Unforeseen: (Tenth Anniversary Edition) (Thomas Prescott Book 1) Page 11

  Lacy and Conner jumped out to an early lead, then folded, leaving the door open for the team of Prescott/Dodds-Adults to claim victory. Conner was considerably razed about the loss and exited stage left to cool off. Lacy followed him out, and in the heat of the celebration, I may have accidentally bumped lips with my partner. Okay, we made out. Heavily.

  I assumed Conner and Lacy walked home because they didn’t interrupt Caitlin and my heavy petting and weren’t sitting on the front stoop when I went to check on them an hour later. I’m not sure if I were thirsty for Caitlin or for the touch of a woman, but either way, I was parched.

  The next couple hours were a blur of skin, couch cushions, bed sheets and shower tile. Accompanied by a cacophony of pants, moans, and sighs. Lots of sighs.

  I woke up to an amazing dream involving me and a woman. And as much as it pains me to admit it, the woman was not Caitlin Dodds. The dream had ended with one Miss Alex Tooms and I doing extremely naughty things. It took me a moment to register the correlation of the naughtiness in my dream and the naughtiness being performed by unnamed party at said moment. I have to admit, I preferred this to the blaring of an alarm. Had I somehow given Caitlin the wrong impression by sleeping with her last night? If so, whoopsy-daisy.

  There was a clash of philosophies between Big Thomas and Little Thomas and after a long debate, Big Thomas prevailed as top Nietzsche. I wrestled LT from Caitlin’s grip and rolled out of bed. She lifted the sheets from over her head and revealed her stark naked form, giving rise to an unscheduled October caucus. I found my boxer briefs and pulled them on before Paddington could get in his closing argument.

  Caitlin gave me an arbitrary glance and said, “You seem to be in a hurry to get out of here.”

  Yes, one does not dilly-dally at the scene of a crime. I thought about those lucky black widow males, cleared my throat and said, “You know how it goes, early bird catches the sadistic serial killer.”

  She furrowed her brow and said, “I see.”

  I see are two words that have never in the history of the world led to anything good when spoken from the mouth of a woman. Caitlin was suddenly Eve, covering all her fun parts with the bed sheet. I glanced around for a discarded apple core or a slithering snake, but saw neither.

  Caitlin languidly hunkered into the bathroom and I was left to ponder my position. Whatever emotion I felt, somewhere between guilt and entrapment, I knew it wasn’t love. Caitlin and I would have to chat. I’d see if she had an opening sometime in February.

  I heard the shower turn on and pulled on my ensemble (96 hours for anyone counting). I knew Caitlin, and I knew she wasn’t in the shower. She was sitting on the toilet with her face buried in her hands. I also knew the bathroom door wasn’t locked. I could walk in, pull her to me, and erase all her troubles. I threw on my clothes and left before the notion crossed my mind.

  Chapter 20

  I was penciled in to meet the task force at nine, a meeting I—and at least one other person—knew I would be absent. I wasn’t a vigilante, but I preferred to march to the beat of my own drum, or less perfunctory, the plunk of my own cowbell.

  As for Tristen, it was my move and I had an inkling Mr. Grayer was the type of guy who needed a view of the board, needed to watch me move my bishop firsthand. I tried to brainstorm a place that would make me especially vulnerable to a tailing and decided on the Kittery outlets. The Kittery outlets are east coast famous, more than a half mile littered with close to three hundred retail outlets. I was squeaky clean, a silver lining to Caitlin and my Lever 2000 enhanced copulation, but I did need some new duds.

  I headed south on I-95 for Kittery, a small town just north of the Maine-New Hampshire border. During the hour drive my phone rang three times. The first call was from Jennifer’s father notifying me Jennifer’s funeral was set for the following Monday. I told him I’d be there. The second was from Conner warning me everyone was pissed at me for ditching the meeting. I told him I was in a car accident and would be there shortly. The third was from Todd Gregory apprising me I had no such accident and to get there ASAP. I told him I was inside the Federal Building but my ID badge had somehow been programmed incorrectly and I kept going to BB4.

