Текст книги "Malevolent"

Автор книги: Jana Deleon

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MALEVOLENT

by Jana DeLeon

Copyright 2015 by Jana DeLeon

Published by Jana DeLeon

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

Three blind mice. Three blind mice.

See how they run. See how they run.

They all ran after the farmer’s wife

Who cut off their tails with a carving knife.

Did you ever see such a sight in your life

As three blind mice?

Prologue

Algiers Point, Orleans Parish

June 8, 2015

Emma Frederick bolted upright in bed, her pulse racing. She blinked, unsuccessfully trying to make out anything in the dark room. Storm clouds forming had completely eclipsed the moon, leaving the inside of the house as pitch black as the lawn outside. And a lamp was out of the question. At least for now.

She desperately wanted to dismiss her reaction as the result of a bad dream, but she knew that was a lie. She’d barely fallen asleep when something sent her heart into the stratosphere. She sat perfectly still, holding her breath, praying that her fear was a result of PTSD or an anxiety attack. Seconds ticked slowly by, each one met with absolute silence, and her pulse began to decrease.

Slowly, she let out her breath, feeling some of the tension leave her shoulders and back. It was nothing. Just her overactive imagination or screwed-up mental state. Or both. She wished things would get back to normal. Whatever that looked like.

Crrrrreeeeeaaaaaaakkkkkkk.

The sound of the loose step on the interior stairwell sent her body back into overdrive. The night was still. The storm clouds hung over the house, but right now, it was the calm before the storm. No wind at all. Just overwhelming New Orleans humidity. Nothing to cause the old house to make noise on its own.

Someone was coming up the stairs.

She launched into action, silently sliding off the bed and onto the rug. She rose up on her knees and pulled the covers up to make it look as if the bed had not been occupied, then crawled along the carpet runner until she reached the closet. The well-oiled door had been left open a crack, and she pulled it back enough to enter, then crawled inside, closing the door behind her. She pushed her way through the bottoms of several low-hanging dresses and slid the hidden panel on the back wall to the side. She lowered herself a bit more and crawled through the small cutout and into the black space beyond.

Damn it! 

She froze for a moment, cursing herself for forgetting her pistol under her pillow. She’d practiced this at least ten times the day before. Why didn’t she get it right?

It was too late to go back for the gun now, so she continued along her escape route. The room behind the closet ran the twelve-foot length of the bedroom but was a narrow three feet wide. It had seemed enormous when she was five years old, but twenty years later, it felt as if the walls were closing in on her, slowly sucking the air out of the room. She inched her way to the far end of the pitch-black space and huddled against the wall, waiting.

The master bedroom was the first bedroom the intruder would come to. That’s where he would expect to find her. She’d left the bed linens in that room rumpled and the window next to the master bathroom toilet opened a crack. A huge oak tree stood just outside, an enormous branch creating a wooden walkway almost right up to the side of the house. A moderately athletic person would have no trouble getting out that window and into the tree. Emma was more than capable of doing it and hoped her intruder thought so as well.

The screech of old hinges echoed through the house and she knew he’d pushed open the door to the master bedroom. She forced herself to breathe normally, in and out, in and out, trying to keep her mind clear and ready to react if her ruse didn’t work. Every second that passed, she prayed she’d hear retreating steps on the stairwell, but when the next sound came, she realized he was coming down the hall to the bedroom she’d been sleeping in. Her childhood bedroom.

Her pulse spiked and her head suddenly felt lighter. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, then slowly let it out, trying to force the dizziness away. The door to the bedroom creaked open and she heard him step inside. She clenched her hands, feeling her nails digging into the soft skin on her palms. One second, two seconds, three. How long was he going to stand there? She heard another footstep and prayed that he was leaving, and then it started.

So low and light that at first, she thought she was imagining it.

But then the whistling grew stronger.

Three blind mice. Three blind mice.

Both hands flew up and she clenched her mouth, stifling the scream that was straining to get out.

It couldn’t be him.

See how they run. See how they run.

