Positively Morbid, page 3
Parker shushed her with a hand on her neck. Mouse quieted reluctantly, but a subsonic growl vibrated in her throat. Parker heard nothing but waves and wind and distant traffic—no nearby creatures. Could there be a raccoon under there? An injured cat or dog? She fished out the pepper spray, just in case.
“It’s okay,” she called, and rounded the pile of driftwood to peer beneath the landing, poised to jump back if she met scared or angry eyes.
It was not a hurt animal. Or rather, it had been a man, but he didn’t hurt anymore.
Parker jerked away with an involuntary shriek. If hearing Jess’s voice had been a punch in the gut, this was being hit by a truck. All breath left her lungs and her skin prickled with terror. She was filled with broken glass; She was burning and numb and panting and dizzy, all at once.
The white fabric was part of a ball cap, lying two feet from the head of a man whose eyes, nose, and mouth were hidden by a generous application of duct tape. Parker recognized him anyway. The wavy hair and dark-rimmed glasses, now askew on his forehead and offering no help with vision, were devastatingly familiar.
Ryan Bennett didn’t move. She froze too, for far too long. Mouse whined. Parker forced herself to breathe and breathe again past the constriction in her chest, and after an agonizing stretch of time, she collapsed to her knees next to him and hunted for a pulse. His throat felt clammy and slightly warm under her chilled fingers, but there was no doubt he was dead. She retched, tears streaming from her eyes, and swallowed down bile.
She longed to yank the tape from his nose and mouth, to remove the glasses from his face and peel the adhesive gently from his eyes, but she forced herself not to, just rose and stumbled away toward the stairs. Hackles still raised, Mouse settled next to Parker on the bottom step. Parker lowered her head to her knees, took a deep breath and tried to calm them both with soft words.
“It’s okay, Mouse. It’s okay. It’s over. It’s all over.”
A lie. That bleak and empty feeling in her chest had grown as huge and frigid as the ocean. She wrapped her arms around Mouse, but Parker barely felt the dog’s warmth. Mouse licked her ear worriedly.
If only she hadn’t noticed the hat. But no. He would still be dead, a guy no older than her, who would never get the chance to move on from a bad breakup. Someone else would have found his body, if not tonight, then tomorrow. He would have been disturbed by some other dog-walker, or a convoy of rats and seagulls and crows would have drawn the attention of a passerby in the morning. And the police would trace him to the wedding party at Tyler Bettering, and inevitably from there to Parker James. A woman living under an alias.
She felt so horrible for Ryan, for his stolen life, for the pain and fear of his last moments, but that didn’t stop her from focusing on herself, even if that meant she was a twisted narcissist. She would be revealed as Corey Jantzen. Corey Jantzen, murder suspect. Corey Jantzen, finder of bodies, four times now. Corey Jantzen, whose mother had been murdered and wrapped in duct tape, whose babysitter had been stabbed in the chest, whose best friend had been kidnapped, tortured, and killed. Even if it was all coincidence, it must have warped Corey, or so the papers had said, implying she was a teenaged killer.
She dialed 911 anyway.
Chapter Three
Parker shivered. Huddled on the stairs with Ryan’s body yards away, she couldn’t help thinking of Uncle Danny. Part of her loved him and hurt for him, but he was the monster she pictured when she pictured a killer. Daniel William Evers, the goofy college student who played tea party with her and her stuffed giraffe, was the same guy who strangled her mother more than twenty years ago and he was still locked away. She hadn’t seen him in person since she was five, but despite all her efforts to scrub him from her thoughts, he was a constant presence in her life, tied to her by pain and love.
She absently stroked Mouse’s neck. Mom’s death hadn’t made sense, especially with five-year-old Corey in the house. She’d been too young to understand anything about mental illness, and when people tried to tell her Danny was sick, she would say, “No, he wasn’t. We ate spaghetti and then we played hide and seek.” But even adult Parker still wondered. Why hadn’t there been more signs? How could he wash dishes, joke around with friends, babysit Corey, and at the same time hide his paranoid delusions?
