Kill Her Again (A Thriller) Read online

  “His name is Pope. Daniel Pope.”

  Anna felt a sudden prickle on the back of her neck. Had she heard him right?

  “The Daniel Pope? The same Daniel Pope whose wife—”

  “That’s the one,” Worthington said. “But when you meet him, you might not want to bring that up.”

  6

  IT WAS STILL dark when Pope got back to his room.

  The crisis with Anderson Troy, as petty as it was, had been artfully averted. While most practitioners of his craft were loath to admit it, it’s often possible for a skilled hypnotist to manipulate a subject’s thought processes through visualization and guided imagery.

  After putting Troy under again, Pope managed to feed him just enough details to get him to believe that the Nigel Fromme he’d Googled was an entirely different person. That Troy’s Nigel Fromme—whom Troy himself had eagerly conjured up—was a bad-ass London gangster whose untimely death had been the result of a hail of bullets fired almost point-blank as he was bedding a beautiful blond Sunday School teacher.

  With very large breasts. And no surprises, dangling or otherwise.

  Recall and imagination. A 10/90 mix.

  Pope walked away from this adolescent fantasy session feeling like a fraud, knowing he had broken nearly every tenet of his profession, but secure in the belief that Arturo wouldn’t be shoving a knife into his rib cage anytime soon, thus maintaining the sanctity of Troy’s plush white carpet.

  The things we do to stay alive.

  Not that Pope really had much of a life these days. But he did like being alive.

  Standing at his window now, he looked out at the desert darkness and at the distant cluster of squat gray buildings that had kept him company nearly every morning in recent memory:

  The Nevada Women’s Correctional Facility.

  Who in his right mind, he wondered, would think to build a hotel-casino so close to a prison compound?

  Then again, he couldn’t be sure which had come first. And it was almost as if the marriage had been arranged just for him, so that he could stand here on dark mornings, stare at those distant buildings, and wallow in his misery.

  He wondered if Susan was awake in her cell, thinking about what she’d become and how she’d gotten there.

  Thinking about Ben.

  Thinking about Pope.

  HE WAS JUST coming out of the shower, finally ready to crawl into bed, when his cell phone rang again.

  Hoping to Christ it wasn’t Sharkey, he snatched it up off his nightstand and checked the screen, surprised by the name he saw.

  J. T. Worthington.

  Cousin Jake.

  The two hadn’t spoken in months. Pope had halfheartedly invited Jake and Veronica out to the casino when the show first opened, but they’d never been able to make it. And in that last call, Pope had sensed a trace of disappointment in Jake’s voice. As if he thought Pope could do better. That the show was a frivolous enterprise. A waste of Pope’s time and talent.

  All of which were probably true.

  But then Pope wasn’t much interested in Jake’s opinion. He had little use for friends and family these days.

  After the tragedy hit the news, followed by the trial, the sentence, and all the nastiness that accompanied them, the people in his life had slowly begun to drift away.

  Thanks to the skewed logic of the many graceless TV pundits who chimed in, uninvited, with an opinion about Pope’s life (not to mention the lurid sensationalism of the tabloid press), some of his so-called friends had actually blamed him for the events that had started it all.

  And, who knows, maybe they were right.

  But he suspected that for those who really knew him, there was no ill will behind this gradual abandonment. After a while, trying to console the inconsolable simply becomes too much of a burden. And in the aftermath of that terrible ordeal, Pope had not exactly been the easiest guy to get along with.

  He was scarred. Tainted. A man addicted to distrust and personal failure.

  And as much as he’d like to blame it all on Susan, on what she’d done, he knew that a better man would have faced up to this particular challenge rather than to try to bury it with dope and cards and women.

  He was as much a prisoner as Susan was. A prisoner by choice, who had turned this room, this hotel, into his own private cell.

  He hadn’t been outside its doors in over a year.

  THE PHONE KEPT ringing, reminding Pope that he had a call to answer.

  He clicked it on, said, “This must be serious; you’re calling me at three in the morning. Is Ronnie okay?”

  “She’s fine. How are you, Danny?”

  “You know how many times I’ve been asked that question in the last two years? The answer never changes.”

  “You staying sober?”

  “I don’t drink.”

  “You know what I mean,” Jake said.

  The two of them had spent half their childhood in Ludlow County, California, smoking dope and experimenting with various recreational drugs. There’s not much else to do in the desert. But both had eventually lost interest in the stuff as life became more complicated. Careers and family will do that to you.

  When Pope lost both, however, the first woman whose company he sought was the blessed White Widow.

  “Are you asking me as an officer of the law, or a concerned relative? Although I’m not sure it really matters at this point.”

  “Come on, Daniel, knock it off. It’s me.”

  He and Jake had once been closer than brothers, but time and distance—whether it’s physical or emotional—has a way of eroding even the tightest relationships.

  Jake, however, was one of the few people who hadn’t given up on him.

  Pope sank to the bed, hearing the springs groan, letting himself relax a little. “Sorry, man. Being an asshole is a tough habit to break.”

  “Doesn’t have to be.”

  Pope shrugged. “Use it or lose it, I always say. What can I do for you?”