She knew it was impossible, but she had to be sure. Had to prove to herself that it was someone else. Before she could change her mind, she removed one hand from her mouth and used it to push herself up from the floor. Inch by inch she rose until she was standing straight up. She couldn’t see a thing in the inky black, but she knew where to find the plug she’d carefully placed in the wall the day before. She ran her hand over the wall until she felt the surface variation.

She removed her other hand from her mouth and used both to gently ease the tiny plug from the wall. Leaning forward, she placed her eye right up to the hole and peered into the bedroom. A penlight flashed a beam across the bed, then toward the closet. A dark figure moved along the path of the penlight, only a faint outline of his body visible. She held her breath as he opened the closet door. If he found her hiding place, it was all over.

Sweat formed on her brow and the drops of salty liquid ran into her eyes, making them burn. The closet door closed, and she could have wept with relief. The footsteps continued across the floor and she saw the shadowy figure moving back toward the hallway. She blinked to try to clear her blurry vision, straining to make out something that would tell her who he was.

As he started to leave the bedroom, someone slammed a car door, and he looked back. At that exact moment, the storm clouds parted enough to let a sliver of moonlight into the room, and his face was illuminated.

Her body went completely rigid and her heart pounded so hard she thought her chest would burst. Warm urine ran down her leg and trickled onto the floor around her feet. It couldn’t be him. It wasn’t possible.

She’d killed him last month.

Chapter One

New Orleans French Quarter

June 10, 2015

Shaye Archer looked around her empty apartment and felt a ripple of excitement and fear run through her. This was one of those big moments in a young woman’s life—when she left home and struck out on her own—but for Shaye, it wasn’t just big. It was monumental.

Are you sure you’re ready?

Doubt sneaked into her thoughts, as it had since she’d made an offer to purchase the apartment last month. She shook her head and pushed the negative thoughts aside. She’d mulled over this and little else for the past year. She had her bachelor’s degree in hand, her private investigator’s license issued, her business license, three years of experience, and the financial means to start her own agency. It was time. Every decision she’d made for the last six years had been about getting to this moment.

You can do this.

She smiled. That was more like it.

Now all she needed was her furniture and clothes and bathroom supplies and a host of other things coming her way on a moving truck, and she’d be in business. Literally.

She cast a critical eye at the front room of the apartment. It was a good-sized room, and its original hardwood floors, brick accent wall, and fireplace gave it a homey feeling. It was supposed to be a living room, but Shaye had other plans for the space. Clients would feel comfortable in this cozy room, and Shaye would feel comfortable having them here, rather than traipsing them through the apartment to the spare bedroom. No, this was definitely the best option for her office. All she had to do was find the right furniture for the space and she was good to go.

A horn sounded out front and she jumped, then immediately grew frustrated with herself for being so touchy.

You’re in the French Quarter. There’s going to be a lot of noise.

Much more than she was used to when tucked away in the back bedroom of her adoptive mother’s huge historical home in the Garden District. The only sounds that drifted into her bedroom there were made by the lawn crew who arrived every Wednesday morning to work their magic on the beautifully landscaped yard. The noise level in the heart of New Orleans would be both higher and different. In a couple of weeks, she’d be adjusted to the nuances of her new home and everything would be back to normal. She just needed to be patient. Not her strong point.

She headed to the front door and swung it open as the moving truck eased up to the curb. Her initial plan had been to throw her clothes in a duffel bag and a couple of boxes and haul it all over in her SUV, but her mother, Corrine, had insisted Shaye take her bedroom furniture and the couch and tables from her sitting room. Shaye couldn’t find a good argument against that plan. She’d chosen all the furniture herself, and it was good quality. It would last her a long time, and taking it with her allowed her to eliminate one more thing from her long list of things to do.

Hence the need for the moving truck.

Two young, athletic men jumped out of the cab and rolled up the back door of the truck.

“This is a great location,” one of them said, and smiled.

“Thanks,” she replied, but didn’t return the smile. He’d been trying to flirt with her since they arrived at her mother’s house to load, but Shaye didn’t want to give him any indication that she would consider him an option. Men were at the top of her list of things not to do. Not now. Maybe not ever. The idea of sharing her daily life and thoughts, especially her past, with someone other than Corrine caused a rise of panic in her that hadn’t diminished yet. She wasn’t sure it ever would.

