Heartbreaker

  Tiffany remembered the exact moment her life experienced an epiphany—she’d looked that word up in the dictionary after reading the article in Mademoiselle magazine. She’d been at Suzie’s Hair Salon, getting a perm that fried her already fried, unnaturally blond, frizzy, long hair. To take her mind off her painful burning scalp, she’d picked up the magazine and begun to read the article that was all but screaming at her, “Know Your Assets.” The message couldn’t have been any more clear to her. Do what you’re good at. Change what you don’t like about yourself. And use your assets to get what you want. But, most of all, go for it.

  She took every word to heart, and to this day she carried the stolen magazine with her wherever she went. It was always tucked inside her Vuitton rip-off bag next to the brand-new mobile phone she’d spent two whole hundred dollars on so she could get three months’ free phone service, as long as it was in the U.S. of A.

  Tiffany liked to think she was gifted with ESP, and after reading that article, she could plainly see she was destined for great things. It was all going to begin happening for her in just two days’ time when she checked herself into the Holidome. The motel’s rates were a little steep, but it was worth it. The Holidome sat across the highway from the doctor’s office, and she wouldn’t have so far to walk after the surgery was done.

  Because she’d bought herself the phone—she’d seen a picture of Heidi Fleiss with a mobile phone in her hand and figured it was an important asset every girl ought to have if she was going to go places—she was still shy two hundred dollars of the twenty-four hundred she needed to get her boob job. She was carrying all of the twenty-two hundred with her. She didn’t dare take the chance of hiding any of her money in the trailer, where her stepfather could sniff it out like a trained hound dog with his beet-red, twice-broken, alkie nose. He’d just go on another one of his drunken sprees, which always ended up in jail. If he didn’t find it, her mother certainly would. She was always snooping through Tiffany’s things looking for more damning evidence to prove her daughter was still a whore. Then she’d feel it was her duty to donate all the cash to that screaming redemption preacher she watched on television all the time. No, Tiffany didn’t take any chances with the hard-earned money that guaranteed to change her future. She had it all with her and all in cash. She’d divided the money in half and stuffed eleven hundred dollars into each one of her size 32AA Wonderbra cups, which weren’t doing anything remotely wonderful for her figure, as flat-chested as she was. New boobs were going to change all that, of course. She was sure of it.

  Going for it and changing what you could change—that’s what success was all about. Like most eighteen-year-old girls, she had big dreams. She had always been very goal oriented, and big boobs were an integral part of her future plans. She’d never told anyone, not even her best friend, Louann, that her biggest dream of all was to be the centerfold in Playboy magazine. Penthouse was a step down, and so was Hustler, but she’d settle for either one of those centerfolds too. All the men in Sugar Creek read those magazines—well, they didn’t really read them. They took them into the bathroom with them so they could get off while they gawked at naked women, and she just knew their eyes were going to bug right out of their heads when they saw her in all her naked beauty smiling coyly out at them with her new size 36D boobs.

  She didn’t have any idea what kind of money could be made in centerfold work, but it had to be a lot more than she was making now lap dancing. She was never the customer’s first choice, and she knew it had to be because she was so flat-chested. Vera, one of the other girls, always made three times what she did in tips, but then Vera was full-figured, and the men liked to burrow their faces in between her enormous boobs. Tiffany had had to supplement her income by giving blow jobs out back, behind the Dumpster. She was real talented with her mouth—just ask any of the boys back in Sugar Creek, or for that matter the doctor who was going to give her new boobs. He’d been so impressed with her skill, he’d reduced the price of the implants. Tiffany guessed she’d have to impress the doctor again to get a further discount of the two hundred dollars she was lacking, and if he balked about it, she’d just have to threaten to have a chat with his prim little wife, who had been sitting a couple of feet away at the front desk answering the doctor’s phone while Tiffany was inside the cubicle lathering up the good doctor’s privates. One way or another, she was going to get her new size 36D boobs in just two days’ time.

  The flat tire was a temporary setback, and as she stood on the side of the highway furiously working the wad of gum in her mouth, she spotted a van coming toward her. She wasn’t going to have to use her new phone to call a tow service after all. Tugging her hot pink, spandex skirt down, she propped her hand on the tilt of her hip, balanced herself regally on the hot pink stiletto heels that killed her feet but made her legs look good, and pretended to be a helpless woman in need of assistance.

  She hoped a man was driving the van because she could always get any man to do anything she wanted once he understood how talented she was. Squinting into the sun, she let out a loud sigh of relief when the van pulled to a stop behind her car and she saw the handsome man smiling at her.

  Tiffany Tara Tyler straightened up, put on her best come-hither expression, and sashayed over to the van.

  Just as she had predicted, her life was about to radically change.

  Forever.

  CHAPTER 13

  This was about as close as Laurant was ever going to get to a therapy session with a psychiatrist. There weren’t any of those in Holy Oaks. There were, however, several people she knew who could have benefited from a couple of long talks with a “head” doctor. Emma May Brie—as in the cheese—immediately came to mind. She was a perfect candidate for analysis. The sweet, but strange, woman wore a blue shower cap decorated with white daisies as a hat everywhere she went, rain or shine. She took if off for only one hour on Tuesday mornings when she got her hair done at Madge’s Magic, the local beauty shop that guaranteed to give every customer “volume.” Emma May wasn’t the exception to their promise. When she stepped outside the shop, her thinning gray hair was indeed twice the size, that is, until she put her daisy cap on and squished it all down.

