The Innocent Girls: A completely gripping mystery and suspense thriller (Detective Casey White Book 2) Read online

  The killer kneeled as if to say a prayer. And like a painter preparing a fresh canvas, he brushed an area of her mother’s skin, cleaning it, and then took the knife to it. He began to draw, he began to carve.

  The dead don’t bleed, Lisa remembered hearing in a movie once. It was true too. Her mother was dead, the cuts appearing like carvings in the mottled rind of a pumpkin.

  Tiny barked, his voice monstrous and startling. His weight was too much as he squirmed free from her lap and jumped at the door, the signs of advanced arthritis gone, his front paws vaulting up in a push, revealing their hiding place. His barking came alive, saliva dripping from his lips. Lisa saw the killer stand to face them.

  Terror struck her deeply. She yanked Tiny, his hair coming free, shedding into her palms. He stayed on all fours, panting, and charged the door again. A footstep.

  Lisa was suddenly deaf, blood thrumming in her ears, her heart swelling in her throat, her bladder threatening to release. She took to the toilet, climbing atop the bowl’s lid and gripped the window. The attacker’s heavy footsteps rippled through the RV, the vibrations hitting her bare feet. He was coming for her. Tiny’s growls were furious as he incessantly pawed at the door’s corner. She glimpsed the makeshift doorstop, the rolled tubing saddled between the door and floor holding its place, but not for much longer.

  The window opened in a rushing motion. Ocean sounds and smells filled the bathroom. Bells and whistles and joyful roars came from the boardwalk.

  Jumping down, Lisa took hold of Tiny in a hug and pulled her companion toward the toilet, eager to push him through the window. She couldn’t leave without him. But he cried, whimpered, and wrestled against the hug until slipping free.

  “Please,” she begged, trying again. But he was too bulky, too heavy. He let out a cry, baring his teeth, and then snapped at her face. Instantly she dropped him, scared of him. In all her years, he’d never growled at her, never once bared his teeth or shown any type of aggression.

  It’s his arthritis, she justified sadly. I hurt him is all. I must have hurt him.

  As if agreeing, Tiny nosed her leg, his round eyes apologetic the way a dog’s eyes sometimes are. He was seeing her again and she fell next to him. Her heart broke.

  “I’m sorry. I can’t take you with me,” she whispered in his ear. Tiny lifted his paw, misunderstanding and playing an old trick he’d played a thousand times. “No, I don’t have any treats. I have to go.”

  Lisa climbed through the window’s tight opening, her arm catching on the metal frame, ripping open her skin. There was noise from the other side of the door, the killer’s voice reciting strange words. Panic urged her to move faster, to ignore the pain. Tiny went back to the door, barking, scratching at the panel, his nails digging into the flimsy vinyl.

  She got stuck then, her body stiff with fright, her waist latched sturdily onto the window’s sill. Behind her, Tiny’s feet scratched against the floor, his nails rapped on the toilet seat. He picked at her feet next, his teeth gently nipping at her toes, wanting to pull her inside the bathroom. Sweat covered her head and face, and with every muscle quaking, she lifted herself, shifting her body’s weight until she fell through the window. The ground came rushing at her like a high drop from an amusement ride, stone and sand crushing her hands and head as she tumbled into a somersault.

  Tiny’s barks went silent as her vision clouded. She got to her knees, wobbling. Her stomach threatened to empty, a sour taste rising in her throat. It passed, her thoughts swinging to her dog, and to get help.

  “Tiny,” she mumbled, staring overhead, his nails hitting the toilet seat again, his voice a whimper as he tried to follow. He stopped briefly, and then started again, another whimper and bark coming as Lisa clutched her chest.

  The night was dark. Without the city lights she could disappear within a few steps from the RV. With no shoes, no cell phone, Lisa knew she had to find help. But what if he was after her? She’d seen the killer. She’d seen what he’d done. Who could she trust?

  His voice returned. And with it came calmness, a serenity. He would know what to do. Lisa could go to him.