One step at a time.

Shaye could hear Eleonore’s words echoing in her mind, and as much as they annoyed her, she also knew her psychiatrist’s sentiment was right. She sighed. It was beyond frustrating when things you didn’t like were also your reality.

“Where do you want the living room furniture?” one of the movers asked.

She directed him inside and showed him the dining area off the kitchen that would serve as living and dining. If it weren’t for Corrine’s forcing her to a table most evenings, Shaye would have eaten every meal curled up on the couch in front of a television, and now that she didn’t have anyone else to consider, that’s exactly what she planned to do.

The men made quick work of the furniture, expressed their thanks at the generous tip she gave them, then headed off. Shaye pulled her long, dark brown hair back into a ponytail and looked around the kitchen/dining areas trying to figure out the best arrangement for the two end tables. Only one fit next to the couch. The other would stick out into the walkway, so she moved it over to a corner. She could put a lamp on it and call it done…claim the minimalist look. Whatever kept her from dusting too often.

“Hello?” A woman’s voice sounded from the front of the apartment.

Shaye frowned and stepped through the doorway from the kitchen into her future office. A young woman with auburn hair and pale skin stood in the doorway, clutching the door handle and looking nervously around.

“Can I help you?” Shaye asked, figuring the woman was lost.

“Are you Shaye Archer?”

Shaye hesitated a second before answering. “Yes.” She wasn’t expecting company, and she’d never seen this woman before.

“My name is Emma Frederick. I, uh…I think I have a problem that needs a detective. Your website gave this as your office address…”

Shaye’s puzzlement switched to amazement. When she’d launched her website two days before, she hadn’t anticipated clients before she’d even gotten them a chair to sit on. But then, she hadn’t anticipated clients showing up at her front door without an appointment, either. Apparently, there were a lot of things she hadn’t expected when setting up her business.

“You’re in the right place,” Shaye said. “I’m just moving in today and some of the furniture hasn’t arrived yet.”

Emma’s expression shifted to disappointment. “Oh, well, I can come back. Can I make an appointment?”

Shaye started to say yes and schedule something for next week when everything would be in better shape, but then she took a closer look at Emma. Her hand on the doorknob shook, and with her other hand, she pulled at the bottom of her blouse. Two threads stuck out and the hem in one spot sagged a tiny bit. Her skin, while pale naturally, wasn’t only naturally pale right now. It was beyond that, almost blanched.

Emma Frederick was scared.

“No, please,” Shaye said. “Come in. There’s a couch in the living room, and I have my laptop to make notes.”

Emma hesitated a second, then stepped inside, closing and locking the door behind her. She followed Shaye into the living area and took a seat at the end of the couch where Shaye indicated.

“I would offer you a drink,” Shaye said as she grabbed her laptop from the kitchen counter, “but I don’t even have a cup unpacked yet.”

“That’s okay,” Emma said. “I’m too nervous to drink anything. I guess you noticed.”

Shaye pulled the end table she’d just stuck in the corner over to the middle of the room across from Emma and sat on it. “Right now, you’re in the safe zone,” she said, repeating the words Eleonore had said to her so many times. “Tell me about your problem.”

“I think I’m being stalked.”

“You think?”

“Yes. No. I mean, I’m sure I’m being stalked.”

Emma’s responses grew more hesitant, and Shaye knew she was reconsidering being here at all. Shaye’s heart went out to the woman. Her confusion and fear were things Shaye understood all too well.

“Do you have any idea who’s stalking you?” Shaye asked.

Emma nodded. “It looked like my husband.”

Okay, Shaye thought. At least they were moving into normal territory. Spousal stalking was far more common than people might think, and often deadly. “I assume you’re separated?”

“Not exactly.”

Shaye’s back tightened. If Emma had felt she had no other option left other than running away, and her husband had found her, the situation could be even more dire than Shaye had originally thought. “Are you hiding from him, and you think he’s found you?”

“I…no.” Emma took a deep breath and blew it out. “You see, I killed my husband last month.”

Shaye blinked. Surely she’d heard incorrectly. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”

“That makes two of us.”

