Deeper Than the Dead

“Is she going to make it?”

“I doubt it,” the guy said. “But she shouldn’t have been alive when we picked her up, either. Guess it depends on whether or not she wants to fight for it.”

Not an easy answer to that, Mendez thought. He had yet to get a close look at Karly Vickers, but if their killer had followed form, she had been blinded and her eardrums destroyed. She would have multiple stab wounds. She would have been sexually tortured and mutilated. Would she want to live? He hoped so. At least long enough to tell them who killed her.

Dixon was in the next exam room with Jane Thomas, who sat on the exam table wrapped in a blanket and shaking like a seizure victim. If she had been any paler she would have become invisible.

“What happened?” Mendez asked, pulling his notebook out of his coat pocket.

“The girl was buried in Jane’s garden,” Dixon said. “Same as Lisa Warwick, with just her head exposed.”

“Jesus.”

“Lucky for the girl Jane didn’t just assume she was dead.”

“The dogs were barking,” Jane Thomas said, her voice soft and tremulous. She looked at the floor as if that might help her concentrate. “Last night. Petal woke me up. I looked at the clock. It was three twenty-three. She was beside herself, howling and wanting out. I thought it was just that there were coyotes in the arroyo. I never imagined . . . If only I had gone to look—”

“Jane, we’ve been over this,” Dixon said, his hand on her shoulder. “You couldn’t have known, and you sure as hell shouldn’t have gone out to look.”

“I could have called you,” she said, big teardrops tumbling down her cheeks. “But I didn’t do that, either.”

“It’s not your fault, Miss Thomas,” Mendez said. “This is the fault of the man who took her and abused her, no one else’s.”

“Thank God I had to get up early to meet Steve,” she said. “Where is he? Did he come?”

She looked around as if he might suddenly materialize in the room.

“Steve Morgan?” Mendez asked.

“Yes. He came over at seven. We had a meeting scheduled to plan the press conference.” Her eyes went round. “Oh my God. The press conference! What time is it?”

“I wouldn’t worry about the press,” Dixon said. “Whenever you’re ready, they’ll come running. It’s more important for you to be here. Right? If Miss Vickers comes around, you’ll want to be the first to know.”

“Yes, right,” she murmured, shivering inside the blanket again. “But someone will have to call them.”

“It’ll be taken care of, Jane. And I want you looked at,” he said, giving her a warning eye.

She didn’t object as another tremor rattled through her. “He didn’t help me,” she said.

“Who didn’t help you?”

“Steve. It was like one of those nightmares where you’re trying to tell somebody something, but they don’t understand you. He just stood there.”

Dixon stepped away from her. Mendez moved with him.

“I want everyone in the war room in an hour.”

Mendez nodded. “The media is going to be in a feeding frenzy over this.”

“And we’ve got nothing to tell them. Do we?”

“Is that a question or an order?”

“A question.”

“Leads are being followed. We have no comment to make on persons of interest at this time,” Mendez said. “Vince was right. This guy wants credit for his work.”

“He wants to make us look like fools.”

“So far, he’s succeeding.”

“She didn’t have her necklace,” Jane said, seemingly talking to herself.

Dixon looked at her. “What?”

“Karly,” she said. “She didn’t have her necklace. Her graduation necklace from the center. She would never have taken it off. I have to get her another one. I have to go to the office.”

“That can wait.”

She shook her head and climbed down off the table. “No. No, it can’t. I have to go get her another one.”

“You have to sit down, Jane. You fainted.”

“I can go pick it up,” Mendez offered. “If you can call someone to have it at the desk.”

Dixon sighed. “Thanks, Tony.”

“De nada. That’s the least I can do for the heroine of the day.”

On his way back out to his car, Mendez spied the front page of the Saturday LA Times. The headline read: CASE CLOSED? SUSPECT ARRESTED IN OAK KNOLL HOMICIDE.

56

Dennis got up early and dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved rugby shirt. He went into his closet and dug through the dirty clothes to find his cigar box. From the box he took the pocketknife he had stolen from his dad’s dresser and shoved it deep into the front pocket of his jeans.

The knife was his most prized possession. He liked to pretend his father had given it to him for his birthday. He wished that was true, but his father never even remembered his birthday.

He took the lighter he had stolen out of his mother’s purse, and put it and the half-dozen cigarettes into a zippered pocket on his backpack. He hadn’t tried to smoke before, but he thought maybe he would start.

Almost as an afterthought, he tossed the dried-out rattlesnake head in there too—just because it was his. Then he put on his blue jean jacket, hiked his backpack up over one shoulder, and headed downstairs.

The house was completely quiet. Usually, Dennis’s mother was up by now to make breakfast. Even on the weekends, his father liked breakfast early. His father was a busy man, and had a lot of important things to do, even on his days off.

But there was no sign of his mother.

Dennis had never heard her car come home, and he had been awake all night. Even when he had finally climbed back down from the roof to his bedroom, he hadn’t wanted to sleep. Not because he was afraid of bad dreams, but because he just didn’t feel anything. He didn’t feel pain. He didn’t feel sadness or anger. He didn’t feel tired.

He had crept through the house like a burglar to see what he could see. The downstairs looked like a bomb had gone off with broken stuff all over the floors of the dining room and kitchen. His mother was gone. His father too. Dennis was all alone.

He lay on his bed all the rest of the night, just staring at the ceiling. Now, in the light of day, the kitchen was a terrible mess. Dirty dishes had been thrown in the sink. A pot with macaroni and cheese in it had been knocked off the stove and spilled all over the floor. There must have been a thousand ants crawling on the gooey pile. There was red stuff smeared on one wall by the light switch. Blood, Dennis thought. He stared at it and felt nothing.

The dining room was no better. There were broken glasses on the floor, and a couple of broken plates.

For sure his mother had not come home. She would never have gone to bed and left the place like this. She kept everything clean and tidy because that was the way his father liked it.

Dennis got a bowl and fixed himself some cereal. He was halfway done when his father came walking in, looking like he hurt all over. He had a hangover. Dennis could tell by the color of his skin and the bags under his eyes.

His father didn’t get drunk very often, and when he did he didn’t try to hide it like Dennis’s mother did. He knew his mother drank almost every day on account of he knew where she hid her bottle. But it was her secret, and most of the time even his father couldn’t tell.

Dennis stopped chewing and just stared at his dad now, not sure what to expect from him. Would he be