  Tiny’s cries were louder as he tried to follow her. For thirteen, Lisa was tall, and she could reach the window with one leap. She eased herself up to the window’s edge, but had no idea how this would work, how she would lift a dog weighing more than she did. She only knew she had to try.

  When she peeked into the bathroom, the killer was there, the pleated door shoved open, her doorstop discarded to the other side of the small room. In his arms, the killer held Tiny, his gloved hand gripping her dog’s face. A scream came. A vapid, empty sound, the horror cracking something fragile in her mind. Lisa dropped from the bathroom window, the air rushing past her, the stones and sand warm on her feet. And finally, she did what her father had told her to do. She ran.

  TWO

  I love the smell of freshly cut grass, of the walkways and roads after a spring rain, of gardens in bloom and of trees heavy with seasonal blossoms. My daughter loved this time of year too, her smile broad and dimpled, jumping excitedly from puddle to puddle like a butterfly working a row of flowers.

  Her father was less pleased with what the season had to bring. He worked a tenth or eleventh pull on the mower’s starter, cursing under his breath at the old oil guzzler, a junk heap held together by rusting bolts. The cutting blade had stuck, and the grass was still too wet from the brief thunderstorm.

  A distant rumble interrupted the birds singing, growling harshly as it bounced across the neighborhood, warning of another dark storm. I searched for threatening clouds, but the sky was clear. Hannah jumped into another puddle, her laughter pealing and the water splashing while her father muddled over the mower’s state. He disappeared behind our house then, leaving us alone, another thunderclap making me jump and consider going indoors.

  “Don’t get too wet,” I warned, the sky remaining strangely blue, the blades of grass around me seeming to grow before my eyes.

  Sunlight caught a charm from Hannah’s bracelet as she spun playfully like a ballet dancer. That’s when I saw the car at the top of our street: the color blazing red, its tires like claws chewing into the asphalt, the motor heaving with a thunderous boom.

  Panic seized me when I saw the piercing eyes, their sparkle like diamonds gleaming from behind a black windshield. The woman’s ice-blue stare instantly turned me cold, her face dead below the eyes, her skin stitched together in odd-shaped patches like a quilt. I knew the car, knew the woman inside too. And I knew she was here to steal my child. I screamed, “Hannah!”

  Hannah ignored me, her eyes stolen by the sight and the booming roar. Ronald was gone, so were the trees, so was everything except the lawn and the road. The car raced to meet Hannah, but I’d stop it this time, I’d take my child inside where it was safe. The lawn stretched into two, and then into three, the length of it growing. The car door opened its ugly mouth, Hannah laughing with delight as she climbed inside.

  “Hannah!” I screamed. I trudged through the tall grass, panting, toothless mouths sucking the shoes off my feet and leaving me to run barefoot. The blades climbed my legs and whipped the air, slicing my hands as I batted away their attack. I saw my girl’s eyes then, saw her warm smile, her pudgy fingers waving me a goodbye as the car’s door slammed shut. “Please don’t take my baby!”

  With a flash, the dream was gone. The woman and Hannah disappeared. I sat up in my bed, screaming, a coat of sweat sending a shiver through me. There were cries then, mine, as my heart broke just as it had so many times already. Like the woman’s face in my dream, my heart was a patchwork of stitched wounds, the seams nearly bursting with sorrow.

  All I could think was, I did this. I’d lost my child. I closed my mouth, silencing the nightmare and what came after, and checked the time. It was two in the morning. I was certain I’d never get back to sleep and cursed the dream for sentencing me to toss about until the day’s first sunlight crept through my window.

  I listened then for the woman’s laughter, holding my breath and the cries that wanted to come. I only heard ocean noises, the tranquility that came with my new beachfront apartment. The rolling and crashing of the waves unexpectedly lulled me closer to sleep, my eyelids heavy, although I still knew sleep would elude me. I’d lost count of the number of nights I’d woken sweaty and shivering, of the nightmares and the days of dark circles beneath my eyes. Perhaps I should have seen a psychologist, but I didn’t need a doctor to tell me what the dreams were about. They were about the guilt, about what I’d lost, and who should take the blame. The dreams were about losing Hannah.

