Their Last Secret Page 6

  Still, Ben could not ignore Kayla’s difficulty accepting Emma. It worried him. Of course he felt Kayla’s pain. It broke his heart to see his daughter suffering because he wanted more than anything to help her heal. It tore him up because on one level, he understood Kayla’s reasoning for being so resistant to allowing Emma into their lives.

  The way he saw it, Kayla’s prolonged grieving for her mother had evolved into a subconscious resentment of Emma as an unacceptable replacement for her mother. And Kayla’s resentment had manifested itself in many ways, including her troubling behavior and her attempts to cast Emma as a mysterious outsider, a threat to Kayla’s bond with him, by saying things like: “Do we really know her, Dad?”

  Admittedly, Ben was a little apprehensive when he first started dating Emma, but that was different. In his work he’d encountered so many disreputable people. As he became well-known he’d met questionable types who’d approached him with questionable intentions, schemers and people with ulterior motives. Emma had never given Ben a reason not to trust her.

  Still, he exercised caution.

  Early in their relationship, when he started getting serious about her, he had his sources conduct some discreet checking into her background after gleaning a few personal details from her. They looked into her previous jobs, her certification as a school counselor, addresses, her financial situation, if she’d been previously married, widowed, divorced; she hadn’t. Ben was satisfied, happy, that everything checked out and looked good.

  Now his phone rang.

  It was Roz Rose, his agent, and Adam Kane, his editor, calling from New York. He put them on speaker and they passed quickly through a few minutes of small talk before shifting to business.

  “What did you think of the list we sent you?” Roz asked.

  “It’s fine. I know those cases and I didn’t see anything there.”

  His response was met with silence.

  “Ben—” Adam’s tone had cooled “—you have to know we respect and understand what you’ve been through, that it’s been painfully difficult.”

  “It’s profoundly appreciated, Adam.”

  “But it’s been a few years now. I’m getting pressure from senior people here to get you firmly committed to a new book.”

  “I get that.”

  “Ben—” Roz jumped in “—Adam knows this, but your foreign publishers have also been pushing hard for a new book.”

  Adam continued, “What about these more recent cases in the US? There’s the Minneapolis case of the mom who never reported her toddler missing for a month. Then the child’s body was found in a suitcase in a forest and the mother was charged. Then there’s that case in Boston of the father who came to find his wife and twin sons missing. They have yet to be found but police suspect him. What about those?”

  “I know about them from the coverage. I’ll consider them.”

  “Ben, your Swedish publisher suggested one about a husband and wife, both of them doctors, who’d been abducting people and keeping them in a dungeon outside of Stockholm. And we just got this one from your Canadian publisher who suggests you look at an older case of a family murdered in a small town. It’s twenty years old but it’s got a twist of some sort. Do you know about these Swedish and Canadian cases?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “I’m sorry to be the bad guy here,” Adam said, “but we’ve gone above and beyond the extensions stipulated in the contract. The publisher’s message to you today is that if we don’t have your commitment and a short outline for your next book in our hands within sixty days, we’ll demand return of the advance and end the contract. And Ben, the publisher could also consider legal action to recoup any costs arising from catalog listings and production scheduling.”

  The seconds passed with Ben saying nothing.

  “You understand the seriousness of this, Ben?” Roz said.

  “It’s crystalline.”

  “We’ll send you summaries of the ones we’ve just discussed and any others we like,” Adam said. He sighed, his voice warming. “I know you can pull this all together.”

  “Thank you, Adam, and thank you, Roz. I promise to do my best.”

  The call ended and Tug came into his office and nuzzled his lap just as his computer pinged with the email of the newest story suggestions. They were short and he looked them over. He knew nothing about either of them. The Swedish case involving doctors and a dungeon intrigued him. He saw that the Canadian case from twenty years ago happened in Eternity, Manitoba.

  “Eternity,” he repeated out loud to Tug. “Now that’s an intriguing name.”

