“I’d bet my last dollar Raines doesn’t give much. And he’ll expect payback.”
“You don’t owe him squat. This is your case. Look, it’s been seven years since the attack. Something might have jogged free in Lara Church’s mind. Plus your second murder is going to hit the media outlets soon. I don’t want her reading about strangled women, connecting dots, and bolting.”
“I’ll head out there now.”
“Keep me posted.”
Chapter 5
Tuesday, May 21, 9:00 AM
Beck’s black Bronco kicked up dust as heat wafted on the horizon as he wound his way up the back road toward Lara Church’s home. Without Raines, it would have been a bitch to find Lara Church, who resided in a house still under her grandmother’s name. Raines got points for the tip.
Raines.
Raines shared a single-minded dedication with Beck. Firsthand experience had taught Beck that the trait was as valuable as it was volatile.
Beck slowed at the entrance of the driveway and noted the name on the mailbox. Bower. The Bower name tickled his memory, and for a moment he paused, staring at the scratched lettering on the rusted box.
The more he mined for the memory the more elusive it became so he tabled the search and drove down the winding gravel driveway. He shut off the engine, got out of the car, and surveyed the house.
Made of stone, the one-story house had to have been a hundred years old. Rustic with a bit of weather-beaten charm, the house had a low, wide front porch furnished with a couple of bright blue rockers and a scattering of painted planters filled with flowers. Lara Church didn’t know much about Texas summers if she thought keeping those flowers alive was going to be an easy task. Last summer’s heat had cracked foundations and dried out wells. One missed day of watering, and the heat would burn up those pretty little flowers.
A rustic wind chime dangling from the porch jingled gently in a breeze. Twin sets of windows decorated with faded red curtains flanked the front door. A new stained-glass oval hung above the door.
Before he’d headed up here, he’d run a check on Lara. There’d been no priors in the system, but a quick Internet search led him to the 101 Gallery located on Congress Street in Austin. According to the gallery site, Lara Church was having her first photographic exhibit opening this Friday. It was entitled Mark of Death. It didn’t take a shrink to figure out what lurked behind her subject matter. The gallery site included several of Lara’s black-and-white images, but there’d been no picture of the artist herself.
In the distance he heard a dog bark. Judging by the animal’s deep timbre, it was big and running in Beck’s direction. Absently, he moved his hand to the gun on his hip. Nice places like this could turn nasty or even deadly in the blink of an eye.
The dog’s barking grew louder. Tightening his hand on the gun’s grip, he scanned the wooded area around the cabin until his gaze settled on a path that cut into the woods. In a flash, a large black and tan shepherd emerged from the woods, its hair standing on end. The animal glared at Beck, barking and growling. The animal was a beauty, but he’d shoot if it attacked.
Seconds later a woman emerged from the woods. She carried a shotgun in her hands and the instant she saw Beck she raised the barrel.
Beck didn’t hesitate. He drew his gun and pointed it directly at the woman. “Texas Ranger. Drop the gun now!”
The woman stared at him, her gaze a blend of surprise and wariness.
“Put. The. Gun. Down.” Each word was sharpened to a fine point.
She lowered the tip of the barrel a fraction but didn’t release the gun. “How do I know you’re a Texas Ranger?”
The Texas Ranger uniform was easily recognizable to anyone who’d been in Texas more than five minutes. But that discussion came after she released the weapon. “Put the gun down, now.” He all but shouted the command over the dog’s barking. “Now!”
Carefully, she laid the barrel down and took a step back as if she was ready to bolt into the woods. The dog bared its teeth, but she made no move to calm the animal. She might have surrendered the gun, but the dog remained a threat.
He braced his feet. “If your dog lunges at me, I will shoot him.”
Her gaze flickered quickly between the dog and his gun. She understood he’d meant it. “Okay.” She looped her fingers through the dog’s collar and ordered him to heel close at her side.
“You and the dog step back.”
“Why?”
“Do it!” He glanced at the shotgun, knowing he’d not breathe a sigh of relief until he had it in hand.
