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  Oscar didn’t call until that night, when Terry was in front of the TV. “Where have you’ve been? I’ve been trying your cell all day.”

  “I’ve been tied up. It hasn’t been as easy I thought getting the dope on these women. I’ve burned through my free minutes for the next six months.”

  “Are you home?”

  “No, I’m about twenty miles north of Delano, in a motel. I can’t drive anymore. I’m totally knackered.”

  Terry smiled. It wasn’t been the first time Oscar slipped in some English slang. Terry had first noticed it worming its way into Oscar’s speech on their road trip. He wasn’t sure if Oscar was aware of the Britishisms sneaking into his conversation. It warmed Terry to think he was corrupting American society.

  “What did you find out?”

  Oscar was silent for a moment before answering. “Hope Maclean exposed corruption in the City of Delano as the Bugle claimed. Five members of the city council were convicted of embezzlement, but the mayor wasn’t.”

  “Was he innocent?”

  “No, he was the ringleader. He skipped bail.”

  “How did Hope Maclean die?”

  “Do you need to ask?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. Two months after the convictions, she had her throat cut and her tongue removed. They had a suspect but never made an arrest.”

  “Who was it?”

  “The mayor. The cops were closing in on him, and he’d made threats toward Hope at the time. They found him in his car in a Fresno vineyard with a gunshot wound to the head. In their opinion, they had their man and closed the case.”

  No, this couldn’t be right. If the mayor had killed Hope Maclean, that torpedoed Terry’s theory that the same person had killed all the women on Sarah’s list. He didn’t accept that. The Delano cops were wrong.

  “Did they have a suicide note? Did he confess?”

  “Hard to say. The note was vague, saying things like I am responsible. I am guilty of all crimes. Stuff like that. Nothing that actually said it was me, here are where the bodies are buried, yadda, yadda, yadda.”

  “He didn’t do it.”

  “I know. It can’t be a coincidence.”

  “How did you find all this out?”

  “I got friendly with the city clerk. She gave me all I needed to know over a long lunch.”

  “How long a lunch?” Terry teased.

  “Long enough.”

  “Okay, I won’t pry. What about Christy Richmond?”

  “That’s what ate up all my time. I couldn’t find any record of her. She wasn’t in Anaheim. The cops weren’t too cooperative for obvious reasons. They didn’t want me poking into their dark past, seeing as she fingered four of their own.”

  “Did they want to know why you were asking?”

  “Yeah, but I came up with some cover story and made like Carl Lewis. I did find out about her, but it wasn’t easy. She led a life where you don’t leave a forwarding address.”

  Oscar went into unpleasant details about how he’d descended into the seedy side of California life, chatting up hookers to see if anyone remembered Christy Richmond. But prostitutes were like milk—none of them had a long shelf life. There were no career hookers in Anaheim dating back longer than a tomato season.

  While making a nuisance of himself, he’d run into a nasty pimp. The pimp knew Christy, and for another chunk of cash Oscar got a little piece of history.

  “Jesus, I’m sorry to have gotten you mixed up in this stuff.”

  “Don’t be stupid. It was my choice…and to be honest, it was exciting.”

  “That kind of excitement can get you killed.”

  “But it didn’t.”

  “Okay, Dirty Harry, if she wasn’t in Anaheim, where did she go?”

  “Well, the cops didn’t make it easy for Christy after the conviction, and she moved to LA, then Hollywood. She was murdered in April 2002—found in a Dumpster with her throat cut and her tongue missing. Because she had no identification and Hollywood vice had never busted her, she was reported as a Jane Doe.”

  “How do you know the Jane Doe is Christy?”

  “From her physical description and her distinguishing death. The cops never had anyone else killed in the same manner.”

  “Did they pin it on anyone?”

  “Nah. They didn’t put too much effort into finding her killer. She was a hooker, and they guessed either her pimp or a john had killed her. If they found someone who did, then great, but if they didn’t, it was no great loss to them.”

  “Is that the way of the world these days?” Terry lamented.

  “Unfortunately.”

