Dead by Midnight Part 29

Grant dismissed his son's objections with a wave of his hand. "Nonsense. I'm not being accused of anything. And since I have nothing to hide, you shouldn't worry about these investigators asking me a few questions about my amoral past and the people I a.s.sociated with back then."

"The Powell Agency has contacted all the actors, those who haven't been murdered already, to warn them that they're in danger," Maleah said. "And we're interviewing everyone a.s.sociated with that movie, everyone from the producer to the cameramen."

"We believe the killer is in some way connected to that one particular movie," Derek said. "We are not accusing anyone. We're simply asking questions in order to eliminate as many possible suspects as we can."

"Then you consider my father a suspect?" Heath asked.

"Mr. Lawrence didn't say that," Grant told his son and then focused on Derek. "I am a changed man. I'm a devoted servant of G.o.d. I believe in and teach others to love the Lord and our fellow man. I am opposed to violence of any kind. I have only love in my heart for those poor, wretched souls who haven't found Jesus and are still plagued by their past wickedness."

"Have you kept in touch with anyone a.s.sociated with Midnight Masquerade Midnight Masquerade?" Maleah asked.

"I have had no communication with anyone in the past six years...well, except for Sonny Deguzman," Grant said. "Sonny came to see me and asked for my help. He wanted money, of course. At first I refused him, but then he convinced me that he truly wanted to change, to find salvation. He joined the church and even worked with us for several months. Unfortunately, he stole from us and I had no choice but to let him go."

"Grant could have had him arrested," Renee said. "But he didn't."

"How long ago was that?" Derek asked.

"A little over two years ago," Grant said. "And about eight months ago, I received a note from Sonny and a check for the amount he had stolen."

"Do you know where he was at that time?" Maleah asked.

"Somewhere in Europe." Grant looked at his wife. "Do you recall exactly where?"

"In Italy, I believe, some seacoast town," she replied. "He mentioned that he was fishing every day and enjoying the simple things in life."

"Messina!" Grant slapped his hands together. "That's it. That's where he was living eight months ago."

Maleah nodded. "That information should help us track him down and warn him. Is Sonny the only person from your days at Starlight Productions that you've heard from in the past half dozen or so years?"

"Yes, he's the only one."

"Do you recall anything in particular that went on during the filming of Midnight Masquerade Midnight Masquerade that resulted in threats being made?" that resulted in threats being made?"

For the next twenty minutes, Maleah and Derek went through the series of questions they had asked the other possible suspects. And Grant's answers pretty much echoed what everyone else had said. Everyone had disliked Travis Dillard and hinted that if anyone from their past might be the Midnight Killer it was the owner of Starlight Productions, the man who had produced Midnight Masquerade Midnight Masquerade. To a person, they had all agreed that Hilary Finch had been a first-cla.s.s b.i.t.c.h and Charlie Wong had been a nice guy with a great sense of humor.

"Yes, of course I remember Lorie Hammonds. She was a good kid. She wasn't the usual type, if you know what I mean," Grant said. "Gorgeous and s.e.xy, but cla.s.sy, the type who came across as a lady. I've prayed for her and felt in my heart that she had probably found the Lord."

"One final question." Maleah knew that while she had done most of the talking for the two of them, Derek had been observing. After all, that was his area of expertise, using his off-the-charts IQ and noteworthy sixth sense to profile the people they interviewed.

"Certainly," Grant replied confidently.

"Can you account for your whereabouts at the time Dean Wilson, Hilary Finch Chambless, Charles Wong, and Shontee Thomas were murdered?"

Heath Leroy grumbled under his breath and then as he walked toward his father, he said aloud, "d.a.m.n it, Dad, I told you that you shouldn't have agreed to this interview without your lawyer present!"

Waking suddenly, Lorie shot straight up in bed. Her heart hammered maddeningly, the sound drumming in her ears. What had awakened her? She hadn't been dreaming, at least she didn't remember if she had. She sat quietly and listened, but heard nothing out of the ordinary, just the usual creaking and popping sounds that a house made. The foundation settling, the water pipes moaning, the wind sighing softly around the eaves.

A dog howled in the distance.

