I type Jeff Turnbill and Greenfield California into the search bar but pause before hitting enter. I stare out at the blackness. The sun-filled, snow white sand and azure blue ocean have disappeared, leaving only a mass of gray bordered by endless black water.
I turn back to the monitor and adjust it so I can see more than just my own reflection, a pitiful sight at that, with my red hair curling and cresting in every direction. At least some of the color has returned to my face, and the dark circles are all but gone. Without any more time to think about it, I click enter. I get entries with the name and with the city but nothing connected. I click on a few of the entries with Jeff Turnbill. There's an older attorney near the town of Greenfield with the matching name, but that's about the closest thing I can find for a match.
I click on a site that a realtor has put together touting the desirable attributes of Greenfield. It's a typical Northern California town with plenty of green landscape from rain and small town shops and restaurants. I scroll down and see that the high school for the town is named after the town founder, who, oddly enough, is not named Greenfield. Arthur P. Moore founded Greenfield in 1908. He was a logger who eventually owned a massive sawmill. The realtor notes that Moore High School is a California Distinguished School that has sent many athletes to college with scholarships. Football is their claim to fame but they also have a competitive swim and dive team. Dive team. The pool area. The chaise lounge. Kane acting unusually normal. It alarms me at how instantly I'm transported back to my time in Lace Underground and how quickly my body reacts to those memories. This one, in particular. On the night with Kane by the pool I'd skipped the nectar to keep my wits about me while swimming with the other women. But that social event was cut short when Kane walked into the vast room that housed the Lace Underground pool. He quickly dismissed all the women, except me. He was in a rare, convivial mood. Rather than the usual wall slamming sex, it felt as if we were two people passionately making love. No leather shackles or sex toys. Just pure sex. That night we even talked, like two people connected in a relationship, albeit a bizarre one. Kane did something highly unusual. He opened up a tiny bit about his past, about there being too many terrible memories and a few good memories, like his glory days on the high school diving team. He'd even performed cliff diving shows in Mexico during his summer breaks. It was an unusual talent and one I never would have matched to him. But maybe that unique talent would help me find a match on the internet.
I type Moore High School, Jeff Turnbill, diving team into the search bar and hit enter. The first entry sucks the breath from me. It's a headline from the Greenfield paper. Turnbill takes Moore dive team to the finals.
My fingers are shaky as they hover over the keyboard. I've tried hard in the past month to separate myself from Kane and Lace Underground. It feels like, somehow, just researching his name is connecting me back to his world.
I take a breath and click on the article. A poorly shot, unfocused, black and white picture of a high school swim team is positioned front and center over the title article. The date is April, 2004. I lean closer to the monitor to get a better look. A pair of intense pale eyes pull me into the photo and hold me there. It's as if the boy in the picture is staring straight at me. I sit back hard against the couch cushion and catch my breath. He can't be more than sixteen or seventeen in the picture, but everything about him is hauntingly familiar. The hard, angry set of his jaw, the cool, almost icy gaze, the stiff, confident posture. His shoulders are broad but nothing compared to the man who held me firmly while fucking me in his underground lair. A warm blush covers my skin as I think about those moments, in his strong grasp, bending to every one of his commands and always wanting more of his erotic punishment.
I close my eyes to cool my head but it only serves to make me hotter. I wrap my fingers around one wrist to mimic the feel of the leather cuff. I lift the wrist high above my head, imagining his firm grip as he binds me to the bedpost. My panties stick against my pussy with moisture.
My phone rings, snapping me out of my sensual reverie. It's Silvana.
I take a deep breath and answer it. "Hey, Sil, what's up?"
"I decided to call. Texts leave too much of a trail."
I laugh. "A trail? Sounds secretive. What's going on? More information?"
"Yeah, but first, and this is purely gossip because I don't really know what went down, but Maddox and Clark had one of their infamous yell matches. In the meeting room, of all places. Neither of them looked too happy after it was over. Maddox walked out of the office after that so I never got a chance to ask him what was up."