  Terry exhaled and sank into the couch. Everyone on Sarah’s list had been killed in the same horrific way. Had she been investigating this series of missing and murdered women only to realize she’d put herself on the hit list? Is that why she’d gone missing? Had the killer worked out she was onto him and snatched her? He hoped not, because if the killer had her, there was nothing anyone could do to save her. He prayed she was in hiding. He felt old, tired and defeated.

  “I need to go, bud,” Oscar said. “I can’t keep my eyes open. I need some serious sleep. Maybe if I sleep on it, I’ll be able to make more of the connection.”

  “What connection?”

  “The connection between the women and Sarah. Why has the killer targeted Sarah?”

  “Because she was investigating their deaths.”

  “Maybe, but think about this. Besides all these women having been murdered the same way, they have one other commonality.”

  “They were all whistle-blowers,” Terry said.

  “Give that man a see-gar.”

  “But I don’t see a connection to Sarah.”

  “Come on, Sherlock, take the next big step.”

  The fog that had clouded Terry’s thoughts lifted and an explanation presented itself. “Sarah blew the whistle on someone.”

  “Bingo! Find out who and we find the killer.”

  Around four the next afternoon, the heavens opened and the storm was only warming up by the time Terry got home from work. As he pulled into the garage, the wipers made a final sweep across the Monte’s windshield, and Terry could see again. Up until then, the world had been a smeared vision of reality.

  Terry stood at the entrance of his garage and watched the rain bounce off the street. Water pitter-pattered off the Chevy onto the garage floor. He found the storm comforting. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t seen a storm before, but according to all the tourist propaganda he’d ever seen, California was meant to be sunny 24-7. The unexpected rain made California fallible, just like him. He’d seen enough, and he hit the button to close the garage door.

  He switched on the television. It didn’t matter which channel. He was tired of coming home to a silent house. He just wanted the noise. He stretched out on the couch and watched the news. The weatherman was apologizing for the rain. From the onslaught he was taking from the news anchors, Terry expected the weatherman would have to commit ritual suicide for bringing such shame on the station.

  You think your problems are bad, Terry thought, a rainstorm is nothing. All day, he’d been preoccupied with Oscar’s revelation that Sarah might have blown the whistle on someone. Could her words have angered someone enough to incite them to kill her? He wanted to say no, but he knew that if you backed a person into a tight enough corner, there was no telling what they would do. Whoever she’d potentially offended, it had to be recent. Sarah’s run-in with Pamela came to mind, but none of the women on Sarah’s list appeared to be connected to Genavax. But that wasn’t true. He’d seen Frosty at Myda Perez’s hospital. Was there a connection there? He shook his head. The connotations were driving him crazy. They left him with more questions than answers. All he knew was there was a vindictive killer out there. That thought put a bleak complexion on the situation. The phone rang and he grabbed the handset in the kitchen.

  “Terry Sheffield.”

  “Terry, it’
s Marcus Beasley. I got your message. You think you know why Sarah’s missing?”

  Terry had called Sarah’s editor the night before, but had gotten the answering machine. He might not have the answers, but Marcus might.

  “I think she’s in hiding. Well, I hope she is. Someone’s trying to kill her.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Amongst Sarah’s notes, I found a list of women’s names. All of them are dead, and they were all murdered in the same way. Alicia Hyams was the fifth victim.” Beasley tried to break in with a question, but Terry didn’t let him and plowed on, theorizing that the women had been killed for exposing a scandal and Sarah was next because she was guilty of doing the same.

  “And you’re wondering if it’s connected to one of her stories?” Beasley asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I can see why you’d think that. I don’t know her past work that well—it’s all I can do to remember my own.”

  “Do you know anyone who would?”

  “Let me call around, shake a few trees, and see what falls out.”

  “I’d appreciate the help.”

  “Have you tried Tom Degrasse?”

  “No.”

  “Well, he knows Sarah pretty well. They swam in the same ponds. He might be able to help.”

  “I’ve got his number,” Terry said, remembering the card the news reporter had given him at the coffee shop.

  “I’ll call you back as soon as I have something.”

