Playing Dead_ A Novel of Suspense - Allison Brennan [92]
He didn’t want them to suffer. He didn’t want Claire to suffer.
He put a blindfold over her eyes. She had the dark hair that Claire had, but not the blue eyes. He’d been in a rush, needing someone, and this one was close enough that he could pretend.
He was good at pretending. And he had the disks to play in the background. As a reminder.
But the blindfold wasn’t just to cover her eyes so he didn’t see them. He didn’t want her to see her fate. The first time . . . he still heard the first Claire’s screams, every day, and that was fourteen years ago . . .
He led the girl, naked under her white gown, to his garden. He breathed in the scent of roses. All white roses, because those were the flowers Claire loved best.
He’d excavated the grave with his backhoe. He’d gotten quite proficient with it over the years. It hadn’t taken him long. The smell of fresh dirt mixed with the floral aroma and he smiled. This was his favorite place on earth. In his garden. Surrounded by Claires.
“Good-bye, Claire.”
He pushed her into the freshly dug grave, a scream coming from her chest, but without the power to project beyond the dirt walls of her eternal prison.
He walked over to the backhoe and turned the ignition. He refilled the grave.
It was better this way. They died quickly, within minutes he was pretty certain. And he didn’t have to touch or see their dead bodies.
He drove the backhoe back to its place next to the shed. With a hoe, he returned to the fresh dirt and smoothed it out. Then he planted a new rosebush at the head of Claire’s grave. Finally, he spread the rocks out so no one at a glance could tell that there were fourteen graves in his rose garden.
By the time he was done, he was physically tired but mentally alive. He returned to his house and checked the status of Claire’s Jeep. Still at her house. Good. It was late, he doubted she’d be going anywhere tonight.
He showered under scalding water, scrubbing the dirt from his pores. Then he turned the water icy cold, before stepping out. He dried off and walked downstairs, naked. Poured a glass of dark, rich cabernet. Then he went back to his bedroom and lay naked on his bed, the air moved by the ceiling fan caressing his body. He turned on his special disk. Claire filled the screen. A teenage Claire nude in her old bedroom, standing in front of the closet trying to decide what to wear. He watched her dress and undress for hours, working himself up into a frenzy.
“You’re mine, Claire. I protected you. You’d be dead if it weren’t for me. Dead!”
That’s why he knew he could kill her now without remorse. She should have died fifteen years ago. But when he saw her photograph, he knew he couldn’t kill her.
All these years, she had been living on borrowed time. Time he’d given her.
He was ready to take it back.
TWENTY-FIVE
Mitch’s cell phone woke him. 1:00 a.m. Good news never came after midnight.
It was a blocked number. “Bianchi.”
“This is Tom O’Brien.”
Mitch swung his legs over his bed, wide awake, and grabbed a pencil from the nightstand. Where was the paper? He’d put it there . . . he picked the pad off the floor.
“Where are you?”
“I’m surrendering tomorrow. I have a new attorney and she’s going to meet with the Sacramento district attorney in the morning. I was hoping you might be able to help.”
“I’ll do what I can. I can pick you up now—”
“No. I need a few things before I come in.”
“I can help—”
“I saw you watching Claire’s house the other morning.”
Shit. Tom O’Brien had been that close and Mitch hadn’t seen him! Hadn’t even felt him. Was he losing his touch? Or maybe he was just too preoccupied with Claire.
“It’s my job. To find you.”
“You almost had me a couple times. After the warehouse shoot-out you were right on my heels most of the way north. Sheer luck had you looking