friends since kindergarten. Even then Marti shielded her from the other children’s teasing, and by the time they were in third grade, the older boys she flirted with.

  No, that couldn’t have been Iris, but that was DeVonte. How she hated him, hated herself for wanting to be with him. She had thought he was out of her life, prayed he was dead, tried to convince herself that after two years without a word, he was dead. Safe. Had she really thought she was safe, t
hat she could ever be safe from him? Dear God, whoever that woman was, she wasn’t safe either. Why did he call her? What did he want? What was she going to tell Marti? Once again, Marti would have to save her. There was no way she could save herself. She didn’t even know how to try.

  DeVonte sang “The Sound of Music” to a reggae beat as he drove back to Chicago. Traffic was light. He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel as he drove. He did not think of Lynn Ella until he turned onto the street where he lived. Did she sense what he was going to do to her and her mother and her sister as well? If he could find her sister. Kim’s whereabouts still eluded him. It had taken almost four months to locate Iris. She wasn’t a MacAlister anymore. She had gotten married in Indiana. Her name was now Iris Mary O’Neill. She had kept her middle name but dropped MacAlister, although it was on her marriage application, a more detailed document than a marriage license.

  It hadn’t taken him long to think of marriage records, but there was nothing in Chicago. He had tried Milwaukee next, then St. Louis, then Nashville. Then he decided on points closer to home rather than the nearest big cities: Gary, South Bend, Mishawaka. He had found the record of Iris’s marriage in Valparaiso, Indiana, a college town of all places. That was also where she applied for a Social Security card.

  Finding her was easy, once he had the right name. Marti MacAlister’s sister-in-law was locked up in a nuthouse downstate. She would be released on Sunday and he would be there to meet her. Iris and her daughters were the means by which he would gain what he wanted, Sharon’s money and MacAlister’s death.

  Sharon would go to her oldest and dearest friend, Marti. She would need Marti to rescue her again. When he was ready for Marti to come after him, Sharon would be the bait in the trap. For a moment he thought of the man in the woods. He had seen him with the woman. Just a bum, he reminded himself, but he had killed men before who had noticed too much.