"You know how those two love to butt heads. They'll be back kissy-lovey soon enough. What else is up? Did you find something?"
"Did I. Shit, Ten. That's all I can say. Holy shit."
"Really? I've just started researching Kane. I delayed it because, apparently, I'm a coward. But I just found his picture in a newspaper article about his high school dive team." The phone cuts out on his side, signaling he has another phone call. I fire off a quick question. "So what is the holy shit part of the story?"
"I think I'll let you find it yourself. It'll give you something to do and it's a whopper. Does the name Redmonton California ring any bells?"
"Can't say it does."
"The town name was in the paper a lot about twenty years ago." His phone beeps out again. "Shoot, I've got a call. Think it might be Clark. Remember, you haven't spoken to me about any of this. Later."
"But, Sil—" the call ends.
I adjust the computer on my lap and type in Redmonton California. There is a city site and a real estate site touting the beauty, parks and schools just like for Greenfield. I open a map tab and put in both cities. They are close to each other, separated mostly by railroad tracks and vacant land. Both towns are just inland from the coast and far north of San Francisco.
I scroll down a list of entries that don't seem to be of much worth. As my eyes glide past one headline, I see the name Paul Vossnik. It's an unusual name but it's familiar. It's a name I've heard before because it is newsworthy. I click on the entry. The horrid story behind the name comes instantly back to me. Paul Vossnik was a serial killer.
The earlier tremble has returned to my fingers. I have no explanation for it. Silvana's clue was so cryptic, I have no idea if I'm even getting close to Kane's past. But my cop's intuition says I'm heading toward something explosive.
I type in the name of the dreaded River Bend Slasher. That was the nickname the investigators gave him because every one of his victims' bodies was found at a particular bend in the local river. I vaguely remember seeing pictures of the man, mug shots mostly, and quick, rushed news photos as he was being led to and from police stations and courts. I hit enter. The first entry is a newspaper story. There's a picture to go with it. It's the usual fuzzy black and white newspaper photo. The date on the paper is April 1997 so the quality is especially lacking. Paul Vossnik is shrouded in a bullet proof vest, a necessity when transporting hated villains. His dark head is down making it nearly impossible to see his face.
I scan the article. "The monstrous River Bend Slasher has been identified as forty-five-year-old Paul Vossnik, a self-employed carpenter and once respected businessman in Redmonton, California. It is believed that Vossnik is responsible for the brutal murder of eight women over the span of three years. Vossnik's first alleged victim, thirty-year-old Verity Olson, a local prostitute, was found stabbed and nearly devoid of blood at the bend of the Durley River, a large tributary that carries mountain snow runoff to the Pacific Ocean. Over the next thirty-six months, the bodies of seven more women were discovered at the same river bend. Each one slashed beyond recognition. Each one of the victims was either homeless, a drifter passing through or a prostitute. To this day, several victims still remain listed as Jane Doe because no family member has stepped forward to identify or claim them."
I sit back and stare at the blurry picture of the creep that terrorized the area for three years. Eigh
t grisly murders. Eight. The wind is sucked out of me. Eight. Eight scars on Kane's forearm. His tally marks. Coincidence or heartbreaking reality?
I feel slightly nauseous. I place the laptop with the story about the serial killer aside and head to the refrigerator for a yogurt. I decided to wind down my junk food extravaganza and start eating some more real food, as my mom used to call it. I grew up thinking junk food like chips and donuts were made from some kind of plastic or manmade material until I was old enough to figure out my mom's use of the word real meant nutritious.
I carry my strawberry yogurt to the glass door and stare out at the shadowy landscape as I eat. Without the birds and passing beachcombers, it looks like a deserted planet. I drift back to that awful night when Kane had me dropped in the middle of nowhere. In my fear and adrenaline rush to survive, the emotion that stood out most of all was that Kane had so little regard for me, he was happy to see me tossed out like a piece of garbage. When he showed up, I was relieved not only to avoid an ugly death but to know he hadn't easily discarded me. He'd even secretly followed me around that night to make sure nothing happened to me. There were so many contradictions to the man but inside all the twisted wiring, it seemed there was a heart. Possibly even a bigger one than most.
