River Bodies (Northampton County #1)(67)
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Parker linked his fingers behind his head, stretched his back, continued pacing. Papers were strewn about the kitchen, covering the countertop, the stove, the table and chairs. He’d reread every slip of paper in both files, studied the photos of the victims, and scrutinized the details in the wound analysis reports, looking for similarities between the two field dressings. He was going on a hunch that field dressings could be as unique as a person’s handwriting. There could be some identifying factor like the slant of a letter, the pressure of the scrawl, the slice of the blade. If he could prove both wounds had been inflicted by the same person, he’d be that much closer to making an arrest.
What Parker needed to do was put the files back together and have an expert at the lab take a closer look at the evidence, specifically the knife wounds. But right now, he wanted a little more time with his thoughts. He didn’t want to disrupt the organized mess in his kitchen, but he was starting to get hungry.
He picked up his phone, checked for messages. Nothing.
He opened the refrigerator and pulled out lettuce, tomatoes, celery, an onion. He’d heat up the leftover fish he’d had the night before and make a fish taco. When he’d finished preparing his meal, he carried it on a plate and ate in the living room. He didn’t want to drop any food on the scattered papers at the kitchen table, nor did he want to disrupt the visual he’d created with the pieces of the puzzle to the case. It wasn’t until he finished eating that he remembered the pumpkins in the trunk of his car.
He brought the pumpkins inside, laying old newspapers on the coffee table, placing the pumpkins on top. Every year since he could remember, he’d carved pumpkins to put on his front porch for Halloween. He’d done it with his parents when he’d been younger, and he’d kept the tradition going through the years. Back then, Becca had joined him. She’d made fun, silly-faced jack-o’-lanterns, where Parker had preferred a scarier look.
“It’s Halloween,” he’d said after seeing the big toothy smile on her pumpkin. “It’s supposed to look scary.” He’d turned his pumpkin for her to see his work, the angry eyes slanting inward, the crooked nose, the evil grin.
“I didn’t know we were carving self-portraits.”
“Ha ha.” He’d tossed a handful of slime and seeds at her. She’d tossed it right back, and by the time they’d finished, they’d both been covered in pumpkin brains.
He pushed the thought away after hearing his phone go off. He wiped his hands on his jeans and picked it up. It was a text message from Mara about the partial print. Still searching.
He put the phone down and picked up the knife. As he slid the blade into the skin of the pumpkin, cutting around the stem, creating a lid, he wondered what the killer had been thinking when he’d taken the knife to his victims. Why would he field dress them after they’d been shot dead? What was the purpose? Maybe the answer was simple—to send a message. But for whom?
Parker set the pumpkin lid aside and stuck his hand into the fruit, grabbing fistfuls of strands and seeds, removing the guts.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Ten-year-old Becca loved nothing more than riding her bike. Jumping rope came in a close second. But riding her bike, well, that felt like freedom—the wind in her face, the sun on her back, the means to flee from home.
It wasn’t unusual for her to hop on her bike and ride off without telling her parents where she was going, especially if she’d been left in her father’s care. She’d overheard him tell her mother once, “Children should be seen, not heard. And sometimes they shouldn’t even be seen.” He hadn’t sounded angry or even cruel when he’d said this but more reflective, as though he’d had his own private reasons for believing it to be true.
When her mother left for the nursing home where she volunteered and her father was put in charge, Becca did what she always did: she got on her bike and fled, racing down the driveway and onto the street.
She pedaled past cornfields that flanked the road. She coasted downhill, tapping the brake to control her speed. She was approaching Russell’s farmhouse at a rapid pace. Old man Russell was big and burly, with leathery skin and dirty hair, and she was frightened of him, but it wasn’t his size or his looks that scared her. There was a feeling she’d get whenever she came in contact with him, a sense he didn’t like her. Maybe it had something to do with her father. The two men couldn’t be in the same room without going at each other.
On any given day, a row of motorcycles lined Russell’s driveway, the same bikes that roared up and down their otherwise-quiet country road, sometimes at all hours of the night. Her father complained about the noise and the men and Russell, but he never did anything about any of them. And he could’ve, given his position in town.
The autumn air was crisp in her face. Her knuckles were white, her fingers cold. She was close to the bottom of the hill where Russell’s farmhouse squatted to her left. His old barn leaned next to it. Her plan was to pedal fast, pick up speed, and race by without being seen. The closer she got to his farm, the harder her legs pumped. Her heart rate accelerated.
She was almost past his place, free and clear, when she heard the sound of a dog yelping. The cries were coming from somewhere inside the barn. She hit the brake. The back tire skidded sideways, nearly tossing her to the ground. She regained her balance and listened, straining to hear over her panicked breathing.