  My phone’s ringer jolted me from wherever we go when falling asleep, stirring me to sit straight up in my bed, the clock showing it was already five in the morning. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes to check again, finding a small miracle of miracles. I’d actually slept a few hours.

  Checking my text messages, I found there’d been another nightmare last night, only it hadn’t been mine. It was born of reality rather than some dreamland. And it had ended in murder.

  THREE

  It’s a new summer season in the Outer Banks of North Carolina. The temperatures are already sweltering, and the vacation town already teeming with tourists. This morning, there was a hurricane looming, early for the season, its breezy fingers stealing my hair and spinning it into a twirl. I’d let my hair grow out during the last year and was still getting used to the extra length on my shoulders. I stopped to study the scene of the crime when we reached the recreational vehicle. The first sight of the RV told me nothing out of the ordinary, except for the obvious: the door was almost destroyed, the handle and lock broken and the frame around it bent inward. What I couldn’t see was hidden just beyond the light, the RV keeping it like s
ome terrible secret. A double murder had been reported. Every murder scene is bad in so many ways, but we’d been told this one was particularly so.

  Despite it being just before seven in the morning, a crowd had already formed—curiosity having no sense of time, just an itch needing to be scratched, a desire needing to be satisfied. I studied the blank faces, the gawking, the empty eyes, and neck craning, the husbands and wives trying to catch a glimpse of the scene, their lips moving as they exchanged opinions. I took note of every person, every feature—the murderer might have decided to watch us work.

  The area was cordoned off by a hundred feet of crime-scene tape, the black-and-yellow ribbon slung taut from tree to tree and wrapped around lamp posts and a park bench to provide a barrier. The edges of the tape twisted and flapped noisily, teased by the hurricane’s moist breath. A row of patrol officers stood at the ready, guarding the property as crime-scene technicians hurried toward the RV, talking amongst themselves, rattling off checklist items while waiting for me to give the okay to venture inside.

  The early-morning light was dulled by a curtain of evergreens surrounding the campground, the RV and outdoor furniture beaded with dew. Another gust came, strong enough to force me into a lean as the tall trees groaned and swayed. Though we were a mile from the ocean surf, I could taste salt in the air.

  The RV’s broken door flung open with a loud clack of metal striking metal, releasing the scent of blood and death. Sally Majors, a senior technician, raced to tie it shut. I wouldn’t know until we had measurements like body temperature, but from my experience, the death was a day ago, at most, possibly as recent as the previous evening.

  The electricity leading to the RV had been cut when the call was made to the police, the manager of the campground pulling the powerline, citing the need as a safety concern. With no lights on the inside, the opening to the RV was as dark as midnight, reminding me of funhouses that were more horror than laughs—and the sight of it was enough to give me pause.

  Two murders had been reported at the Neptune Campgrounds, located inland a couple of miles past the intersection off route 58 and 264. From Sally, I’d learned it was a popular campground, a touristy kind of place with families driving in from all parts of the country to call the Outer Banks town of Kitty Hawk their vacation home. A sticker on the RV’s rear bumper had a name and logo: Trenton RV Rentals. I made a note of it.

  A scurry across the tall evergreens caught my eye: a flash of feathered blue-and-white as jays called to each other, playing a game of chase before making their way deeper into the woods. I flipped through the screens in my notes, finding a recent report from narcotics about drug activities traveling from the south. There’d been gangs creeping across the bay to increase their territory while the Outer Banks summer vacation season was readying. With the campgrounds completely hidden from the road—the nearest highway a mile or more—it was a perfect place for dealers and buyers to meet and do their business. I’d keep the idea in mind but wouldn’t make a call to the guys in narcotics just yet, not until I had more to work with.