Once her breathing returned to normal, she reached over and turned on the bedside lamp, then tossed back the covers and got out of bed. She checked the clock. 3:15 A.M A.M. Well past the witching hour. Or in her case, "the hour of death." Not bothering to slip into her house shoes and put on her lightweight robe, she left her bedroom and walked into the hall.

Why was she so jittery when there was no reason to be? The Midnight Killer murdered once a month, and always around the hour of midnight. It had been only a few days since Shontee's murder. There was no reason to be so scared. The timing was wrong, both the month and the hour. She knew that the alarm system was armed and Sh.e.l.ley Gilbert was here. Sh.e.l.ley, a trained bodyguard who knew how to use the gun she carried.

She didn't want to wake Sh.e.l.ley, but she was now wide-awake and knew she wouldn't be able to go back to sleep. If she went down the hall and into the living room or kitchen, Sh.e.l.ley would hear her and get up to check on her. But what did it matter? It wasn't as if either of them had anything to do tomorrow, anywhere to be. They could take afternoon naps.

Thinking that perhaps a gla.s.s of chocolate milk and a few cookies might help her relax-sugar certainly might help to soothe her rattled nerves-Lorie headed for the kitchen. As she neared the kitchen, she noticed light creeping out from beneath the closed door. Was Sh.e.l.ley in the kitchen? Had she been unable to sleep and had gotten up and that's what had awakened Lorie?

She approached the door, then hesitated, her hand hovering in the air. "Sh.e.l.ley?" she called to her bodyguard.

No response. She called her name again. Silence.

A tremor of uncertainty began in Lorie's belly and spread out into her limbs. Reminding herself that it was highly possible that they had simply not turned off the kitchen light before they went to bed, Lorie grasped the doork.n.o.b. When she opened the door, her pulse raced at an alarming speed. But once she looked into the room and saw that it was empty and nothing was out of place, she breathed a sigh of relief.

She decided that maybe ice cream was called for now, to go with the cookies, instead of chocolate milk. As she reached to open the small pantry where the cookies were stored, she noticed that the back door was cracked open ever so slightly. How was that possible? Sh.e.l.ley always locked the outside doors, soundly securing them, before she armed the alarm system and went to bed. Had Sh.e.l.ley heard something outside and gone into the yard to check the grounds?

Shaking nervously from head to toe, Lorie forced herself to go straight to the back door and check the alarm keypad. The green light winked at her, warning her that the system was deactivated.

Don't panic. Sh.e.l.ley's outside. There's nothing to worry about, nothing at all. But what do I do? Go outside to find Sh.e.l.ley? Close the door, lock it, and telephone Jack?

Lorie stood behind the partially closed door and called Sh.e.l.ley's name several times, but did not get a response of any kind. She eased the door open wide and looked outside. Moonlight washed the backyard and nearby woods with a faded yellow-white hue. Pallid gray shadows hovered at the corners of the house and the trees spattered cadaverous silhouettes across the lawn, their tips splintering into thin, finger-like shards.

Lorie shivered.

Dear G.o.d, where are you, Sh.e.l.ley?

Had the Midnight Killer come to Dunmore? Had he lured Sh.e.l.ley into a trap? Had he killed her?

Don't a.s.sume the worst.

Sh.e.l.ley was a trained professional. She wouldn't be easily duped.

Something is wrong. Close the door and lock it!

Lorie's heartbeat pounded in her head. Her pulse rate revved up as fear-induced adrenaline flooded her system.

When she reached for the door handle, she looked down and in her peripheral vision saw a dark puddle on the back porch. The light from inside the kitchen cast a dim glow over the red liquid.

Blood?

G.o.d in heaven, it was a pool of blood!

She stared at the dark stain, her gaze riveted to the spot.

It was was blood. No doubt about it. blood. No doubt about it.

Was it Sh.e.l.ley's blood?

Off in the distance, a dog howled again. Lorie cried out, the unexpected sound startling her. Hesitating, uncertain what to do, she stood frozen to the spot, her unsteady hand hovering over the door handle.

Had he killed Sh.e.l.ley? Was he out there waiting to strike again?

But it was way past midnight. And he always killed at midnight, didn't he?

Something rustled through the brush in the nearby wooded area, the sound echoing in the predawn quiet. Lorie looked away from the bloodstain and searched the semidarkness for any sign of Sh.e.l.ley-or someone else, possibly the Midnight Killer.