I run my spoon around the yogurt cup to get the last bits. I haven't gained back much of the weight yet but I'm feeling stronger than ever. My road to recovery is still long but at least I'm on it.
I look back at the couch and the silver top on my laptop. My recovery doesn't just depend on me fitting snuggly in my jeans. Most of it depends on my mental health. Considering the trembling in my hands while I'm researching Kane Freestone's past, it seems that is still a long way off. It's hard to know what I'm grappling with more, the feeling that I lost a piece of myself when Clark led me out of Lace Underground or my utter lack of self-control once I entered Kane's world. I suppose it's easy enough to blame the nectar, but I hardly gave it a second thought once Blake started injecting it regularly. I accepted my addiction readily because I loved the way it made me feel. The entire incident has forever changed my view and opinion of the junkies we deal with on the streets. The streets. All the women Kane brought to the Underground were either homeless or from shelters. Another coincidence?
Fortified by real food, I return to my laptop. I swipe my finger over the touch pad and bring the news article back up. I scan for critical details. The investigators were chastised for missing critical clues. Apparently Vossnik used a century old bridge, the Delta, a truss bridge that spans the widest part of the river, to dump the bodies. Blood samples matching some of the victims were found along the railing but police were still baffled. It wasn't until the police received an anonymous letter about the trunk of a car and providing them with a license plate number that they zeroed in on the killer.
My eyes scan the next lines over and over again until I have them memorized. "Police said the letter was in a child's handwriting. The letter was later matched to a writing sample provided by Turner Vossnik, the murderer's ten-year-old son. Vossnik was a single father."
I push the computer onto the couch again and wrap the blanket around me to stop the chill running through my body. A chill that I'm fairly certain has nothing to do with ambient temperature in the room. Was Kane the boy? Was he Turner Vossnik?
A text comes through. It takes me a second to unwrap my arms and pick the phone up from the coffee table. It's Silvana. "Well?" It's just a one word text, but I know exactly what he's asking.
I text back. "Holy shit is right. I can't find any direct evidence but everything lines up. The foster care. The name change. Not to mention personal details I know about Kane that would fall right in line with the theory."
Silvana texts back. "This might help with direct evidence. I've only seen him in pictures but something tells me you'd know his face, even at ten."
I think about that statement. As high as I was when I with him, I'd know him anywhere and at any age. "Yes. I would." I text back.
Silvana sends a link back with a message. "I'm sure Vossnik's kid would have had his whole past scrubbed clean for his safety. It wasn't easy to find but someone discovered this picture somewhere along the way."
I click on the link. Uncle Nate's wifi is not exactly terrific and the download takes a few minutes.
"Well," Silvana's text comes through.
"I'm at Uncle Nate's remote beach hut, remember?"
He sends back a smiley face. The download opens. It's a grainy picture of a town picnic, a three legged race starting line, it seems. There are four dads standing with their sons, legs tied in the middle for the race. My eyes go straight to Paul Vossnik. Considering the poor quality photo in the newspaper article, I'm surprised how easy he is to pick out of the group. He looks like a perfectly unremarkable man, a hard-working member of the community, a local carpenter who is hiding a horrible, terrible secret. After a mental pep talk, I let my eyes drop to the boy with his leg tied to the serial killer. I could look at a picture with a million pairs of blue eyes and still pick out Kane's. Or in this case, Turner's. He's not more than nine or ten in the picture. The photo is flat and slightly faded but the intensity is there. It's the pain, the harrowing reality he had to keep sealed inside. I can see it in the picture because I've seen it many times in the man. There, in the nostalgic town picnic photo is a boy, a striking, beautiful, genius boy who is living in hell. He's standing amongst neighbors and friends who are smiling and laughing and no one sees it. No one sees his terror or pain. No one sees that he is standing next to a monster. Not just any monster but one who terrorized the same neighbors and friends for a three year span.