  Ten

  Eternity, Manitoba / Alden, Manitoba

  2000

  The monitor next to Connie Tullock’s bed at Alden Memorial Hospital displayed her vital signs in a spectrum of colored waves.

  She was unconscious, having undergone emergency surgery for the stab wounds she’d received to her stomach, chest and neck. After operating for nearly four hours, the surgeon put Connie’s likelihood of surviving at less than 10 percent.

  She was the best lead—maybe the only lead—investigators had to solve the murders of her son, her daughter, her husband—and probably her own, thought Sergeant Bill Jurek of the Eternity Police Service.

  Since Connie had come out of surgery, Jurek had waited at her bedside with the nurse in case she regained consciousness. He was prepared to obtain a dying declaration, hoping she could identify whoever was behind the killings.

  The knot in his gut had tightened because he knew the Tullock murders were going to hit the community hard. The town had never seen anything like it. Eternity’s last homicide was seven years ago when a trucker, Lenny Troy Boghin, smashed Rodney John Street, a biker, in the head with a chair at Harry Hoyt’s Bar because he spilled beer on him. Before that, Manford Ellerd Wiebe, a farmer with a gambling problem who’d lost everything at blackjack in Las Vegas, set his home ablaze killing himself, his wife and son in 1972.

  To be sure, in 2000, Eternity got its run of crimes, domestic assaults, drug dealing, vandalism and thefts. It also saw its share of traffic and farming deaths, drownings, fire fatalities and occasionally people who froze in the winter. But never anything of this magnitude.

  When the call came in, Jurek had been at his desk, earlier than his shift. He’d been awake thinking how his son needed braces, and how even with their dental plans Jurek and his wife, a teacher, faced an out-of-pocket bill of 2500 dollars. It weighed on his mind as he’d arrived at the office, got a coffee and was looking at the overnight log when the radio crackled. Dustin Meyer, a new constable, called in from 1721 Old Pioneer Road, which Jurek knew was the Tullock home.

  “We’ve got three 10-32s, possibly a fourth,” Meyer said with urgency.

  Eternity’s alphanumeric code defined a 10-32 as a sudden death, meaning not by natural causes.

  Three 10-32s? That can’t be. Jurek got on the radio and called Meyer’s unit.

  “Say again, 1-8.”

  Meyer confirmed what he had said, setting everything in motion.

  Activating the emergency lights and siren on his marked Dodge Charger, Jurek blasted across town to the address on Old Pioneer Road. Meyer was in front of the house with Marv Lander, who had his arm around Fran Penner, her face contorted in anguish, her knuckles white from squeezing the tissue in her hands.

  Being the senior officer, Jurek assumed command, making notes of the time, weather, who was present, and getting debriefed by Meyer. The rookie cop’s face was ashen, his voice shaky. Connie Tullock was still alive, Meyer told him. She’d been rushed to the regional trauma center in Alden but the paramedics doubted she would make it.

  Jurek then talked separately with Lander and Penner, getting initial statements as Constable Danny Dufrense arrived to help. Jurek assigned him to seal the property and to park his patrol car across the driveway’s entranc
e. Meyer had already cleared the house. “No one in there but the deceased,” he said.

  Jurek slipped on hooded and booted coveralls, tugged on skintight nitrile gloves, got his digital camera and clipboard, then entered the house, steeling himself for what was inside.

  As a boy growing up on his parents’ farm in southern Manitoba, Jurek had seen things that stayed with him. Like what coyotes did to chickens, or the time he watched an owl eat a gopher struggling for its life. When he became a soldier, he’d seen what conflicts did during his tours in Bosnia and Africa. As a cop in Eternity, he’d seen the bloated bodies of drowning victims, fire victims burned so badly you couldn’t tell if they were male or female. In traffic accidents he’d seen men, women and children, entwined in metal, their blood dripping onto the pavement.