Whatever has happened, you can't help Sh.e.l.ley. Do what she would want you to do-protect yourself.

Lorie slammed the door and locked it. And then she raced to the telephone. With trembling fingers, she dialed Jack and Cathy's number.

Chapter 22.

Deputy Buddy Pounders lived a quarter of a mile from Lorie, so Jack had gotten in touch with him immediately. When he arrived, Buddy instructed Lorie to stay inside with the doors locked until he canva.s.sed the area around her house. She peered through the living room windows, watching, waiting, and holding her breath. She had turned on every outside light-porch lights, security lights, and even the miniature lights surrounding the patio. Five minutes later, Jack pulled his car up behind Buddy's. Cathy got out and rushed toward the front porch while Jack stopped to talk to Buddy. Lorie unlocked the door, and the minute Cathy came barreling into the house, Lorie grabbed on to her friend for dear life. Trembling uncontrollably from head to toe, she clung to Cathy.

"You're safe." Cathy hugged her fiercely. "I'm here and I'm not going to leave you."

"Sh.e.l.ley has disappeared and there's a pool of blood on the back porch. Putting the two together means that he's killed her, doesn't it? He's here in Dunmore and I'm his next victim."

Rubbing Lorie's back soothingly, Cathy said, "You don't know that for a fact. We don't know anything, not yet. Jack and Buddy will come in and tell us as soon as they finish checking the yard and-"

"How could he have gotten into the house? Why didn't the alarm go off? How did he outsmart a trained bodyguard?"

Cathy grasped Lorie's hands. "Listen to me. We do not know that Sh.e.l.ley is dead. Right now, she's only missing. And we do not know that the Midnight Killer is in Dunmore."

Lorie took a deep breath and then nodded. Cathy was right, of course. But if the Midnight Killer wasn't responsible for Sh.e.l.ley Gilbert's disappearance, then who was? And if she wasn't dead, why was there a pool of partially dried blood on the back porch?

"Let's go in the kitchen and I'll fix you some hot tea or cocoa." Cathy tugged on Lorie's hands.

Lorie fell into step beside Cathy. "Just go ahead and fix coffee since none of us will get any more sleep tonight. And it wouldn't hurt if you put a little whiskey in my cup."

"Do you have any whiskey?" Cathy asked as they entered the kitchen.

"In the cabinet over the microwave."

The following fifteen minutes pa.s.sed slowly, each second unbearably long for Lorie as she sipped on the whiskey-laced coffee and prayed that Sh.e.l.ley Gilbert would be found alive. She and Cathy sat at the table, Cathy doing her best to make idle conversation in order to take Lorie's mind off the worst-case scenario. Suddenly, they heard the front door open and footsteps trod down the hall. It had to be Jack since he and Cathy were the only other people who had a key to her house.

"Where are y'all?" Jack called.

"We're in the kitchen," Cathy told him.

The door swung open and Jack came into the room with Mike Birkett directly behind him. Lorie's heart skipped a beat when her gaze met Mike's. She had never been so glad to see anybody. Despite the comfort Cathy offered and the protection Jack and Buddy provided, to her, Mike's presence meant safety and security.

"How's it going in here?" Jack glanced at Cathy.

"We're okay," Cathy replied. "Drinking coffee"-she eyed the whiskey bottle on the counter-"and doing our best not to jump to any erroneous conclusions."

"That's good," Jack said.

Mike came over to Lorie, dropped to his haunches, and looked into her eyes. "There's no sign of Sh.e.l.ley, but there is a blood trail from the back porch to the wooded area behind your house. I've put in a call for more men and a couple of dogs to search the woods."

"What about the blood on the porch?" Lorie asked. "Oh, Mike, there's so much blood out there."

Mike nodded. "Yeah, there is." He reached out and laid his hand over Lorie's. "Cathy is going to stay here with you and I'll have a couple of deputies watching the house. You're safe. Do you understand?"

"Yes, I'm safe. But what about Sh.e.l.ley?"

"I don't know," Mike admitted. "But as soon as I know something, you'll know it. I'm not going to keep anything from you."

"Thank you."