  “I wasn’t just asking before. I need to know if you’re straight.”

  “Why?”

  “You won’t like this, but I’ve got a case here I need some help with.”

  Pope sighed. He should have known. This wasn’t the first time he’d heard such a request, and he hated it whenever Jake tried to drag him back into his old life. That had been its own kind of prison.

  After the murder, he’d tried to fit in, to resume his work at the clinic and with the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department, but had felt like a man who had gained too much weight and was still trying to wear his old clothes.

  “I’m not interested,” he said.

  “Come on, Danny. It’s important. I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t.”

  “Sure you would. You’ve been trying to save me from myself since I was twelve years old.”

  “Obviously I’ve failed.”

  Pope smiled. “Now look who’s the asshole.”

  “You need to snap out of this, my friend. Start circulating again. Use that big brain of yours.”

  “I do, twice a night, starting at nine p.m. Not that you’d know.”

  “Actually, I would,” Jake said.

  “Oh? How so?”

  “One of our deputies, a kid named Chavez, drove out to see your show a while back, brought us a DVD of the night’s festivities. You had him up onstage, howling like a goddamn coyote.”

  “That one always goes over big with the tourists.”

  Now it was Jake’s turn to sigh. “What the hell are you doing with yourself, Danny?”

  “Surviving,” Pope said.

  “Existing,” Jake countered. “You can’t let this thing rule you forever. There’s a saturation point.”

  “Then I guess I haven’t reached it yet. How many times do we have to do this before you finally get the message?”

  “And how many times do I have to ask before you finally say yes? This is a bad one. Three people dead, a little girl missing, and a brother who�
�s in a bad way. I hate to tell you who he reminds me of.”

  Pope stiffened. “Then don’t.”

  “He’s about the same age, Danny. Got the same eyes.”

  “Fuck you,” Pope said, shifting his thumb to the kill button—

  —“Don’t hang up. I know you want to, but don’t do it.”

  Pope hesitated, not sure why. He had every right to drop the hammer on this conversation. Jake knew this was a touchy subject.

  “He may be the only one who can tell us what happened to the girl, but he’s in shock, having memory problems. We need somebody out here as quickly as possible and I figured you’d be awake. And I definitely know you’re the best man for the job.”

  “Not anymore,” Pope said.

  “I don’t believe that. I know the old Danny’s in there somewhere. We just need to wake him up.”

  “So . . . what? Poke him with a stick and hope he doesn’t snap at you? That’s expecting too much, Jake.”

  “For Christ’s sake, all we’re talking about is a couple hours of your time.”

  Pope hesitated again, trying to push back the image that was suddenly crowding his mind: Ben giggling at the breakfast table as he purposely dribbled milk down his chin.

  Every instinct Pope possessed told him to turn Jake down, just as he had a dozen times before. But that image seemed to have grabbed hold of him and wouldn’t allow him to form the words.

  Finally he said, “I won’t come to you. You’ll have to bring him here.”

  “Come on, Danny, I’ve got an investigation to run and a restless feeb up my—”

  “Take it or leave it,” Pope said. “And all you get is two hours.”

  “All right, all right, hold on.”

  Pope heard the sound of a hand muffling the receiver. After a long moment of silence, Jake came back on the line. “You’ve got a deal. The medic is checking him over right now, but somebody’ll be out there with him as soon as possible. I’ll call you back with the details.” He paused. “And Danny? Thanks for this.”

  Pope pressed the kill button.

  7

  “I GOTTA TELL you,” Chavez said. “The guy’s pretty freaky. Lotta people go to the show because of the tabloids and all, but he’s definitely the real deal. Had a bunch of us up onstage doing all kinds of crazy stuff.”

  It was close to four now and they were rolling along what seemed like another endless highway. Anna sat in the backseat of the deputy’s patrol car, only half-listening to his words and to the faint squawk of the two-way radio.

  “I wouldn’t’ve believed it if I hadn’t watched the DVD myself,” Chavez continued. “Guy put me under but good.”

  Despite what she’d seen tonight, despite all the blood and the drama with Royer and Worthington and little Evan Fairweather—who sat pressed up against her now—there was one thing that clung to Anna’s mind. Something Royer had said:

  Sideshow psychic.

  Anna had seen a few psychics on TV in her time and had never given them much thought.

  But Royer’s words tonight had stirred something in her brain.

  A revelation of sorts.

  Over the years, Anna had forgotten many things about her childhood, but one thing she’d always remember was her mother’s belief that there are people out there who possess certain powers. People whose minds are tuned into some cosmic frequency that broadcasts information the rest of us aren’t privy to. Events from the past, the present—and even the future.

  Anna’s education—hell, her common sense—had taught her to doubt such things, but considering what she’d been going through the last few weeks, she had to wonder, could her mother have been right? Do true psychics exist?

  She thought of the lullaby she’d sung to Evan, the sadness of the melody, the prophetic words, as if they had been written with an eye toward some predetermined future and a desire for release:

  Every little star

  Way up in the sky

  Calls me

  What had her mother been thinking about when she wrote those words? Did she know about the pain she’d one day have to endure? That she’d be leaving this world sooner than most? Could she see things, predict things, that others couldn’t?