  There were other residents who could also use a good psychiatrist, but the fact was, if the renowned Dr. Morganstern decided to go into private practice and hang his shingle out on Main Street, no one would ever go see him. It just wasn’t done. Problems were never discussed with outsiders, and anyone who was thought to be peculiar was simply given a wide path when he was having one of his “spells.”

  What was taking Pete so long? He’d asked her to wait for him in the dining room, but that had been at least ten minutes ago, and she was now so fidgety she couldn’t sit still. Just as she made up her mind to go back downstairs and finish sorting the laundry, the swinging door from the kitchen opened.

  “I’m sorry I made you wait,” Pete said as he entered, “but Monsignor and I got to talking and I didn’t want to interrupt a story he was telling me about one of his parishioners.”

  He closed the double doors leading to the hallway to insure privacy.

  Although she had requested the meeting, she was suddenly dreading it because she knew what she wanted to ask him, and part of her was worried sick that he would agree.

  “There now,” he remarked as he sat down.

  She couldn’t seem to sit still and was tapping her foot against the hardwood floor so vigorously her knee was making the table wobble. When she realized what a telltale sign that was about her mental state, she forced herself to stop. It was impossible to relax, so she sat ramrod straight, as stiff as a corpse, in the uncomfortable chair that made a squeaky sound of protest every time she moved.

  Shards of sunlight filtered into the room through the old-fashioned, Victorian lace curtains, and the air smelled faintly of overly ripe apples. There was a large oriental bowl filled with fruit in the center of the table.

  Pete didn’t show any signs of rush
ing. He opened the conversation by asking her how she was holding up.

  “I’m doing all right.” Could he tell she was lying?

  Silence followed her response. He continued to patiently wait for her to gather her thoughts and tell him what was on her mind. She felt like a fool because she was having so much trouble getting the words out. What had seemed like a perfectly sound plan a half hour ago now seemed deranged.

  “Have you ever skied?”

  If Pete was surprised by the question, he didn’t let it show. “No, as a matter of fact, I haven’t. I’ve always wanted to try it though. What about you?”

  “Yes, I used to ski all the time. The school I attended was surrounded by mountains.”

  “You attended boarding school in Switzerland, didn’t you?”

  “Yes,” she answered. “And I’d go up into the mountains every chance I could. I love skiing, and I actually got pretty good at it. Since I’ve been in America, I’ve gone to the slopes in Colorado a few times. I’ll always remember how it felt that very first time I took the lift up to the top of a black . . . they rate the slopes by degree of difficulty, you see. Green is for beginners, blue is for the intermediate skier, and the blacks are reserved for the experienced who want more of a challenge. There are other ratings too, like diamonds and double diamonds,” she rambled on. “Anyway, the first time I stood on the edge of what appeared to be a sheer drop-off, I took the longest time gathering my courage to push off. I felt like I was standing on the cliffs of Dover. It looked that steep to me. I was terrified . . . but determined.”

  “And talking to me is like standing on that precipice again?” Pete asked.

  She nodded. “Yes, it is . . . because I know that, like that mountaintop, once I push off, there’s no going back.”

  There was an uncomfortable pause before Laurant started again. “I guess I should start by being completely honest, shouldn’t I? I’d be wasting your time otherwise. I told you I was doing all right, but that wasn’t true. I’m a mess inside, and I feel like I’m tied in a thousand knots.”

  “That’s understandable.”

  “I suppose so,” she agreed. “All I can think about is . . . him. My concentration’s shot,” she added. “When I was doing the laundry for Monsignor, I was thinking about what I wanted to ask you, and I accidentally poured an entire bottle of bleach in with the sheets before I realized what I was doing. A very large bottle of bleach,” she emphasized.

  Pete smiled. “Think of the positive. They’ll be nice and white.”

  “They were green and blue stripe when I put them in the washer.”

  He laughed. “Oh dear.”

  “I’ll have to buy him a new pair,” she said. “But as you can see, I’m having a little trouble . . .”

  “Staying focused?”

  “Yes. My mind’s racing, and I feel so . . . guilty.”

  Monsignor knocked on the door and poked his head inside.

  “Laurant, I’m heading over to the hospital to make my rounds. I shouldn’t be gone long, and Mrs. Krowski will be here soon. Would you mind catching the phone calls until she arrives? Father Tom can handle any emergencies.”

  “Yes, of course, Monsignor.”

  Pete stood. “Just a minute, Monsignor.”

  Excusing himself, he went into the hall and called for Noah. Laurant heard footsteps on the stairs and then Pete spoke again. “Ask Agent Seaton to drive Monsignor and stay with him.”

  The old priest balked at the idea of having an escort, arguing that he could drive his own car, but Pete gently cut him off and firmly insisted that the agent accompany him. Monsignor realized it was pointless to argue and reluctantly agreed.