Lorie watched Mike as he rose to his feet and motioned to Jack. The two men went out the way they had come in, through the front entrance. Lorie figured they didn't want to risk disturbing anything on the back porch since it was probably the site of a homicide.

In that hazy, cotton-wrapped vagueness of being only partially awake, he lay there and gazed up at the ceiling. He knew that it would be necessary to alter his plans and speed up the process before the Powell Agency and the FBI closed in on him. Perhaps he had given himself too much credit for being able to outsmart them. When he had formulated his plan, he'd had no idea that the Powell Agency would become involved. Their resources were practically unlimited and their success rate was off the charts.

The sooner I act again, the better. They won't be expecting another kill so soon. They believe they have until May before the Midnight Killer strikes again. They're wrong.

Now completely awake and alert, he flipped on the bedside lamp and looked at the clock. 4:45 A.M A.M. He rose from the bed and walked barefoot across the wooden floor, then eased open the door and made his way quietly down the hall. After entering his study, he locked the door behind him before going to his desk. He opened the bottom right drawer and removed a rectangular metal box secured with a combination lock. No one ever bothered his personal items, but the contents of the box would be lethal for him if anyone accidentally discovered them.

He rotated the lock, easily pausing at each secret number until the catch popped open, allowing him to carefully remove the lock and set it aside for the time being. After lifting the lid, he reached inside and removed a thin stack of letters secured with a rubber band. He fingered the envelopes, each one containing the identical message.

Charlene Strickland was to be his next victim, but when he had begun making inquiries about her this week, no one seemed to know where she was. He had been so sure that he had tracked her down to her most recent residence. As of eighteen months ago, she had lived in New York City, and that was where he'd sent the letters. Apparently, she had moved and left no forwarding address. He had to find her. As long as one Midnight Masquerade Midnight Masquerade actor remained alive, he wouldn't be free. If all other search avenues failed, he would hire his own private detective to hunt down Charlene. Naturally, he would not reveal his true ident.i.ty to the detective and he would pay him in cash. actor remained alive, he wouldn't be free. If all other search avenues failed, he would hire his own private detective to hunt down Charlene. Naturally, he would not reveal his true ident.i.ty to the detective and he would pay him in cash.

He removed a photograph from the metal box. As his gaze moved slowly over the snapshot, tears gathered in his eyes. Things might have been so different for him, if only...

There was no point in looking back. The past could not be altered to suit a person's personal desires. A person had to accept his part in the grand scheme of things, in the divine plan that a.s.signed a purpose to each human being. It had taken him a long time to understand what his true purpose was. He had fought against his thoughts and feelings, believing them perverse, but now he understood that he must not only accept the ruthless side of his nature, but embrace it. Others would see him as a heartless killer, but he knew the truth. He had been given the ability to kill without remorse. That was a rare and special gift, one that should be accepted without question and used for the good of mankind.

He had eliminated four of the nine. Wicked. Immoral. Vile. Wanton. The devil's minions. They were creatures not content with reveling in their sins privately, but were evil-doers who excited and tempted, who coerced and lured, flaunting their sins for the world to see.

Lacey b.u.t.ts, also known as Charlene Strickland, was to have been his next kill. But all his efforts to find her had failed. However, he had no intention of allowing this minor setback to stop him from continuing with his important work. He would simply exchange one for another, swap their names on his list. Surely before he reached the final name, he would have located Charlene. He could alter minor items in his plan, but not the major things. All nine must die.

If at all possible, he wanted to save "her" until last. After all, she was the most important one. At least she was to him. All he had to do was close his eyes in order to see her as she had been in Midnight Masquerade Midnight Masquerade. His body reacted the way it always did when he thought of her naked beauty being ravished by other men.

The voice inside his head, that incessant, condemning voice, tormented him. Look at her. So beautiful on the outside and yet so very rotten inside. Black-hearted rotten. Watch her. See the way she moves, the way she talks, the way she smiles. She likes what those men do to her. And she enjoys what she does to them. Look at her. So beautiful on the outside and yet so very rotten inside. Black-hearted rotten. Watch her. See the way she moves, the way she talks, the way she smiles. She likes what those men do to her. And she enjoys what she does to them.

Covering his ears with his hands, he tried to shut out the voice. But he couldn't.