  And, by extension, what about Anna?

  Could these visions she’d been having, these terrible glimpses of carnage, be some kind of ominous portent?

  The thought that she might have some otherworldly ability frightened her. But at least it was an explanation. And she desperately needed explanations, because the alternative was even more frightening.

  “There it is,” Deputy Chavez said, pointing toward a distant spot on the horizon. Anna could see bright lights flashing. A lot of them. “We’ll be there in a couple minutes.”

  THE PLACE WAS a dump.

  Chavez pulled the squad car to the curb in front of the lobby doors, which were flanked by large, stone palm trees in serious need of a new paint job. The sign over the doors read, in even more flashing bright lights: DESERT OASIS HOTEL-CASINO.

  “Oasis” was being generous.

  Gambling had never interested Anna. She’d been to a casino only once before in her life, in better days, when she was still working out of San Francisco. A suspect’s trail had led her and her partner to the Thunderhead Resort, a sprawling Native American golf and gambling mecca, about a two-hour drive outside of the city, that catered to high rollers and tour buses full of Gold Coast retirees. Although several years old, the hotel and casino were spotless, meticulously maintained, with even a touch of old-world elegance to them.

  The Oasis was the exact opposite. The kind of low-rent establishment that stirred up phantom smells the moment it came into view. Smells you just knew would assault you as soon as you stepped through its doors: mold and mildew mixed with several decades’ worth of cigarette smoke.

  Anna glanced down at Evan, who hadn’t said a word the entire drive. If only out of necessity, the boy seemed to have bonded with her, and it had been Worthington’s suggestion that she shepherd him to the Oasis.

  “I’ve gotta finish processing this crime scene,” he’d said. “And I have a feeling he’d be more comfortable with you.”

  Royer had initially objected, of course, but finally gave in, apparently having decided to wash his hands of anything to do with Special Agent Anna McBride.

  Which was fine with her. Anna welcomed the chance to get away from him. Away from the snide remarks, the judgmental stares.

  She knew she should have kept her mouth shut earlier, should have played along and been the good little soldier, but she’d been betrayed by her usual impulsiveness. She was a cliché—her own worst enemy—and reassignment to middle-of-nowhere South Dakota was looking more and more like a real possibility.

  Assuming, of course, she managed to hang on to her job at all.

  “Where are we?” Evan asked, finally breaking his silence. He had pulled away from Anna and was staring out at the flashing lights.

  “Disneyland,” Chavez told him as he killed the engine. “Disneyland for grown-ups.”

  Disneyland for losers, Anna thought.

  Maybe she’d fit right in.

  Evan shook his head. “I don’t want to go to Disneyland.”

  “It’s okay,” Anna said. “We won’t be here long. There’s someone who wants to meet you. Someone who can help us find Kimberly.”

  Evan brightened suddenly, peeking past Anna’s shoulder toward the lobby doors. “Is she here?”

  “No. But we’ll find her. I promise.”

  It was a promise she knew she shouldn’t make. If the man who had slaughtered the people in that house had taken Kimberly with him, then little Kimberly’s fate was all but sealed.

  “You want me to go in with you?” Chavez asked.

  “We’ll be fine,” Anna said, then popped her door open and climbed out.

  Scooping Evan into her arms, she carried him through the lobby doors, then set him down and took his hand.

  She hadn’t been wr
ong about the smell. Especially the cigarette smoke.

  Despite the early hour, the place was fairly active, and Evan stared wide-eyed at the rows of clanging slot machines and the mix of bleary-eyed tourists who filled the stools in front of them.

  A couple aisles over, a jackpot siren went off, and Evan flinched, grabbing Anna’s arm.

  “It’s okay,” she said, although she wasn’t quite sure that was true. Bringing the boy to Daniel Pope was not her first—or even last—choice, and parading him through this seedy environment didn’t much help. But she took his hand again, found an empty aisle, and guided him toward a glowing red sign that read: HOTEL REGISTRATION.

  They were about halfway to it, moving past a row of mostly empty blackjack tables, when a uniformed security guard stepped into their path.

  “Excuse me, ma’am. There are no children allowed in here.”

  Anna immediately brought her creds out. “I’m looking for one of your employees. A man by the name of Daniel Pope.”

  The guard’s eyebrows raised. “He in trouble?”

  “No. He’s expecting us. Where can I find him?”

  “He’s got a room in the residential section. Four-oh-eight. You’ll either find him there or in the poker room.”

  “And where’s this residential section?”

  The guard pointed toward a hallway near the registration desk. “Through there. Elevator on your left.”

  Anna nodded. “Thank you.”

  A few moments later, she and Evan were riding an excruciatingly slow elevator to the fourth floor, Evan squeezing her hand so tightly it was starting to go numb.

  “Is this where Kimmie is?” he asked.

  “No, dear. I told you, remember? We’re here to see Mr. Pope.”

  “Who’s he?”

  Before she could answer, the elevator lurched to a halt and the doors slid open, revealing a man in khaki pants and black Polo shirt leaning casually against the hallway wall as if he had been waiting for them.