  Apologizing, Pete returned to Laurant. Nick followed him into the dining room, closed the door behind him, and then leaned against it. Folding his arms across his chest, he winked at her, and his body language told her in no uncertain terms that he wasn’t planning on leaving anytime soon.

  “Did you wish to speak to Pete?” she asked.

  “Nick asked to join us,” Pete said. “I told him it was up to you.”

  She hesitated a moment. “Okay. But, Nick,” she demanded, looking him right in the eye, “I would appreciate it if you didn’t interrupt or argue when you hear what I have to say. Promise me.”

  “No.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I said no.”

  Pete seized control of the conversation then. “You said you were feeling guilty. Why?”

  Deciding to ignore Nick, she stared at the delicate rose pattern on the oriental bowl when she answered. “I want to run away and hide until you catch him, and I’m ashamed because I feel that way.”

  “You have nothing to feel ashamed about, and your desire to run away is quite natural,” Pete said. “I’m certain I’d feel the same way.”

  She wasn’t buying that. “No, you wouldn’t. My reaction is cowardly and selfish.”

  Suddenly feeling restless, she got up and walked over to the front window. Lifting the lace curtain, she looked outside just as Monsignor was getting into the passenger seat of a black sedan.

  “You’re being too hard on yourself,” Pete said. “Fear isn’t a flaw, Laurant. It’s a safety mechanism.”

  “He’s out there now . . . looking for another woman, isn’t he?”

  Neither Pete nor Nick answered.

  “Get away from the window,” Nick ordered.

  She immediately stepped back and let go of her tight grip on the curtain.

  “Are you worried he’s watching the rectory now?” She took a step toward Nick. “You told me you thought he’d accomplished what he came here to do and that he was on his way home.”

  “No,” Nick corrected. “I told you he was probably gone. We aren’t taking any chances.”

  “Is that why Monsignor has an escort today? Yes, of course it is.”

  “As long as you and Tom are here, Monsignor will have an agent watching out for him,” Pete added.

  “We’re putting him at risk?”

  “It’s just a precaution,” he insisted.

  “This man . . . he’s going to kill another woman soon, isn’t he?”

  Pete chose his words carefully. “Until we can prove otherwise, we must assume he was telling Tom the truth. Therefore, the answer is yes, he’s going to take another woman soon.”

  “He’ll torture her and kill her.” The room seemed to be closing in on her, and she took a deep breath in an attempt to collect herself. “And he won’t stop with just one more, will he? He’s going to keep on killing and killing.”

  “Come and sit down, Laurant,” Pete said.

  She did as he requested, sitting sideways in the chair to face him. Her hands were clasped on her knees. “I have a plan.”

  He nodded. “You’re ready to push off that mountaintop, aren’t you?”

  “Something like that,” she agreed. “I still want to run away,” she added. “But I’m not going to do that.” Out of the corner of her eye she saw Nick straighten. “I want to catch him.”

  “We will get him,” Pete assured her.

  “But I can help you,” she said. “And I have to help. For a lot of reasons,” she added. “First and foremost are those women out there who don’t have an inkling that this monster is looking for his next victim. They’re the overriding reason I’m not going to hide.”

  Pete was frowning in anticipation. When he began to shake his head, she knew he had guessed what she wanted to do, and so she hurried to explain before he put an end to the discussion.

  “I can be very stubborn and determined, and once I make a decision, I stick to it. All my life other people have tried to control what I do. After my mother died, the lawyers handling the trust made all the decisions for me. That made sense when I was young, but as I got older, I began to resent their totalitarian tactics. They certainly weren’t interested in how I felt, and I wanted to at least have some input in the decision making, but that wasn’t allowed. They decided what schools I wo
uld attend, where I would live, and how much or how little I could spend.”

  She paused to take a quick breath and then continued. “It took me a long time to get out from under their control, but I finally managed it, and I’ve found a place where I feel that I belong . . . really belong. Now this monster is trying to take that away from me. I can’t let him do that. I won’t.”

  “What is it you want me to do?”

  “Use me,” she blurted out. “Set a trap and use me to get to him.”

  “Are you out of your mind?” Nick exploded.

  She heard the anger in Nick’s voice but tried to ignore him. She kept her gaze fixed on Pete. “Help me convince my brother that I should go back to Holy Oaks. That’s the first step,” she said. “You have no idea how scared I am, but the way I see it . . . I don’t really have a choice.”

  “The hell you don’t,” Nick argued.

  She glanced up at him. “The only way I can get my life back is to take control.”

  “It’s out of the question,” Nick insisted.

  “No, it isn’t out of the question,” she said, surprised at how calm she sounded. “Pete, if I go back home after he’s told my brother to hide me away, won’t he see it as a challenge?”

  “Yes, I’m sure he will,” he agreed. “This is a game to him. Otherwise, why would he have mentioned Nick? He knows Nick is with the FBI, and he wants to prove that he is much more intelligent than any of us.”

  “Then if I go back to Holy Oaks, he’ll think I’m playing into his hand, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “There’s no way in hell you’re going back until this bastard is either dead or behind bars,” Nick said.

  “Will you please let me finish and then you can argue?”