I managed to key three words. An address. Hit send. Pocketed the phone. Then, blade angled backward and down, I tiptoe-ran back to the hall.
Light slivered the jamb and across the bottommost edge of the door. Yellow, steady. A low-wattage bulb, not a candle.
Shrinking inside my own skin as much as I could, I began inching forward. Two steps. I paused, straining for signs of another presence.
Only the hum of the refrigerator and the drumbeat of rain.
Three steps.
Three more.
Tightening my grip on the knife, I closed the final two feet. Stepped to the side of the door and pressed my back to the wall.
Every nerve a heated wire, I extended my free arm and pushed with a back-turned palm. No theatrical Hitchcock sound-effect creak. Just a noiseless re-angling of the door on its hinges. A slo-mo reveal of the room. I scanned the contents.
A twin bed, all done up in pink. A dresser with a ballerina princess lamp. A rocker stuffed with animals and dolls. A desk. Above it, a bulletin board layered with photos, news clippings, and memorabilia.
It looked like the room of a teenage girl.
My eyes probed the blackness in the corners and under the dresser and desk. The edges of bed skirt. A door I assumed gave on to a closet.
I listened for breathing. The soft whisper of fabric.
Heard nothing. The room was empty.
My gaze reversed. Swept more slowly. Came to rest on the bulletin board.
My brain did a cerebral cinematic zoom.
My chest tightened.
No! I was mistaken. It was a trick of the meager lighting.
I shook my head. As if that would help.
Front teeth pressing hard on my lower lip, I crossed to the board and stared at the photo.
Anique Pomerleau gazed up from her barrel, eyes blank, blond hair wrapping her skull like a shroud.
I took an involuntary step backward. Maybe to distance myself from the evil I sensed. Maybe to avoid contaminating the scene.
A box sat dead center on the desktop. Old, carved, the knob on its cover darkened by the touch of many hands. Or the touch of just one.
Careful to avoid contact, I inserted the tip of the knife into the narrow space surrounding the lid. Levered up. Then, fast as lightning, I caught the lid’s underside and flipped it free.
The box was full. Too full to disclose what lay in its depths. But one object sent blood surging into my head.
The uppermost item was a ballet slipper. In size and color, a perfect match for the one found in Hamet Ajax’s trunk. Lizzie Nance’s.
The slipper rested atop two photos. Me in a lab coat measuring a skull. Me entering the annex at Sharon Hall. My home.
My thoughts began racing. Emotions. Fear. Rage. Mostly rage.
Where was Slidell?
Where was Hull?
I closed my eyes. Felt heat at the backs of my lids.
No tears! Get more help! Find Mary Louise!
Using my iPhone, I shot two pics. Then, no longer concerned about stealth, I raced back to the kitchen, set the knife on the counter, yanked off my jacket, and wrapped it around my hand. Deep breath. I opened the freezer.
Popsicles. Fish sticks. Bagels. Lasagna.
Ziplocs containing hair and flesh. Vials of blood-red ice.
My stomach did something gymnastic. A bitter taste filled my mouth. I pivoted and took two shaky steps. Steadied myself on the sink with a jacket-swaddled hand.
When the nausea passed, I raised my eyes to the window. Saw a rain-blurred distortion of my face.
Beyond the glass, a streetlight, not five feet distant. Power lines crisscrossed its misty glow, casting spiderweb shadows on a patch of gravel below.
On a striped bucket hat with a tassel on top.
CHAPTER 42
THE SHOCK MORPHED into a bloodlust of which I would have thought myself incapable. A savage hatred I’d never experienced.
I wanted the bitch.
And I knew where to find her.
The picture in the box.
Was it a mistake? Or a plea to end the insanity? Perhaps bait to lure me into a deadly trap?
I didn’t care. I knew she’d gone to find me. I texted Hull again.