“Maybe you should start at the beginning.”

Emma nodded. “I met my husband, David Grange, a little over a year ago at a party in the French Quarter. I had just moved back to the area from Dallas. I got a scholarship to nursing school there and stayed for a couple years for a great job that I got after graduation, but the city never fit, if you know what I mean. So I packed up my car and headed back home to NOLA. David was an army sergeant stationed at Fort Polk and was in New Orleans for the weekend. He was charming and handsome, and we had a whirlwind courtship. We married just six weeks after we met.”

“Grange? You didn’t change your last name?”

“No. Given my professional licenses and contacts, it was easier to keep my maiden name.”

Shaye typed some notes on her laptop as Emma talked, trying to fathom marrying someone she’d known for only six weeks. Imagining herself married was a big enough stretch, but the six weeks thing had her completely stumped.

“The first six months were great,” Emma said. “David worked four days on base and then could be here for three. We lived in an apartment here in the French Quarter. I’m an RN at New Orleans General in critical care, so I scheduled my shifts to match his. It didn’t always work out, but we spent as much time together as possible. We never fought. Never even argued, not about anything important.” She paused for several seconds and appeared to be gathering her thoughts. “Then he was deployed to Iraq. When he returned, he was different. Nothing that you could specifically point to at first, but I could feel it the moment he arrived.”

Emma gave Shaye a sad smile. “I suppose it sounds melodramatic, but I don’t know how else to describe it.”

“I understand what you’re saying,” Shaye said. Shaye had a finely honed ability to zoom in on any difference in someone she knew. She only had to glance at Corrine when she walked in from work to know if her daily dose of stress had been from her caseload as a social worker or the bureaucracy she continually railed against, but Shaye doubted anyone else noticed the same subtleties that she did.

“While he was deployed,” Emma continued, “some things changed here. My aunt passed away, and I inherited her home in Algiers Point. My parents died in a car accident when I was five, and my aunt raised me. She was my parents’ only living relative and she never married, so she was the whole extent of my family.”

“I’m sorry. That must be hard.”

“Thank you. I spoke with David, of course, and we both agreed that selling the house was foolish. More people were moving to Algiers and restoring the old homes. Property values were starting to rise and were only going to get higher. Besides, I had no intention of leaving Louisiana again, and Algiers is a short ferry ride from the French Quarter. After Iraq, David’s time in was over and he would be home for good.”

“So when David returned, you’d already moved to the house in Algiers Point?”

Emma nodded. “After our tiny apartment in the French Quarter, I thought he’d be happy with the space we now had. It’s a beautiful old house and my aunt was meticulous about maintaining it, but he was totally disinterested. It was as if he’d walked into a hotel room rather than his own home. Before he deployed, he used to always talk about finding a place with a garage so that he could work on old cars. It was a huge interest of his, but when I showed him the oversize garage, he barely nodded, then went back inside and sat in front of the television the rest of the day.”

“PTSD?”

“Probably. Given my profession, I’ve seen it before, but every time I made an attempt to get him to talk, either to me or to a professional, he shut me down.” She took a deep breath and blew it out. “Then he got mean. It was subtle at first—insults that he claimed were just joking—but it progressed to direct and abusive. When he hit me, I knew I had to get away from him. If you could have seen the look on his face…the absolute rage. I knew, that given time, he would kill me.”

“Did you go to the police?”

“Yes. I did everything by the book. I’ve worked enough emergency room shifts to know the drill. Everything was documented, then I got a restraining order, and the judge ordered him off the property. Since it was inherited, he had no claims to it.”

“I’m going to take a guess that he didn’t feel the same way.”

“You guessed right. The police hauled him away in handcuffs, but he was out the next day.”

“Did he come after you?”

“Not like you’d think. He was smart about it. He knew the exact distance he had to remain from the property. Every morning, on my way to work, he was standing on the same street corner, just far enough away from the house to keep him from being arrested, watching me as I drove by.” She crossed her arms and shivered. “The worst part was the smile.”

“He was enjoying torturing you.”

“Yes, and there was nothing I could do about it.”