Silvana's text startles me and I drop the phone. "Did it download?"
"Yes," I text back. "Yes, it's him."
"How are you doing?" he asks as if he can sense my anguish through the phone. "Should I come by?"
"I'm fine. I think I'll take a break from this tonight. Lots to absorb. Good night."
"Good night, Ten. Call if you need me."
I put the phone down and close the laptop. Uncle Nate's wonderful blanket curls around me as I draw my arms across my body. I close my eyes in my cozy, self-made cocoon. I try to clear my head but it's impossible. Unbidden, the memory of the day my dad died surfaces. I told him I hated him. He'd done nothing more than critique my performance at a track meet, ignoring my wins and, as usual, going straight to the events I lost. And I told him I hated him.
Tears fill my eyes. Dad would have shaken his head and clucked his tongue at the sight of them. But he's not here to look askance. He's gone forever. But he wasn't a monster. I didn't live with a crazy man who slashed women like they were paper dolls.
I hug myself tighter, wanting to wash away everything I learned tonight. Wanting to wash away the past few months. If I didn't know Kane, the boy in the picture would just be some poor kid who lived through a terrible nightmare.
A knock on the door startles me sending my pulse into a fast drumbeat. A text follows. "Guess I should have sent the text first. I'm at the door."
I'm still shaken from the night's revelations. Suddenly, knowing that Maddox is standing just behind the front door makes me crumble. Tears are falling as I crawl out of my blanket and head to the door. It swings open before I reach it.
His tall, broad shouldered silhouette fills the doorway. "Hope it's all right." His deep voice is the soothing elixir I need. "I needed to see you." He shuts the door and steps into the house. The dim lights in the kitchen illuminate his incredible face. His gaze locks with mine. It's a short distance but I run toward him as if I have miles to cover.
I throw my arms around his neck.
I can see in his eyes that he's upset about something. He starts to speak, but I press my finger against his mouth and shake my head to let him know that it can wait. He notices for the first time that I've been crying. I slam my mouth against his before he can ask.
I blindly reach for the hem of his shirt and manage to push it up and off
of him with our mouths hardly parting. He pushes my sweatshirt off my shoulders and yanks off my shirt. My legs are shaking with wanting him. I push off my sweatpants and the panties drop with them.
The green of his eyes darkens with hunger as he glances down at my naked body. "Fuck, Ten," he groans as he reaches for me. I throw my arms around his neck and wrap my legs around his waist. Our mouths slam together as he carries me down the narrow hallway to the bedroom. He kicks open the door. The bed is in the center of the room but we never make it there. Maddox spins around. I gasp as my bare skin touches the cold plaster wall.
I cling to him like there is no other person on earth. It's more true than I'd like to admit. For me there has only ever been one person. He manages to push his pants down without parting from the kiss.
"Yes," I whisper. "Yes."
I moan against his mouth as he slides his cock into me. All the daydreams, all the fantasies about James Maddox holding me, kissing me, fucking me . . . "At last," I mewl against his mouth.
15
Maddox
Ten stretches just enough to lift her naked breasts above the edge of the covers. I can't stop myself from kissing them. She reaches up and presses her palm against the side of my face. I'm knocked breathless at the impact one tender touch of her hand has on me. I decide not to bring up the tears I saw when I walked inside the house. Things are fragile enough without me asking her questions. If she wants to tell me she will. I need to give her space. I guess the experts are right.
Her hand runs along my shoulder and down my chest. "So this is what all the hoopla is about with that hunky Detective Maddox," she says.
I drop my head back on the pillow. "Yep, this is the truth behind the hoopla. James Maddox fucks just like everybody else."
She props up on her elbow. It's her turn to kiss my chest. "Yes but he looks much better doing it."
"Good to know I'm not putting on any weird contorted face when I've got someone pinned against the wall." The sarcasm and humor is our way of avoiding anything serious. It used to work when we were just partners but now it seems like a way to prevent us from talking about our real feelings.