  Walking through the crime scene, Jurek now saw a whole new level of horror that would haunt him for the rest of his life, as if evil had rampaged through the Tullock home. He took pictures, made notes and sketches as he studied the main floor before proceeding upstairs and concentrating on the message left on the wall.

  KILL THEM ALL.

  What was the significance? He took more pictures, then made more notes, stopping to steady himself as the extent of the horror caught up with him.

  Then he noticed smears, smudges on the floor, and followed a faint blood trail down into the basement that led to a window that was not fully closed. He examined it thinking it was likely a point of entry and exit.

  When he stepped outside, Jurek called Abe Atkin, the chief, and told him what they had. Atkin, who’d attended Roy and Connie’s wedding, released a groaned curse before asking: “Was there anything else besides that message?”

  “A blood trail, an unlocked window. We need to process the scene.”

  “All right, I’ll be there soon. We’ll likely have to turn this over to the Mounties. I’ll take care of that. We’ll set up a case status, hand-over meeting for first thing tomorrow.”

  “We can handle this, Abe. We’ve trained for it. We can lead it. This is our town.”

  “Bill, they’ve got the resources. They’ll lead and we’ll support them. Meanwhile, do only what needs to be done now. Protect the evidence and the scene, seal the place. Call in everyone you need, off-duty, vacation, I don’t care. I’ll sign off on the overtime. I’ll alert the RCMP.”

  Pushing back on his frustration at having to turn the case over to the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, Jurek called in Eternity’s K-9 unit. He needed them now because the suspects were at large and could harm others.

  Jurek called in every officer he could reach. He was going to need all the help he could get before things got out of hand because news had spread fast. While making calls, Jurek watched the tangle of nonpolice vehicles, concerned people and gawkers growing on the side of the road. He recognized a reporter from the Eternity Bulletin and one from Sparrow 101 Radio News in Alden. Danny Dufrense was doing a good job of keeping everyone back and off the property.

  So far, Jurek thought, as Meyer got a call advising them that Connie Tullock was still alive and in surgery.

  Jurek hurried out of his coveralls, left instructions for Meyer, the K-9 unit and other officers arriving at the scene. Then with sirens and lights going, Jurek made the half hour drive to Alden in half the time, where he sat by Connie’s bedside, waiting, hoping, she would awaken.

  * * *

  It was coming up on ninety minutes since the surgery and Jurek was reviewing his notes and checklist. Occasionally, he’d step into the hall and use the phone at the nurses’ station to make calls. They needed to get the RCMP’s forensic unit in the Tullock house to process everything—the blood trail, the window, the message—to determine where the evidence pointed.

  Who could do this? My God, who could commit such an outrage to children?

  From time to time he glanced at Connie, bandaged, sedated, tubes and sensors fastened to her body. He only knew the Tullocks socially from attending local fund-raisers. He liked Roy; everyone did. Roy was a decent man. But Connie came off as a pretentious woman and Jurek got the sense that few people liked her. But whatever thoughts he’d had about Connie Tullock dissolved in that hospital room in the wake of what had happened to her son, her daughter, her husband, and to her.

  Nobody deserved this. If she lived, a nightmare awaited her.

  She still had Torrie, her teenage daughter. Jurek caught his breath.

  Connie’s fingers trembled, then her hand lifted a fraction from the bed and she released a gurgle.

  “Nurse?” Jurek said.

  The nurse rose from her chair, tended to Connie while glancing at the monitor, then pressed the button over the bed. Connie stirred. A moment later the doctor arrived and examined her as her eyes blinked open.

  “She’s regaining consciousness,” the doctor said. “Connie, I’m Doctor Patel. You’ve been hurt—”

  Her mouth began moving. Then, rasping, she said: “Water.”

  The doctor got the water cup and put the straw to her lips.

  “Connie,” Patel continued, “you’re in the hospital and a police officer needs to talk to you. It’s very important.”

  She drank, then closed her eyes.

  “Her signs are weak,” Patel said to Jurek, indicating that this might be his only chance, nodding for him to approach.