  I bought a pair of shoes and some running gear at the Asics outlet, two suits at the Armani Exchange, a couple costumes from Kenneth Cole, and a bunch of sailing gear from Nautica. If I thought most of the stores were barren for customers it was because they were all hanging out at the food court. All twelve of them.

  The girl behind the Panda Express parapet looked of oriental origin and for some reason I knew my orange chicken would taste better because of this. I washed it down with Dr. Pepper and traded glances with a group of girls a couple tables away. None of the other clientele caught my eye, which doesn’t mean none of them were Tristen Grayer. It would be much easier if these serial killer types would wear their work clothes out. A blood soaked cardigan usually drew my attention.

  Chapter 21

  Eaton College of Criminal Justice was located at the base of Eaton Mountain in the town of Skowhegan. To Mainers, Eaton was a mountain. To me, a native of Washington state, it was more of a hill with attached billboard. I think the elevation was something in the outlandish vicinity of two thousand feet. Uh-oh, better get the oxygen tanks out.

  The college was one of the best in the New England region for cop wannabes, budding detectives, and those with their eyes on the prize, the almighty Federal Dick. There weren’t many cars in the student lot; the only bustling around campus were the leaves and the teachers going home for the day. I found my classroom and saw nearly every seat was occupied. Today’s class session was the equivalent of a Hollywood premier.

  I had a feeling my sister would be in attendance and picked her out sitting between Ashley Andrews and Caleb Barstow. Caleb Barstow was a spitting image of Keanu Reeves, only with blood pumping through his veins. Ashley Andrews was a Tuscan Princess who had formed a comrade in arms relationship with Lacy, being there were only four other women in Criminal Justice 204.

  The name of the course was Investigative Techniques. Students learned the primary methods used in crime scene evaluation and search, the recording and collection of physical evidence, the basic techniques of crime scene management, photography, drawing and reporting, finger print and firearms identification as well as serology and trace evidence. The course was two semesters. Each semester consisted of fifteen two-hour sessions, meeting once a week on Wednesdays. This was the fifth session of the second semester.

  The student’s faces went somber when I entered. I didn’t wait for the questions, recounting my Tristen Grayer theory for the masses. We spent two hours dissecting the crime scene, but made little to no headway. There just wasn’t anything to go on. We could round up every woman in Maine with a last name beginning with the letter R, but I didn’t have the National Guard programmed into my phone. To be brutally honest, I think there were only seventeen.

  With an hour left, I retired to my office down the hall and ordered ten pizzas of different makes and sizes. I unlocked my desk and extracted an Eaton College of Criminal Justice inscribed check. This fell under classroom use, right?

  Lacy was sitting on my desk when I returned. She turned as I approached, “Hey, prof.”

  I plopped down next to her, gently patted her thigh, and asked, “What did you get into today?”

  “I ran some errands—or make that—Caleb and I ran some errands.” She pinched my leg.

  I pinched her back. “I hope you know what you’re doing Lace.”

  “Just some innocent fun. Isn’t his surveillance easier if I’m sitting shotgun in his car.”

  I told her about my purchases at the outlet mall and she said, “Hmm, maybe I’ll have Caleb surveillance me to the outlets tomorrow.”

  “Who’s going to help you in the dressing room?” She raised her eyebrows and I couldn’t help but laugh.

  The pizzas came twenty minutes later and the students gave me a standing ovation. I grabb
ed two slices of supreme and retired to my desktop; Ashley Andrews plopping down next to me with a slice of cheese. If I were five years younger I would have no problem breaking the time-honored tradition of not screwing the brains out of one of your students.

  Ashley had jet-black hair, dark olive skin, and looked like she commuted from Tuscany, which is where her parents still live to this day. Ashley picked a mushroom off my slice of pizza, placed it on a section of her cheese, and took a bite. She leaned forward to catch a gob of dripping cheese, exposing a small dolphin tattoo on her lower back, as well as the infinitesimal beginnings of a purple thong.

  Drool bucket please.

  Ashley sat back, “I think your sister has a thing for Caleb.”