At thirteen, she’d concocted an elaborate theory about Danny being a fall guy and a victim of a lazy and misguided medical establishment. She put together a website, presenting the facts as she remembered them; he hadn’t been schizophrenic or delusional or psychotic, therefore his doctors must be using a murder he hadn’t done to justify locking him away.
When he discovered the website, Dad showed her the stack of letters that Danny mailed monthly from the psychiatric hospital where he was serving his sentence. Long rants about Mom, himself, their parents, his professors, even Corey—and how they all set him up to fail—interspersed with spates of self-castigation and apology. She took the website down. Uncle Danny’s voice could be heard in brief flashes, but his illness was undeniable.
Clipping on Mouse’s leash in anticipation of the cops’ arrival, Parker suppressed tears and pulled the dog close. Finding Mom’s body was etched indelibly in her memory. The blue gauzy scarf trailing from under the door of the coat closet like a deliberate clue. Little Corey, uneasy because of the silence but tantalized, expected a giant “Boo!” when she opened the door. Instead she was met by the silver duct tape covering Mom’s face, as if she were wearing a mask—probably a mercy, hiding bulging eyes and tongue, but now featured in all of Parker’s nightmares. Mom’s face, a death mask in silver…so like Ryan’s.
Parker restlessly stood. For all she knew, Ryan’s death had been a simple robbery, the tape just an overenthusiastic way to shut him up. Duct tape was ubiquitous, it probably showed up in crimes every day. She paced a small circle with Mouse at her side and forced her mind to leave Uncle Danny and her mother. Not relevant, and she was just freaking herself out.
Ryan’s handshake jumped into her head—that little inappropriate shock of attraction. She could feel the sensation of his hand in hers, his bony fingers, soft and cool. From there, Jess’s phone call came to mind, the sound of his voice, the way Britt’s murder had been haunting Parker hours before. Britt’s corpse, abandoned and inanimate. And Mrs. Gilford. And Mom, and then Danny and his duct tape again. His duct tape, which one talk show psychiatrist surmised might signify either remorse or a deep need to shut her up and make her stop staring. And finally, five-year-old Corey, falling into a doze on lavender-scented towels under the upstairs bathroom cabinet, while her mother struggled and died downstairs.
Parker swallowed. Today was really too much. Today was the kind of day that proved she had never left her past behind. It would just keep grinding her down. Where had Parker been when Ryan was breathing his last? Loping along the beach, exhilarated by salty air and the joyful bounding of Mouse? Fixated on poor little Parker having to face her ex-boyfriend, boo-hoo? She was spiraling into a neurotic loop of guilt and horror that she knew all too well.
Why did Ryan have to die? And why did Parker have to be the one to find him? She was already broken enough, goddammit.
Finally, sirens drew close, and she turned to see flashing lights in the TBI parking lot at the top of the cliff. Her phone buzzed, and she checked it quickly.
Krista—Got a question, sure you can’t talk?—
Parker—Not now. Something bad happened.—
Krista—You ok?—
Parker—No—
Krista—Should I come?—
Parker half-sobbed and half-chuckled, her pain easing just a little. It was a ridiculously kind and generous offer. Krista’s new position was at a swanky resort near Seattle. It would take her half a day just to drive here. Plus, she was still proving herself in a much more corporate, competitive environment.
Parker—No! I’m fine. Can’t talk now, deets later.—
She shifted the volume from vibrate to silent and slid the phone into her pocket. Watching the lights flash above, where two cop cars were parked with engines running, she realized she should have called Seth and Marta in addition to the cops. They would have appreciated a heads-up before police swarmed all over their wellness wedding. Shit. Too late.
Now there were flashing lights at Nye Beach as well, and a car jounced slowly toward her over the sand.
Behind her someone called out, and Parker turned. A shadowy figure approached from the darkness of the beach to the north, and Parker tightened her hand on Mouse’s leash. Fear jolted through her, but then she recognized the form hurrying awkwardly over the soft sand.
“What’s going on?” Calli called out. “What’s wrong?”
Her face reflected red and blue lights. Her eyes were wide and panicky. The vehicle, an SUV with a light bar, stopped about twenty feet away, and two uniformed figures got out.