  Jurek activated his recorder and got close to her.

  “Connie, it’s Sergeant Bill Jurek with Eternity Police. Can you tell me who hurt you and your family?”

  It was so subtle Jurek almost missed it as she began shaking her head and Jurek drew even closer.

  “Connie, who hurt you?”

  She emitted a liquidy sob so soft it was barely audible.

  “Why?” she managed to ask.

  “Connie, we need to know who hurt you and your family.”

  Suddenly her eyes opened and through her anesthetized fog she stared at nothing, and in a harsh, pained, whisper, said, “Why’re you here...in...”

  “Connie, we need to know who hurt you.”

  “What’re you doing here?” Her voice trailed off.

  She coughed and blood droplets appeared on her lips. Her head lolled to one side. The monitor began beeping, chiming and pinging with alerts as one by one the tracking lines flattened.

  Jurek pulled back while Patel led medical staff in a vain attempt to resuscitate her.

  It was over so fast.

  Still holding his recorder Jurek turned from the bed to the window.

  Four deaths now.

  * * *

  Bomber, the canine half of Eternity’s K-9 unit, worked with his nose to the ground, leading his partner, Constable Mark Warrin, from the open window at the side of the Tullock house.

  Warrin had followed Jurek’s instructions to start from the outside at the window and track any leads. Warrin had Bomber on a long line.

  The German shepherd’s leash jingled and tensed. Warrin knew from Bomber’s tail wagging that he’d picked up something as he led him toward the edge of the property. Although Bomber zigzagged, he adhered to a fairly direct path to a small wooded rise.

  Bomber threaded around the small stand of trees, stopped and yipped.

  “What is it, pal?” Warrin asked. “Whatcha got there?”

  Sunlight winked from the ground. Warrin lowered himself to look at a small, empty glass bottle that had held vodka, according to the label. He thought for a moment but didn’t touch it. Instead he reached into his vest for a tiny orange evidence flag and planted it near the bottle.

  Bomber’s line tensed and he barked while staring in the direction of the town and the highway as if signaling that the answers lay in that direction.

  Warrin reached for his radio.

  Eleven

  Orange County, California

  Present day

  The warning note on
her windshield, the mystery woman who appeared to be watching her, continued eating at Emma as she drove to her school.

  Who is threatening me?

  Theories ran through her mind: Were the note, the mystery woman and the man at the beach all linked? The anniversary was looming and it had to pass like the others, without anyone in Emma’s life knowing.

  I’ll protect Ben and Kayla from my past no matter the cost because the truth would not only destroy me—it would destroy them, too.

  Emma had gotten little sleep after searching her mind intensively. She woke with a possible solution.

  Pulling into the staff parking lot, she collected her things and headed to the entrance, scanning the spot across the street where she had last seen the woman. Emma didn’t notice anything this morning.

  Inside the school she didn’t go to her office; instead she headed to the end of the admin hallway to the door marked SECURITY.

  She entered to see Greg Clifton, the school’s security supervisor, standing at the desk of Denise Stadler, the office assistant.

  “...those biweeklies will now be monthly,” Greg said before stopping. “Oh, hi, Emma.”

  “Hi, Emma,” Denise said.

  “Sorry to interrupt.”

  “Quite all right,” Greg said. “How’re you doing? That was a great thing you did, saving your student.”

  “Yes, it was a miracle,” Denise said.

  “Thanks. Greg, I was hoping you could help me with something. Do you have a minute?”

  “Sure,” he said, and led her into his office. “What is it, Emma?”

  She was counting on the fact that she knew Greg a little. At the last staff retreat they were teamed and came second in the three-legged race. They got along, had fun and had eaten lunch together a few times in the cafeteria.

  “It’s no big thing, a little embarrassing to be honest,” she said. “At some point yesterday I may have bumped someone’s car with my own, and left a scratch. I really don’t remember doing it, but someone left a note on my car about it. I seem to have lost it, though.”