Linda Robertson - Wicked Circle

Leaving his arms again, Brenda selected a bottle from the new little wine refrigerator, and leaned against the counter, downhearted but not sulking. “Diane asked if we would come over to their house for dinner, but I told her you would rather reschedule.”

“Smart woman. Diane better not take her eyes off that boy.”

“Kurt.”

“He’s a brat.”

“Kurt!”

“Am I wrong?” The last time Kurt had seen the kid, probably two years ago, he’d tried to be tolerant, but the kid made him nervous. Evan was into cars, so Kurt thought seeing the flashing red light mounted to the dash of his car would be fun. The kid had been delighted, but he’d proceeded to push every button and flip every switch in the car and in the house.

Brenda sighed but said nothing. She slid the wine and the corkscrew toward him, and then carried the meal to the dining table.

Kurt made a mental note to check the bus schedule.

It was well after nine when Kurt switched on his home computer. Though the evening was far from over, the world was dark, and Brenda was presently soaking out her worries in a cherry-blossom-scented bubble bath.

He checked the online schedule and found that the local terminal would have a bus leaving tonight at eleven twenty, and, with all the stops and connections, it seemed that someone could arrive in Cleveland as early as one in the afternoon tomorrow.

That is a long ride. It was definitely out of character for his wife’s friend.

He opened his briefcase and plucked out a key to a certain filing cabinet. Inside, the rearmost files comprised his personal copies of a particular cold case from his days as a local small-town cop. He drew out the one marked Hampton, Elena A.

He opened it a fraction and saw a candid photo of a positively gorgeous young woman. Black hair, long and straight and thick. He remembered how sleek her hair used to feel when he ran his hands through it.

Guilt twisted in his gut.

He’d cheated on Brenda. They hadn’t been married yet, but he’d still been unfaithful. After high school, he’d gone away to college. She’d stayed home to attend the local community college. They maintained their relationship long-distance. Then he’d met this girl . . . Elena. They had a math class together. Deliberating for all of August and September, he built up his nerve and asked her out. Throughout October their romance had been torrid. He’d even considered breaking up with Brenda, but resisted. Then Elena abruptly broke it off with him the day after a wild Hallowe’en party they’d attended. She said she was transferring to a college closer to her hometown in Montana and stopped talking to him.

Kurt never saw Elena again until her file crossed his desk. She’d ended up in Saranac Lake, working at the federal prison as a guard. Did she know I was here?

He closed her file, set it aside and pulled another. Burdette, Doug R.

This file he opened fully. Photocopies of news clippings lay on top. Deadly House Fire . There was a picture of the remains of a house, below the date May 20. The next clipping had bold letters stating, Gruesome Discovery in the Ashes . The next, Authorities Suspect Murder, Arson .

Behind that was the official documents, then a photocopy of a work ID. Burdette had been an HVAC mechanic at the prison. Next was the autopsy report. Kurt scanned the highlighted words: “ . . . in approximately twelve pieces found on the stairs and in the upper hall ” and “ . . . claw marks consistent with those of a large animal. ” The official cause of death was listed as exsanguination.

“Kurt?” Brenda called from the hallway.

“Yeah?”

She appeared in the doorway. “It’s awfully late for work.”

He let the pages slither through his fingers to lie flat on the file. “I think I’ve got a break in this case. . . .”

“I took some melatonin,” she said. It was her natural sleep aid. “I’m going to bed.”

“Good idea.” Kurt rose from his seat to go and kiss her. She hugged him tighter and longer than usual. “Toni will be okay,” he whispered.

Brenda left him there. “Good night.”

Sinking behind his desk again, Kurt flipped to Burdette’s autopsy. Under that was a list of driving citations—speeding, DUI, hit-and-run damage to other vehicles. There was a rap sheet, too. Assault and battery, destruction of private property, various domestic violence crimes. There were also charges of possession, contributing to the delinquency of a minor, and a dropped charge of rape.

Since these files first crossed his desk years ago, Kurt had always wondered how a sweet, straight arrow—never even a parking ticket—like Elena could have been with someone like Doug Burdette.

Doug had been a less-than-model citizen, but he’d been alive when someone—some thing —tore him limb from limb. Burning the house down had not been able to disguise that.

Kurt closed that file and slipped Elena’s to the top again. After mustering his resolve, he opened it. Except for her picture on top, it had the same organization: articles, ID, autopsy. He reread part of the report. Cervical vertebra 1 and cervical vertebra 2 fractured, allowing for the odontoid process to sever the brain stem. This severe hyperextension of the head and neck is consistent with a forward fall down the stairs.

Her body had been found at the bottom of the steps.

Something had entered Elena’s house. It attacked Doug and ripped him apart. Elena must have stumbled in her attempt to get away. The fire, deemed to be a result of a cigarette meeting alcohol, had either forced the killer to leave before it could tear into her, or the killer had set the fire to destroy evidence. Kurt had his opinion about which it was.

She shouldn’t have died like that.

He reached into the filing cabinet again and brought out a third file. This one was marked, Hampton, John C.

Inside, an enlarged photo from the local high school yearbook showed a sophomore with longish black hair, blue eyes. Beside it was written: John Hampton. Dated Francine Brown. Missing since fire .

Under that was a report Kurt had filed himself. But Kurt didn’t need it to vividly recall that night. . . .

He was driving like a maniac, speeding under streetlights, following a teen who was on foot but ran like a startled deer. Kurt would gain on him, then the kid would race down a side street, forcing him to slam his brakes and squeal around a curve. He thought the kid must be on drugs; he should have been getting tired.

At the end of the road sat an abandoned mechanics garage. The kid kicked down the door and ran inside. Kurt left his patrol car. Drawing his gun but keeping it lowered, he jogged to the doorway and shouted, “Come on out, son. I just want to talk to you.”

“Leave me alone!”

“You know I can’t do that.”

“Go away! I have a gun!”

Inside, Kurt crouched behind a stack of bald tires. Three days ago this kid’s house had burned down with his mother and her boyfriend inside. “I know you’ve been through a lot. Let me help you.”

“Nobody can help me!”

“Let me try!” Kurt shouted.

“Just leave!” Gunshots sounded from the far corner. Kurt aimed through the space between tires and fired. He heard a scream and a growl. He heard metal crunching like cars colliding, and then silence.

When he inspected the far corner, he found only a pile of clothes, a gun with the barrel bent under and a giant rip in the steel wall. Outside, the only prints were those of a large dog.

Kurt had put two and two together and formulated a good guess as to what had torn Burdette apart. Everyone in the office had said he was crazy—neither their shootout nor the murders had happened under a full moon.