“It’s okay,” Parker called to Calli over the sound of waves and wind. “But wait there.”
Calli halted, frowning.
The officers approached. Parker spoke to them, “I’m the one who called. He’s back here, by the steps.”
Calli’s hearing was sharp. “Who? Who’s back there?”
One of the officers, a man, stepped past Parker and toward Ryan’s body. The other, a woman with a curly ponytail blowing across her face, joined Parker just as Calli drew close.
“What’s going on? Is it my dad?” Calli demanded.
“No, no, don’t worry, Calli. It’s nothing to do with you, it’s just—an accident.”
The pony-tailed cop said, “Can I get your names? I’m Officer Connelly.”
“She has nothing to do with this. She just got here,” Parker told Connelly. “She’s just a kid. Can she go up to the hotel?”
“I’m seventeen!” Calli protested frantically, her eyes darting from Parker’s face to Connelly’s.
Parker raised her eyebrows, nonplussed. What was Calli so anxious about? She’d approached from the same part of the beach where Parker and Mouse had been running, but Parker hadn’t noticed her at any point. Had Calli been on the beach all along? Did she witness whatever happened to Ryan?
“Okay, okay,” the officer said soothingly. “Let’s get your names, and you can both tell me what’s going on.”
The male cop came up beside Connelly and eyed Calli. Out of the side of his mouth, he said, “We definitely have a body.”
“Who?” Calli’s voice pitched high. Parker put an arm around her instinctively, and Calli huddled close. The girl’s black T-shirt was long-sleeved, but thin and gauzy, and she was shivering more than Parker.
“Stay right here,” Connelly told them both, and she followed her partner to peer around the driftwood pile.
Calli pulled away from Parker to look her in the face. “Who is it?”
“It’s one of the wedding guests,” Parker said. “Ryan Bennett. Did you see something? When did you come down to the beach?” It occurred to her he had been youngish, cute, apparently non-threatening. Too old for Calli, but still. Could the girl have been meeting up with him? Flirting with him?
Calli’s shoulders caved. “I didn’t know him,” she breathed, but there was a hitch in her voice. She folded her arms tightly across her chest and rocked from foot to foot.
Connelly returned and observed the girl dispassionately. “Names?” she asked again.
Parker introduced herself and Calli, then repeated that Calli was just a kid who hadn’t been with her when Parker had found the body, and wasn’t dressed for the weather, and should be sent up to her parents at the Institute. Connelly nodded and made notes, but hadn’t responded to the request by the time another vehicle approached.
More people in uniform were coming via the cliff stairs as well. Mouse pressed against Parker’s legs. Parker could feel her alert energy as she shifted watchfully in the sand.
Connelly and her partner spoke quietly, then the partner stepped forward and said, “I’m Officer Martinez. I can take Ms. Tyler up to the hotel.”
“Before we let you go, the detective needs to ask you some questions,” Connelly added to Parker. “It won’t be long. She’s heading over right now.”
Calli joined Martinez but looked back at Parker and asked, “Do you want me to take Mouse?”
“No, thanks though. She’ll be fine with me.”
“Okay,” Calli said, voice small, and Parker realized the girl had been hoping for moral support from the dog. Parker felt selfish for a moment, then pictured the look on Marta’s face if Calli walked into the middle of whatever chaos was happening up there with Mouse in tow. Not a great idea.
The officer led Calli to the SUV. Parker paced, rubbing her hands and arms to keep warm, until the detective approached. Short and bundled in a bulky hip-length police jacket, the detective diverted briefly to observe Ryan’s resting place before angling toward Parker. She wore gloves and a watch cap pulled down on her forehead, and Parker shivered harder in envy. It hadn’t been a very intense run, but Parker’s tights and tech shirt were damp with sweat and mist, which were still leaching heat from her body.
The detective’s eyes flicked over Parker. “Can you get her a blanket or sweater or something?” she asked Connelly.
Connelly pulled a face. “I’ll try. Martinez took our vehicle. I’ll see what I can find.”
The detective stuck out her hand. “I’m Detective Balderas. Sorry, you’re freezing. We’ll get you inside in just a second. Can you tell me what happened here?”