“What about David’s family or friends? Couldn’t they help?”

“He told me he didn’t have any family living. Every time I asked him about his childhood, he clammed up and refused to talk. I got the impression it wasn’t very good. He always said I was his family and his future, and that’s all that mattered. As for friends, he didn’t really have any. Not close, anyway. He’d been in the military for eight years, but the guys he knew there were either still serving or had gotten out and scattered to their home states. Sometimes he went for a beer after work with coworkers, but there wasn’t anyone close to him. Except me, and now I wonder if I was ever as close as I thought.”

“Given a probable bad childhood and the strain of combat, you might have been the only person he let in.”

“Maybe so, but looking back, I don’t feel like I got very far. I realize I didn’t know him for very long before we married, but I swear, I didn’t see any signs of the complete turnaround he did. I’m trained to notice these things, and I’m far too practical to have stuck my head in the sand because I was in love.” She blew out a breath. “I’m sure you know the facts about stalkers.”

Shaye nodded. “If they want to get to you, they eventually will. A piece of paper is little defense against obsession. You have to be prepared to protect yourself.”

“And I was. I knew how to shoot a pistol, so I dragged my aunt’s out of her closet and made sure it was in working order. I loaded it and kept it on me, even at the hospital. I knew it was illegal, but I figured I’d rather take my chances with the police than walking across a dark parking garage without protection.”

“I don’t blame you.”

“I thought I was being safe, but as it turns out, the gun didn’t protect me at all.”

Emma stopped talking and her jaw flexed. Shaye knew it was hard—telling someone the worst thing that had ever happened to you. Reliving every moment. Every moment that felt like a year.

“How did it happen?” Shaye asked, hoping the prompt would push Emma past the mental block she’d constructed to protect herself.

Emma stared at the wall behind Shaye. “I was cooking. It was my day off and it was sunny with a cool breeze. The kitchen window was open and I remember a lawn mower running somewhere nearby. I didn’t hear David come in, but I’ll never forget that moment when I knew he was there. I had just finished washing a cucumber in the sink and was about to slice it when the whistling started.”

“Whistling?”

Emma swallowed hard and nodded. “‘Three Blind Mice.’ When he came back from Iraq, he’d whistle it every time…every time he changed into the monster.”

Shaye frowned as she made a note. Professionalism required her to be objective and focused on the facts, but she couldn’t deny that was creepy as hell. “I can’t imagine…” She started her reply but stopped when she realized she was being disingenuous. Shaye might not be able to imagine exactly how Emma felt, but she had a damned good idea.

“It was the most terrifying moment of my life,” Emma said. “Even more horrifying than when I killed him.” She looked directly at Shaye. “When I have nightmares, I don’t see his death. I only see that sink, the water still running, the knife in the bottom—stainless steel gleaming against white porcelain. I feel my pulse racing, the blood draining from my face, my hands shaking, my heart pounding in my chest that’s constricted so tight I can’t take in even the smallest of breath. And then I hear the whistling. I wake up screaming, soaked with sweat, sometimes violently ill.”

Shaye felt her back tighten and her pulse tick up a notch as Emma talked. She knew all about those kind of dreams—the kind where you lived everything as if it were happening over and over again. The kind that made you wish, in the darkest moments, that you’d just drift on to the never-ending dreamless kind of sleep.

Emma shifted on the couch and shook her head. “I’m sorry. That’s not the kind of information you need.”

“I’m here to listen to anything you want to tell me,” Shaye said.

Emma shot her a grateful look. “I couldn’t move. Not at first, but then he grabbed my shoulder. His fingers dug into my skin and I’m sure it hurt, but I don’t remember anything except the rage that coursed through me. Anger and fear and a million other emotions that all arrived at the same conclusion—he was there to kill me.”

Shaye nodded, no doubt in her mind that Emma was right.

“I felt the cold, hard butt of the pistol as he pressed it to my temple,” she said. “I actually saw it, just like everyone says, my life flashing before me. I always thought it was a cliché, but it was real, my dad teaching me how to ride a bicycle, the mermaid cake my mom made for my fifth birthday. It was all there, for one suspended second, and then it was gone.”

