As she made slow progress to Frank’s, she acknowledged how disappointed she was with the forensic report. Hard as she tried, there was no explaining how Frank’s DNA profile could’ve been found on Grace’s body. They hadn’t known one other and from what she’d been told, it seemed to be conclusive. If she was being brutally honest with herself, it shouldn’t have come as a surprise. She had been wrong about so much recently, and in retrospect, she’d been hoping for the impossible. She’d wanted Frank to be innocent because of David and Milly, even for Frank himself, whom she’d grown to like over the last few months. Now, it seemed like that was a great mistake, and that Frank had manipulated her from the beginning. Jim Burnell had always told her that the most logical explanation was usually correct, something both Warren and Filmore had tried to tell her from the beginning. Grace dying in the same way as Annie Randall, weeks after Frank’s release from prison, could have only meant one thing and she’d been wrong to focus so much energy elsewhere.
Searching for a patch of elevated dry land to park her car, she decided it was too late for recriminations. All that would be determined when, if, they got through this. For now, the important thing was to detain Frank Randall.
Changing into her waterproof boots, she radioed in her location and made her way to Frank’s house, noting his truck was not parked in its usual spot. He was fortunate that his building was higher above sea level than most, though if there was a storm surge there was a risk he would soon be stranded.
Hindsight was useless, but she cursed herself for not arresting Frank yesterday. Neil Mosley had talked a good game, but she doubted arresting Frank would have had any bearing on a successful prosecution—especially not now they had the new forensic evidence. Not that it mattered. All she cared about now was arresting Frank and getting back to the shelter as soon as she could.
As she passed the tree where she’d watched Warren deliver a punch squarely to Frank’s jaw, she noticed that the door to the house was wide open and swinging in the breeze, hitting the door frame with some force, over and over. It was enough for her to remove her firearm. Chances were high that Frank had already left—Laurie had issued an APB on him before leaving the shelter—but she wasn’t about to take any chances, especially now that she knew what he was capable of.
In any other situation like this, she would have waited for a backup, but backup wasn’t arriving anytime soon.
“Frank,” she called, creeping nearer, not wanting to risk taking him by surprise. “Frank, are you here? It’s Laurie. Everything OK?” she said, edging closer, checking her surroundings as she moved, the creaking and banging of the door carrying over the shrieking of the wind until, finally reaching it, she wedged it open with her foot.
“Frank, are you in here?” She waited for the count of ten before entering, the gun held out in front of her as she secured the area. The rooms were empty.
It appeared Frank had left without packing. The duffel bag he’d carried back from prison was still on top of the wardrobe, and a cursory glance through his stuff suggested all his clothes were still here. Maybe he’s gone to his brother’s house, thought Laurie, cursing as she first tried her radio, which only returned static, and then the phone, which had no signal.
Securing the front door, she made her way around the house to the rear of the property, the gun still held out in front of her. She didn’t think Frank could successfully run from this, storm or no storm, but then again, she hadn’t thought him capable of killing Grace.
As she reached the backyard, she stopped in her tracks, reaching for her useless radio at the sight of the man on the ground. At first, she thought it was Frank who was face down in the mud, but as she approached she noticed the gray hair of the victim, who, like Annie and Grace, had been placed on his side, his limbs manipulated into that strange, all too familiar running position.
Pulling on sterile gloves, Laurie did her duty and checked the pulse of Pastor Maurice Randall, not needing the feel of his cold skin, only the telltale sign of the zigzag laceration across his neck, to tell her that he’d been dead for some time.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Randall hadn’t had time to ask the man the question that had been on his lips before he was struck a crushing blow to the head. As the floor rushed up to meet him, he nonetheless had time for a final glimpse of his lifeless brother, his neck sliced open, and who, like Annie, had suffered the indignity of being mutilated in death, his legs snapped at the knee and placed in that weird, striding position. His last thoughts after having met the floorboards were to wonder how he had slept through such an attack, then to decide it didn’t matter. Maurice was gone now and he wouldn’t be long behind.
His presumption now he’d regained consciousness was that he was in the trunk of his abductor’s car—a thought more palatable than the other possibility that presented itself to him: that he’d been placed prematurely into his coffin. It was difficult to be sure of anything at the moment, but he appeared to be moving—occasional rays of light were leaking into the musty interior. At some point the engine had stopped, and the rocking motion within the trunk had suggested they were crossing water, but he couldn’t be sure that hadn’t been a dream. All he could be certain of was that he was cramped into a fetal position, the ache in his knee in a steady competition with his bruised temple, and that the pain that had been sending him in and out of consciousness for an indeterminable time period was now so intense he tried to will himself back into oblivion.
The vehicle moved over rough terrain, and Randall groaned as he was jolted from side to side, his knee crashing into something hard and metallic. His cheeks were wet with tears. He’d endured so much over the last sixteen years that it surprised him his current situation would be capable of bringing him to tears. He’d cried for Annie and David, of course, but when he’d entered Texas State Penitentiary, he’d learned quickly that he had to turn that part of himself off. Prison was no place for tears. He’d trained himself out of it, and until now he’d maintained that discipline. He tried to fight the memories but they came rushing at him. Somehow, they always started with Annie leaving that day. What he wouldn’t give to reach out and touch her, to tell her not to go. But go she had, and she’d never returned. Randall had made so many mistakes over the years but that was the worst. It was why he was cramped up in this makeshift coffin, why he’d spent a good part of his life in prison, and why his son didn’t talk to him.
Be true to yourself, goddamn it.
The car stopped. As the engine stuttered to rest, Randall prepared for the worst. He didn’t fear death anymore. He’d contemplated taking his own life on more than one occasion, so that he could be with Annie again. But he did fear pain, and the killer had demonstrated an aptitude for that. He was old—far older than his years—and frail, his body as weak as his mind. Inside, he’d been able to deal with the physical and mental demands placed on him, but he was so tired now. His resolve had all but disappeared, and as the trunk opened and the killer looked down on him, he prayed that the man would be quick and merciful in his actions.
“I need you to meet someone,” said the killer, seizing two fistfuls of his jacket and yanking him from the truck like a bale of straw.