  “I concur.”

  “Although she’ll probably be disappointed with the size of his dick after being with Conner.”

  Conner’s unit was the likes of an anaconda digesting a two-foot salami and I was wondering how Ashley had stumbled on the eighth wonder of the world. There was a rumor going around at the Bangor Police Department that when Conner took a leak he threw his wanger in the toilet and blew bubbles.

  I asked, “Where’d you hear about Conner?”

  “Your sister told me. She said, ‘It tickled her tonsils,’ and not when she was doing what you’d think.”

  I decided to change the subject, “So how’s your love life?”

  She rubbed my leg, “Not as interesting as it could be.”

  Lacy said Ashley would drop her off at Conner’s and I locked up the classroom. I was set to drive home, when I realized I had no idea where home was. My house would be sealed for another day or two and Caitlin’s place was out of the question. That left only one alternative—Alex’s. I was only ten minutes from her house and if I remembered correctly her exact words had been, “You know it’s only me in that big house. You’re welcome to any of the guest bedrooms.”

  I started toward her place. I mean, what’s the worst that could happen? Then I thought about the best that could happen. I laughed to myself and smiled.

  Chapter 22

  As I pulled up to Alex’s house, the gate swung inward. I had a notion to hop out and snip a couple wires, but I thought I’d already done enough damage to Alex’s property. Her Jeep was parked in her usual spot and I parked in my usual spot.

  I walked to the front door and a minute later the door swung inward. Alex had her hair pulled back and rimless glasses pushed down on her nose. She had on a white tank top, sans bra, and mesh BC gym shorts. I wasn’t sure if Alex’s nipples were hard because of me or because it was cold, but either way they were testing the limits of the cotton gin.

  She folded her arms over her breasts and said, “Oh, it’s you.”

  Not exactly the words a house crashing guest longs for. She turned on her heel, leaving the door ajar, and I ran back to my car and grabbed the Asics and Nautica bags from the trunk. Alex was standing in the doorway when I returned, her torpedoes covered beneath an enormous Winnie the Pooh hooded sweatshirt. What was it with women and that damn bear?

  I followed Alex to a large guest bedroom with adjoined bath. The shower was barren and didn’t appear to have been used since its inception. I told her I needed to take a shower and she asked if I needed to borrow a razor. I had a feeling this was a loaded question; most women didn’t care if you were clean shaven unless they planned on your cheeks touching either pair of their cheeks.

  I told her I was okay in that department but could use some soap and shampoo. She retreated into the room directly across from mine and came back with the aforementioned necessities. I jumped in the shower, dried off, threw on a clean pair of boxer briefs and some light blue running slickers. I pulled a red hooded sweatshirt from the Nautica bag and unfolded it. I wiggled my head through the hood opening and when I finally popped through, I had a new found respect for the rite of birth. Three or four inches of my wrists were exposed and when I took a deep breath the waist hiked up above my navel.

  I walked into the living room where Alex was sitting on her leather couch flipping through the channels on her flat screen. She gave me a once over before erupting in laughter. I beat her to the punch, “I bought it at the Nautica outlet. It’s an extra-large.”

  “Are you sure you didn’t accidentally stumble into Nautica Kids?”

  “There’s a Nautica Kids?”

  “Nautica is on the east side of the pavilions and Nautica Kids is on the west.”

  Well, since I hadn’t even ventured to the east side, I guess we’d stumbled on the problem. “I wondered why the clerk asked if I were teaching my son to sail.”

  She grinned. “Here switch me.”

  Before I could refuse she had the Pooh sweatshirt off and ready to trade. I pulled my head back into the womb and handed the sweatshirt to Alex. She pulled it on and it fit her immaculately. I pulled on the Pooh sweatshirt and I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t the most comfortable garment I’d ever donned.

  Alex retreated into the kitchen and I ran out to the car to snag my cell phone. I turned it on and saw I had five missed calls from the same number. The area code was 603. 603 meant Virginia. Virginia meant FBI. FBI meant Todd Gregory, Wade Gleason, or Charles Mangrove, none of whom I felt like being chastised by.