“I am not turning around.” Her raspy voice stutter-stepped with panic. “I want to see your badge.”
He studied her. If this was Lara Church and she’d survived the Strangler, fear would be a logical response. “Step away from the gun.”
She drew in a breath and moved back with the dog. He picked up the shotgun and holstered his gun. Slowly, he pulled his badge from his breast pocket and held it up to her.
“Sergeant James Beck,” he said.
“Okay, Sergeant.”
He opened the break-action shotgun and found two shells in the double-barreled chamber. The safety was off. He removed the shells. “You always greet people with a shotgun?” He glanced from her to the growling dog.
“When I’m alone, yes. And it is registered, and I am on my land, so I’m well within my rights to carry a weapon.”
As he held her rifle, he glared at her and the barking shepherd. “You know how to shoot it?”
Blue eyes held his. “I sure do.”
As the adrenaline ebbed from his veins, his brain processed the details he’d only skimmed over moments ago when she’d been holding the gun. She was a slight woman, not much more than five feet tall. Long, light brown hair gathered in a loose ponytail that left strands of hair free to frame a narrow face. Peaches-and-cream skin, a high slash of cheekbones, and blue eyes combined to create a face that would have made any man look twice.
“Why are you here?” Her raspy voice, seductive in quieter tones, was powerful when rising above the dog’s barking.
“Quiet that dog.”
She tugged gently on the shepherd’s collar, and he stopped barking. “What can I do for you, Sergeant Beck?”
“You are Ms. Lara Church?”
Her slim frame tensed, as she released the dog’s collar and scratched him between the ears. “That is correct. Can I have my gun back?”
He ignored the question. “I came to ask you a few questions.”
Her lips flattened as if she already sensed where this conversation was headed. “About?”
“We had a murder outside of Austin yesterday. A woman was strangled to death.”
She stopped stroking the dog between its ears. “What does that have to do with me?”
He snapped the shotgun barrel closed with a firm click. “I think you know why, ma’am.”
Her jaw tensed, but as if the words refused to be voiced.
“You were attacked in Seattle about seven years ago. Strangled nearly to death by a man police believe was the Seattle Strangler. And you are the lone survivor.”
Lips compressed into a fine line. “Seattle’s over two thous
and miles from here. And seven years is a long time ago.”
He took a step toward her. The dog growled. Beck met the animal’s gaze and held it until the dog looked away. “This woman was wearing a white dress, and there was a penny in her hand.”
Absently, she curled the fingers of her right hand closed. Drawing in a careful breath, she released it slowly. “I still don’t know how I can help you.”
He wondered what shrink had taught her the self-calming trick. “Tell me what you know about the man that attacked you.”
The involuntary shake of her head told him she did not want to revisit the past even for a second. “If you found me here then you know people in the Seattle Police Department. Did they also tell you that I don’t remember my attack?”
“It’s been seven years, ma’am. Something’s got to have stirred up over that time.”
She cocked a brow. “Yeah, you’d think, wouldn’t you? But I’ve remembered nothing.” Reading his doubt, she added, “I know you don’t believe this, but I’d actually want to remember . . . even the dark and scary stuff. At least if I remembered this guy I’d know if he was standing in front of me. Maybe then I could take a walk in the woods without a shotgun.”
“You always carry it?”
“I walk with it. It’s close by when I eat, and it sits by my bed when I sleep.”
“You said yourself you are two thousand miles and seven years away from Seattle.”
“I think I don’t want to be a victim ever again. So I’ve learned to take care of myself.”
He handed the shotgun back to her. “Would you be willing to come into town and talk to our forensic psychologist? She’s sharp and might do you some good.”
She crossed her arms. “How did you find me?”
“I spoke to the Seattle Police.”
Her expression showed her distrust. “They don’t know where I am.”
“Mike Raines does.”
Her gaze narrowed. “Detective Raines. How?”
Beck rattled the shells in his hands. “He’s kept tabs on you.”
She tightened her fingers around the gun barrel. “If you talked to Raines then you know he had me speak to every doctor he could find.”