  Cameras, I thought, checking the telephone poles and trees, hoping for a security feed, even a still-photo camera like the kind used by rangers to capture wildlife and poachers. There was nothing, every pole and tree bare, which surprised me, given how cameras had sprung up everywhere. It was suspicious enough to make another note for the investigation—that left us with no record of traffic coming or going through the campground—and another point to mention to the narcotics team.

  I could still smell death waiting in the dark as I mentally prepared to enter the RV.

  “Got a flashlight?” I asked. I needed light. I saw the campground manager watching us from behind the yellow tape, his stout frame crooked, his hand resting on his hip. “Better yet, let’s have the manager turn on the juice.”

  “Sir,” Sally ordered. The manager straightened and offered a curt nod, eagerness on his round face. “Would you mind getting power to the RV? We need the light.”

  “Oh, certainly, ma’am,” he shouted, his accent heavy. “I turn on for you now.”

  He circled round the taped area and went to the other side of the RV, disappearing from sight, his work boots scratching a path in the sand and stone. I heard him work the connections as plugs were plugged and switches were switched. A moment later, the interior lights flicked on and off and then came to life. With light came the sight of a veiny pale leg lying inside the entrance.

  “We got light!” Sally Majors yelled. The manager circled back round to the yellow tape, and we moved over to him.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “Yes,” he answered, carrying the word like a soft whistle. He dipped his chin, and asked, “I stay. To help?”

  “That’s appreciated,” I told him. “We’ll want to question anyone working earlier too.”

  “Just me,” he answered, his fingers splayed across his chest. He pointed to the ground, adding, “My home, I manage.”

  “Should make for a quick interview,” Sally said, looking at me.

  Before the manager walked away, I asked, “Sir, can you supply the paperwork? The order for renting the site?”

  “Yes,” he answered, taking a fold of office papers from his pocket. “I bring, in case asked.”

  “Very efficient,” I told him, appreciating the helpfulness. I unfurled the white and yellow pages, the office forms reminding me of a property lease. Across the bottom I found the names. “The site was rented to a Carl and Peggy Pearson.”

  “Carl and Peggy,” Sally spoke the names slowly and lowered her camera. “Let’s find out what happened to them.”

  With a nod to the manager, we moved back to the RV, observing the damage to the door. Someone had wanted to get inside, badly.

  “Not much left of it, is there?” I said, indicating the door. From the impression of the outside, there was a lot of force used, the aluminum dented, kicked, possibly multiple blows. “Let’s make sure we get some dusting, and check for any prints too.”

  “I’m on it.”

  As Sally Majors barked an order, the wind stealing her words, I inspected the point of entry. The RV had been forced open, the doorframe obliterated where the handle’s latch locked with the latch plate. This suggested to me the killer had come to the site with intent. Then again, a neighboring camper could have been annoyed by loud music or the smell of bad cooking and gone off on the family.

  “Any word on who secured the RV?” I asked, adding a new note, writing the details of the rope hanging from the broken handle. From the color and length, it was from a marina.

  Sally flipped through the pages on her pad, answering, “The manager. He’s also the one who called it in.”

  “He’s already been inside?”

  “Must have,” she answered, pointing to the victim’s leg. “Took a look inside and then called the police.”

  I motioned to the crowd and then to the RV, asking, “Was there mention of a commotion or a disturbance?”

  She shook her head. Her hair pressed to one side, the storm blowing a hot wind. “The manager only mentioned noise, the wind catching the door.”

  “Okay. Let’s get an interview with him,” I said.

  “Right,” she agreed as the pages on her pad flipped violently until she closed the notebook’s cover.

  I heard a voice from behind us. “Detective Casey White.”

  Mayor Ashtole lifted the crime-scene tape and entered the scene, his expression telling me he was troubled. I raised my hand, stopping him. I already had enough work without having to eliminate any more foot traffic and fingerprints. His presence at the site said a lot more than my first impressions—there was money here, enough of it for the mayor to press the work, make for an urgent turn-around, a fast cleanup, shuffle the ugly under the rug, as my father liked to say before company arrived on weekend afternoons.

  “Mayor Ashtole,” I offered, approaching and taking his hand.