Robert Browne: Kill Her Again

“They did, but the request came from the County Undersheriff himself, so it’s unlikely the rank and file are gonna be too thrilled about a coupla feds sticking their noses in the pond.”

“I’ve seen my share of pissed-off locals. I think I can handle myself.”

“Yeah,” Royer said, wagging his finger at her scar, which, despite several sessions with CoverGirl, had proven impossible to hide. “I can see that.”

This silenced her. It was her turn to shoot him a glance, but his concentration was centered on the road ahead and he didn’t seem to notice.

Or did he?

Was he baiting her? Hoping she’d give him an excuse to send her packing?

The Victorville Resident Agency-one of the bureau’s L.A. satellite stations-wasn’t any paradise, but Royer was right: She should be in South Dakota. She’d only managed to stay in California because Daddy dear had connections in the Justice Department.

But it was doubtful even South Dakota wanted her.

Nobody did.

“I’ll keep my mouth shut,” she said, surrendering to Royer’s contempt, knowing she’d have to swallow a lot of pride to make this partnership work. She’d spent a lifetime ramping toward a career that had unraveled in just a few short minutes, so she wasn’t about to squander what was likely her one and only second chance, no matter how much it pained her.

Besides, pride was the least of her concerns at the moment. The visions had obviously begun to escalate. They were coming during her waking hours now. And despite what the doctors had told the Victorville Agent in Charge, she knew she wasn’t even remotely fit for duty yet.

And until she was, she’d simply have to fake it.

“Looks like we’re here,” Royer said, and sure enough the lights of Ludlow, California, twinkled in the distance ahead, a dusty oasis in the middle of the Mojave Desert.

Anna wondered how people lived out here, wondered what compelled them to seek out the isolation and the dry, oven-like temperatures. Places like this were scattered throughout Southern California, with no apparent connection to the rest of the world.

Maybe that in itself was the attraction.

“You might want to brace yourself,” Royer said. “I’m told the scene is pretty grisly.”

Anna didn’t mind.

Maybe grisly was just the distraction she needed.

It was small as houses go. A worn, two-bedroom box made of brick and stucco, surrounded by a low, sagging wooden fence and fronted by a tiny patch of earth that had never held much more than a few desert weeds.

Anna had always harbored the notion that everything looked better at night. More stylized. Romantic. But there was no romance here. The house was a desolate and dreary reflection of the neighborhood-and town-it occupied.

A half-dozen County Sheriff’s vehicles were parked haphazardly in the street out front, a coroner’s van backed into the driveway, its rear doors hanging open.

Several neighbors stood watching from across the street, a mix of old and young, fat and thin, clothed and half-naked, every one of them with a leathery, sun-baked complexion that added a good ten years to their appearance.

The first thing Anna noticed as she climbed out of the cool interior of the Explorer was the oppressive summer heat. Middle of the night and it had to be over a hundred degrees. She felt as if someone had thrown a thick, wool blanket around her, and she wanted desperately to take off her coat. That, however, wasn’t about to happen unless Royer took his off first, and Anna wasn’t holding her breath.

Good thing, too, because Royer actually buttoned his coat before flashing his creds at a nearby deputy. Ducking under the yellow crime scene tape, he headed for the open front door.

Anna followed, but before they reached the porch, a sinewy guy in a western shirt, jeans, and cowboy boots stepped into the doorway.

“Agent Royer?”

His voice was a deep, somber baritone, but there was no hint of hostility on his face as he moved forward and held out a hand to shake.

Royer shook it, looking mildly surprised by the man’s courtesy.

“That’s right,” he said. “Deputy Worthington?”

Worthington nodded. “Sheriff’s Homicide. But call me Jake.” His gaze shifted to Anna, lingering briefly on the scar before finding her eyes. “And you are?”

Royer cut her off before she had a chance to respond. “This is Agent McBride.”

“Welcome to Ludlow,” Worthington said, as Anna grabbed his outstretched hand.

She’d always hated shaking hands with a man, feeling awkward whenever she did it, wondering how to negotiate the task. Squeeze too hard and she might come off as some desperate female trying to prove herself, while not hard enough painted her as weak and ineffective. Finding a balance was tough, and the moment was usually stiff and uncomfortable.

Anna managed to get through this one with a minimum of fuss, however, and was relieved when Worthington didn’t hang on longer than necessary.

“I’ve gotta warn you both that what you’re about to see isn’t pretty. We’ve got more than one deputy almost lost his dinner over it, including me.”

“The minute it stops bothering you,” Anna said, “you’d better start thinking about a change of careers.”

Royer shot her a frown, but Worthington nodded solemnly, then handed them each a pair of latex gloves and gestured for them to follow him inside. “Let’s get to it.”

Royer didn’t wait for Anna or offer her the chance to go in first. She was, she realized, merely an accessory here. A show of force that didn’t really translate into action. This was Royer’s party and she was the annoying little sister whom Mom had foisted on the big kids.

Her only sense of satisfaction came from the fact that Royer had been wrong about the reception. Worthington seemed genuinely glad to see them.

Pausing at the doorway, she turned as she snapped on the gloves, taking another look at the neighborhood, at the ramshackle houses that lined the street. She had a feeling that even out here in the desert, a street like this was no stranger to violence. There’d have to be something extra special going on inside to gather such a crowd at one-thirty in the morning.

Grisly, Royer had warned her. Not pretty.

Turning back toward the house, Anna stepped past the threshold and took it all in.

The first thing she noticed was the blood. It was hard not to, considering it was everywhere, arterial spray all over the furniture and walls. She didn’t need gloves; she needed a hazmat suit.

A split second after the blood registered in her brain, the smell hit her, the same smell that accompanied too many of the homicide scenes she’d been to.

Urine and feces.

It’s the thing they never tell you about in movies and on TV. That when some people die violently, they evacuate their bladder and bowels. From rock stars to anonymous paupers, it isn’t unusual to find them swimming in their own waste.

Mix that with the scent of the blood and rotting entrails and you’ve got the smell of death.

A smell you never get used to.

Royer and Worthington were standing over a body on the right side of an unkempt, standard-issue living room. A couple of coroner’s men stood nearby, waiting to bag it.

The victim was female, possibly thirty years old, although it was hard to tell, thanks to the way the body had been carved up. The killer had been quite liberal with the use of his weapon, which had been sharp enough to cut very deep.

More blood soaked the sofa cushions just above the spot where the body lay, and Anna figured this was where the victim had been killed. She felt the Lean Cuisine meat loaf she’d scarfed for dinner start to back up on her, but forced it down. She wasn’t about to give Royer any more ammunition against her.