Parker drew a blank and realized her little freak-out on the stairs and her attempt to pull herself together had done no good. She hadn’t gotten around to planning what to say. Was she going to tell them her birth name or let them discover it for themselves? But what if they didn’t? What if Ryan had an enemy, a stalker, and Parker outed herself, overcomplicating everything for no reason? It would look like a grab for attention, the exact opposite of what she wanted, and she couldn’t bear that.
She said, “My name is Parker James. I work at Tyler Bettering Institute, right up there on the cliff. Tonight I went for a run with my dog, Mouse, and on the way back, we noticed a hat in the sand.”
“We?”
“Me and Mouse.”
“The hat?”
Parker pointed to where the white object had been showing, but driftwood and beach grass blocked the view from here. “Ryan—the dead guy’s hat had fallen off his head. It was white, kind of reflective in my headlamp, and I thought someone might have forgotten it. One of the guests maybe. So I was going to bring it up…” She stopped when she realized she was babbling.
Balderas nodded as if she were making perfect sense. “So you were running on the beach in the dark?”
“It wasn’t really dark when I started, more like twilight. The sun set and even then it takes a while to get completely dark. I usually run twice a day, morning and evening, and I’m used to it.”
“Always here?”
Parker shook her head. “No, sometimes I run on the street. The sidewalks. Or south, over the bridge.”
“Okay. You knew the victim?”
The detective’s voice was sympathetic, but her eyes studied Parker carefully.
“I don’t know him, know him,” Parker said, then realized that sounded shifty. “I met him yesterday. I mean, today, this afternoon. We had an appointment.”
Balderas gave the slow nod again. “For?”
“Excuse me.” Connelly came up and offered a fleece blanket. The wind blew pieces of her curly ponytail into her mouth, and she made a face as she pulled her hair back. Parker took the blanket and wrapped it gratefully around her shoulders.
“What was your appointment for?” Balderas reminded her.
“Oh.” That should be a simple question, but Parker’s mind lost traction in the weeds. Did she need to explain how it was couple’s massage, and someone put his name in the books wrong? Probably not. “Meditation. He wasn’t really interested. His friend had signed him up.”
Connelly touched Balderas’s shoulder, and the two withdrew to speak together. Parker huddled in the blanket, blowing on her hands. Mouse sighed and lay down at her feet. Above, clouds still streaked the sky, but a patch of starry purple shone over the ocean. Parker fixed her eyes on that and tried not to let her teeth chatter.
Balderas stomped away through the soft sand, a cell phone to her ear. Connelly said, “The detective says she’ll get your official statement later. For now, let’s get you home. Where do you live?”
“The hotel. The Institute.” Parker looked up the steps. Garlands of crime scene tape rippled in the wind at the top and bottom.
“Really? I don’t think I’d want to live and work in the same place. You’d never get to go home.” Connelly shuddered theatrically.
Parker shrugged. “Saves a lot of commuting time.”
They walked along the beach toward the parking lot access in silence. Mouse sniffed happily at the line of seaweed, driftwood, and other detritus left by high tide hours ago. Parker second-guessed herself. Maybe she should ask Connelly about whether her old name or relationship to long ago cases might be important.
Three separate encounters with murder, now four. If there was a prize for how many times someone’s name appeared in the news in relation to murder, Parker would probably be number one in the amateur category. Who else could beat that, aside from cops and lawyers? Hitmen. Serial killers. Only the guilty.
That was not a good train of thought. It led to questions like, would the cops be right to care about her past? Was the similarity between her mother’s death and Ryan’s meaningful?
She already knew the answer though. Danny strangled her mother with the gauzy long scarf she sometimes wore to work. Ryan’s neck had been bare above his shirt collar, the stubble on the underside of his chin clearly visible, with no sign of ligature marks.
Parker shivered, wishing she couldn’t see his corpse so clearly in her mind’s eye. Images like this, popping up almost randomly, already haunted her. Drugs and alcohol had helped a bit when she was younger but had side effects, like making her life a piece of crap. Running helped, too, but one tool was not enough. She was down to meditation or suicide, and suicide, she thought darkly, was too much of a last resort to suit.
