The 7th Victim - Alan Jacobson [73]
They started walking again. “Didn’t help that the day after I got back I caught a new case, one of the first I profiled on my own. Vic’s body was dumped on a forest floor just like this one. Kind of killed the image for me. Haven’t been able to look at pine trees the same way since.” She opened her hand and let the needles fall to the ground.
Robby reached into his pocket and produced a Swiss Army knife, then bent down and chose a short, thick branch. Vail reluctantly took the knife and immediately began clearing the nubs from the stick.
“I didn’t know you liked to carve.”
“Since I was about ten. See these?” She lifted her left hand and showed him several thin, short, barely visible scars on her fingers. “Cut myself lots of times. My father even took me to the ER for stitches once. It was a nasty bleeder.”
“I take it your father passed on.”
“Long time ago. I was twelve. Came home from school and my mom told me he’d had a heart attack. Died in the ambulance.” She stopped carving and stared at the dark landscape ahead of her. “I wonder how Jonathan is.”
“Want to call the hospital?”
She shook her head. “I gave them my cell number. I told them, anything happens, I want to know.” She tossed the stick to the ground and closed the knife, handed it to Robby. “Let’s go in.”
They got back to the house and found Emma seated in front of the television, watching the blank screen intently. Vail took her by the hand. “Come on, Ma. Let’s go make dinner.”
THE KITCHEN APPLIANCES were the same ones installed when the house had been built. With the exception of the countertop microwave, they were all from the aluminum and Bakelite era. An old pink Frigidaire hummed against the far wall.
Vail found a large pot in the cabinet, where her mom had always kept it. She placed it in the sink and turned on the faucet. “Do you still see Aunt Faye?”
“Yes, of course. She comes by and we have tea.”
“When was the last time you saw her?”
“Oh, it’s been a while, I guess. You know how it is with three kids. She’s busy, busy, busy.”
Vail figured she would call her aunt after dinner, see about making temporary arrangements to have Emma stay with her until she could get her mother situated in an assisted care facility. Faye was her father’s sister, but the two women had remained close even after he had passed away.
The shifting in and out of lucidity was frustrating, and Vail felt an urgency to ask important questions while her mother was able to answer them. But under pressure, nothing came to mind.
Dinner was a conglomeration of spaghetti with Ragu sauce doctored with whatever Emma had in her pantry . . . which wasn’t much: stewed tomatoes, canned mushrooms, and a dash of garlic salt. After eating, Vail took Robby on a tour of the house. “Things are pretty much unchanged, if you can believe that,” she said. They walked into a small room on the second floor.
“Let me guess. Your room.”
A large, horizontal glass-faced cabinet was mounted on the far side of the room, which sported sunflower-yellow walls with pink trim.
“Obviously,” Robby said, surveying the dolls behind the glass, “you’re a collector.”
“I can tell you where I got each one.” She walked over to the cabinet and let her eyes roam over them—they ranged from tall to petite, porcelain to plastic—with the world’s ethnicities well represented. “Figured I’d give them to my daughter one day.”
“Until your girl came out a boy.”
A smile flitted across her lips. “Didn’t think Jonathan would appreciate them.”
Robby laughed. “I think you’re right.”
Vail slid the wall closet door aside and found a rolled poster on the top shelf. “It’s still here,” she said. She pulled off the rubber band and unfurled the yellow-aged