Karen Rose - Scream For Me

“It wasn’t your fault, Daniel.”

“No, not directly. But I knew what Simon was a long time before now.”

“And you thought he was dead for the last twelve years.”

Daniel conceded the point. “There is that.”

“If you ask me, I’d say your father carried most of the blame. After Simon, of course.”

Seventeen people . Simon had taken seventeen lives, with one old woman still holding on in cardiac intensive care in Philadelphia. But Daniel’s father had not only known Simon was evil, he’d known Simon was alive . Twelve years ago Arthur Vartanian had banished his younger son and told the world he’d died. He’d even buried a stranger in the family plot and erected Simon’s tombstone, leaving Simon free to roam, doing whatever he wished, as long as it wasn’t under the Vartanian name.

“Seventeen people,” Daniel murmured, and wondered if they weren’t the tip of the iceberg. He thought of the pictures that were never far from the front of his mind. The pictures Simon had left behind. The faces flashed before his eyes like a slide show. All female. Nameless victims of rape.

Just like the victim today. He had to see that the Arcadia victim got a name. That she got justice. It was the only way he’d stay sane. “One of the Arcadia officers mentioned a similar murder thirteen years ago. I was working on checking it out when you got here. It happened in Dutton.”

Luke’s brows came way down. “ Dutton? Daniel, you grew up in Dutton.”

“Thanks. I’d forgotten that fact,” Daniel said sarcastically. “I looked in our database back at the office when I filed my report earlier tonight, but GBI didn’t investigate, so it wasn’t there. I called Frank Loomis, the sheriff in Dutton, but he hasn’t returned my call yet. And I didn’t want to call one of the deputies. If it hadn’t been anything, I would have added fuel to the fire. Bastard reporters are crawling all over the damn place.”

“But you did find something,” Luke pushed. “What?”

“I searched online and found an article.” He tapped the laptop he’d set on the coffee table when Luke had arrived with the food. “Alicia Tremaine was found murdered in a ditch outside Dutton on April 2, thirteen years ago. She was wrapped in a brown wool blanket and her facial bones were broken. She’d been raped. She was sixteen.”

“Copycat killer?”

“I was thinking that. With all the news about Dutton the past week, maybe somebody found that article and decided to re-create it. It’s a theory. Trouble is, these old online articles don’t have pictures. I was trying to find a photo of Alicia.”

Luke shot him a long-suffering glance. A computer expert, Luke was often appalled at Daniel’s lack of what he considered basic computer skills. “Give me the laptop.” In less than three minutes Luke sat back with a satisfied, “Got it. Take a look.”

Daniel’s heart thudded to a stop. It couldn’t be. It was his tired eyes playing tricks. Slowly he leaned forward and blinked hard. But she was still there. “My God.”

“Who is she?”

Daniel jerked a glance back to Luke, his pulse now racing. “I know her, that’s all.” But his voice sounded desperate. Yes, he knew her. Her face had haunted his dreams for years, along with the faces of all the others. For years he’d hoped they’d been faked. Posed. For years he’d feared they were real. That they were dead. Now he knew for sure. Now one of the nameless victims had a name. Alicia Tremaine .

“You know her from where?” Luke’s voice was firmly demanding. “Daniel?”

Daniel calmed himself. “We both lived in Dutton. It makes sense that I knew her.”

Luke’s jaw went hard. “Before you said you ‘know’ her, not ‘knew.’ ”

A spurt of anger burned away some of the shock. “Are you questioning me, Luke?”

“Yes, because you’re not being honest with me. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I have.” He stared at her face. She’d been beautiful. Thick hair the color of caramel spilled over her shoulders and there had been a sparkle in her eyes that hinted at mischief and fun. Now she was dead.

“Who is she?” Luke asked again, his voice quieter. “An old girlfriend?”

“No.” His shoulders sagged and his chin dropped to his chest. “I’ve never met her.”

“But you know her,” Luke countered cautiously. “How?”

Straightening his spine, Daniel walked behind the bar in the corner of his living room, pulled the Dogs Playing Poker painting from the wall, revealing a safe. From the corner of his eye he saw Luke’s brows go up. “You have a wall safe?” Luke asked.

“Vartanian family tradition,” Daniel said grimly, hoping it was the only tendency he shared with his father. He dialed the combination and pulled out the envelope he’d stored there on his return from Philly the week before. He picked Alicia Tremaine’s picture from the stack of the others just like it and handed it to Luke.

Luke flinched. “My God. It’s her.” He looked up, horrified. “Who is the man?”

Daniel shook his head. “I don’t know.”

Luke’s eyes flashed fire. “This is sick, Daniel. Where the hell did you get this?”

“My mother,” Daniel said bitterly.

Luke opened his mouth, then closed it again. “Your mother,” he repeated carefully.

Daniel sat down wearily. “I got the pictures from my mother, who’d left-”

Luke held up his hand. “Wait. Pic tures? What else is in that envelope?”

“More of the same. Different girls. Different men.”

“This one looks like she’s been drugged.”

“They all do. None of them are awake. There are fifteen of them. That doesn’t count the pictures that are obviously cut from magazines.”

“Fifteen.” Luke blew out a breath. “So tell me how your mother gave them to you.”

“More like she left them for me. My father had the pictures first and-” Luke’s eyes widened and Daniel sighed. “Maybe I should start from the beginning.”

“That would be best, I think.”

“Some of this I knew. Some my sister Susannah knew. We didn’t put it together until last week, after Simon was dead.”

“So your sister knows about these, too?”

Daniel remembered Susannah’s haunted eyes. “Yes, she does.” She knew much more than she’d told, of that Daniel was certain, just as he was certain that she’d suffered at Simon’s hand. He hoped she’d tell him in her own time.

“Who else?”

“Philly PD. I gave Detective Vito Ciccotelli copies. At the time I thought they were part of his case.” Daniel leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his eyes on Alicia Tremaine’s face. “Simon was the first owner of the pictures. First that I know of, anyway. I know he had them before he died.” He glanced over at Luke. “The first time he died.”

“Twelve years ago,” Luke supplied, then shrugged. “Mama read it in the paper.”

Daniel’s lips thinned. “Mama Papa and millions of her closest friends. It doesn’t matter. My father found these pictures and threw Simon out of the house, told him if he ever came back he’d turn Simon over to the police. Simon had just turned eighteen.”

“Your father. The judge. He just let Simon go.”

“Good old Dad. He was afraid if the pictures became public, he’d lose the election.”

“But he kept the pictures? Why?”

“Dad didn’t want Simon ever coming back, so he held the pictures as insurance, blackmail. A few days later my father told my mother that he’d received a phone call, that Simon had died in a car crash in Mexico. Dad went down there, brought the body home, had it buried in the family plot.”