She leaned forward on the couch and looked Shaye directly in the eyes. “I was going to die.”

“So you had nothing to lose.”

Emma nodded. “David was an expert martial artist. While he was away, I started studying kung fu. I never told him because I wanted it to be a surprise. With only six months of lessons, I’m not very good…”

“But you caught him by surprise.” Shaye’s respect for Emma ticked up another notch. Most people would have frozen, died right there in front of the sink, too frightened to even raise a hand.

“I lifted the knife from the sink, praying as my fingers curled around the handle. As soon as I had it in my grip, I ducked and whirled around, knocking the pistol out of his hand with my arm, and sliced his throat with the knife.”

Emma’s voice broke on the last words and she sniffed. “I knew what I was doing…with the knife.”

“Because you’re a nurse.”

“Yes. I severed the carotid on the right side of his neck. His eyes were so big, his entire expression one of disbelief. He flung his hands over his throat. The blood squirted out from between his fingers. I…I knew it would be a lot. I’ve seen that artery nicked and it was bad, but I didn’t expect…”

“No amount of education could prepare you for something like that.”

“But I’m a nurse. I know…”

“You know what the body is supposed to do, but you couldn’t know how you would react if you were the one who caused it. Your training is to treat injuries, not cause them.”

Emma’s eyes widened and Shaye silently cursed. “I’m sorry,” Shaye said. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“No. You didn’t upset me. Quite the contrary. I’ve been struggling to understand my reaction, my emotions, and I never thought about it that way. Thank you.” She shook her head. “It didn’t take long for him to lose consciousness. Probably only two or three minutes, but it seemed like forever. I was afraid to move, even for the phone, but when he finally passed out, I grabbed my cell phone and called 911.”

“How did the police handle it?”

“David was dead when they arrived. The clean cut coupled with the heightened emotional state maximized blood loss. The policemen who responded were thorough. One of them had taken my statement when I’d filed on David for the abuse. He was so kind. The other was less so—older and rather abrupt, but I didn’t care. I just wanted it all over.”

“Was there an investigation?”

“Yes, but it was short. Given the evidence, the prosecutor declined to press charges and I was free to get on with my life. As well as one can after, you know.”

“Give it time,” Shaye said, slightly aggravated at herself for repeating her psychiatrist’s words again. It was even more irritating when the woman was right.

“I know. I kept telling myself that, and for a couple of days, things started to ease a bit, enough to get a glimpse of normal. But then…”

“Tell me about the stalking.”

“At first, I didn’t think anything of it—an item out of place in my house, a noise outside in the middle of the night, a door open that I thought I’d closed. Noises happen, and given my mental state, it was completely reasonable to assume I’d moved or opened something and forgotten. But then I started feeling like I was being watched. I never saw anyone, but I could feel someone out there, hiding in the shadows.”

“What about your friends? Did they notice anything odd?”

“I don’t really have any close friends. I met David right after returning to New Orleans, and we spent all our available time together before he left for Iraq. My high school friends had all married and moved away. I went to the movies a couple of times with coworkers, but then my aunt died and all my free time was wrapped up in going through the house and getting it ready for David to come home.”

“Did you make a police report?”

“And tell them what? That I could feel someone watching me? I had no proof, and the only person who wanted to harm me was dead. They wouldn’t have taken me seriously. Hell, I wasn’t completely convinced myself. Not until two nights ago.”

“What happened?”

Emma told Shaye about the break-in. About hiding in the secret room behind the closet. About the whistling and seeing her husband in the glimmer of moonlight.

Shaye didn’t take a single note while Emma spoke. She didn’t even try. Every inch of her was right there with Emma in that secret room, peering through that tiny hole…seeing an impossible nightmare right there in front of her. When she finally finished, Emma collapsed in tears. Shaye jumped up and grabbed a paper towel from the roll on the counter and handed it to her.

Emma wiped her eyes and nose and sniffed for a minute more. Shaye sat back on the end table, feeling helpless and completely out of her element. She’d spent the past three years working for a local agency, earning her hours to get her license, but she’d never worked on anything with an emotional component, and certainly not a deadly one.