  I dialed Lacy, made sure she was okay, then hung up when I heard Conner ask to speak to me in the foreground.

  When I entered the living room, Alex was walking in with two beers and a plate of cheese and crackers. I grabbed a piece of salami, some cheddar, and a Triscuit before plopping down next to her. My cell phone chirped and I checked the number, again 603.

  I switched the phone to vibrate and set it atop the glass coffee table. The phone stopped pulsating then started back up ten seconds later. Alex raised her eyebrows, “You gonna answer that?”

  She picked up the phone and I asked, “Is it a 603 area code?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Don’t answer it.”

  She smirked. “Why, do you have a lady friend in New Hampshire you owe child support?”

  “No, why?”

  “603 is New Hampshire.”

  I resituated myself. “No, 603 is Virginia.”

  She shook her head. “My grandparents live in New Hampshire. It’s 603, trust me.”

  The phone had stopped vibrating and I snatched it from Alex’s open palm. I called the number back and it was answered on the first half ring, “Mr. Prescott?”

  I didn’t recognize the voice. “Who is this?”

  “This is Kevin, your, um, neighbor.”

  Uh-oh.

  I took a calming breath and asked, “Why do you have a New Hampshire area code?”

  “That’s, um, where my dad lives.” His voice cracked. “You said to, um, call if I, uh, if I saw the boat.”

  Super uh-oh.

  “When?”

  “Half an hour ago. We were on our way out and saw it pull up to the lighthouse.” I was already at the door. “Is the boat still there?”

  “No, it just left.”

  Mega uh-oh.

  I hung up as I reached the Range Rover. The only difference between this time and forty-eight hours earlier was that Alex was already buckled in the passenger seat.

  As we approached the gate Alex rolled her window down to punch her exit code. I accelerated past the box and hit the gate going around forty, wearing it as a hood ornament for half a block.

  Alex rolled up her window and said, “I hated that gate.”

  I looked at the dash, it was 10:37 P.M. The second woman was found at 11:11 P.M. on October 3rd.

  We pulled up to my house at eleven on the nose. I drove through the yard, around the house, up the beach, and to the foot of the granite breakwater. There was a deep fog over the water and the second half of the granite stretch was thoroughly obscured. I could make out two streams of light canvassing the shore and the lights turned out to be Kevin and his gang with flashlights. Alex and I made it to them as the foghorn erupted for the first time. The kids want
ed to be part of the action and I had to do some yelling. To rub salt in the wound, Alex and I took their flashlights.

  We made good time until we hit the fog. It was thick and the refraction from the flashlights made it difficult to see my contact lenses. Talk about eerie. You could hear the gulls squawk and waves crash against the side of the breakwater, but could see neither. So there we were playing hopscotch across the large gaps; gulls whining, waves crashing, foghorn blaring, Thomas Prescott screaming obscenities.

  The two of us made it to the back of the lighthouse as the foghorn blared for a fifteenth time. There was a small dock at the southern edge of the lighthouse and I noticed the mooring lines billowing in the current. I etched this on the dry-erase board in my brain and pulled myself up the seven feet to the lighthouse’s concrete foundation. The door to the lighthouse had long ago been torn from the hinges and the concrete steps were soaked to the bone with seawater. I shined the flashlight up the spiral staircase, illuminating three and about half a fourth stair. No blood so far.

  As I took the first stair I took in a deep breath of the acrid lighthouse air. The walls were caked with lime and sodium nitrate deposits; somewhat reminiscent of my bathroom in college. Alex and I made the first turn and continued our ascent up the spiral stairway. The foghorn erupted, shaking the structure to near collapse.

  We took the last turn and an intense white light filled the room. The concrete was slippery wet and I fell to my knees, my flashlight reverberating off the stone floor. When I lifted my head I saw my hand was lying in a thicket of black hair. I ripped my hand from the tangles, sending the attached skull, brain, and what was left of the victim’s face cascading across the small chamber. Alex had fallen just behind me and was rolling amid the carnage, her arms and jeans caked in blood.