  Terry hung up, fished out Degrasse’s card from his wallet, and dialed the cell number. He got voice mail.

  “Doesn’t anyone answer their phone?” The recorded message ended and a beep sounded. “Tom, it’s Terry Sheffield, Sarah Morton’s husband. I think I know why Sarah is missing, and I need to know if one of her stories ever exposed an embarrassing scandal. Get back to me, please. Thanks.” He left his number and hung up.

  Turning his attention back to the television, he knew the reason why Tom Degrasse hadn’t answered his phone. He was on the TV screen, reporting on a controversial new road project, while the top of the screen blinked the word, “LIVE.”

  Ten minutes later the phone rang. “Tom, that was quick. I didn’t expect an answer so fast. I was just watching you.”

  “It’s not Tom.”

  Terry couldn’t speak. His thick and inflexible tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, and his heart raced. The sound of water gurgled in his ears, but it wasn’t the sound of the rain cascading down the windows he heard. Tears welled up in his eyes.

  “Terry? Are you there?”

  “Yes,” he croaked. “I’m here, Sarah.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “Miss me?” Sarah asked jovially.

  Terry choked on the question, not knowing whether to laugh or scream. How could she be so lighthearted about it? He’d been living on his nerves for weeks wondering if she were alive or dead, and she was asking whether he missed her. Anger boiled up inside him. He wanted to let her have it, both barrels, but he couldn’t. Just the sound of her voice left him ecstatic.

  He thanked God she was alive and well. Her image, hazy until now, snapped into sharp focus. He remembered her every facet, her light brown hair with the natural blonde strands forever rising to the surface whenever she touched it and her storm-gray eyes that consumed him. He smiled, thinking of her slightly rounded tummy, which she thought made her look fat, but he thought looked cute. He had a wife, and he could be a husband at last. Everything he’d come to America for could begin. The nightmare was over.

  “Where are you?”

  “Close.”

  Very close, he thought. The rain that rat-a-tat-tatted off his windows did likewise wherever she was.

  “Why don’t you come home?”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s not safe.”

  “Come home, I can protect you.”

  “Terry, you don’t know what I’m up against.”

  “I don’t care. Come home. If I can’t help you, I’ll get the police.”

  She dismissed his suggestion. “The cops are in no position to help.”

  “Come home, Sarah. Please.”

  “No. I can’t. I just wanted to say hi and let you know that I’m okay. I’ll call you again when things are safe.”

  “Oh, no you don’t.” Did she really think she could get away with a quick hello and good-bye? “I want an explanation.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Jesus, Sarah, stop saying you can’t. From the moment I landed in this bloody country, I’ve been wondering where the hell you are. You owe me an explanation.”

  “I know I do.”

  He didn’t give her time to answer. He wanted to get it all off his chest. The cork was out and all the fear, and he had to release all his bottled-up anger. He didn’t care about the mess.

  “Have you been watching the news at all? Have you?”

  She stammered, grappling for a response.

  “I’ve been in jail because of your disappearing act. First for breaking and entering, then for murder. People think I offed you, just like Alicia Hyams. And it all could have gone away if you’d made an appearance.”

  “I know what I’ve put you through and I’m sorry, but I couldn’t. It wasn’t safe. My hiding, my silence, was protecting you.”

  “Not good enough. You have no idea to what lengths I’ve gone to find you.”

  “I’m sorry, Terry.”

  “Why are you calling now? Why break your silence?”

  “Guilt, fear, you name it. I’m scared and alone out here and I hate what I’ve put you through. And I miss your voice. I was thinking about all the times we spent on the phone just talking about our lives together and now you’re here, but we’re still not together.”

  “It doesn’t have to be that way. Come home now or tell me where to find you and we’ll go into hiding together, but don’t shut me out.”

  “No, no, no. it isn’t safe. I do see this coming to an end. Really I do. I want to let you know I’m close to ending this. Just be patient and don’t worry.”

  “How can I not worry, Sarah? I love you.”

  He went to say more, but found he was done. There was no more mud left to fling. His heart stopped pounding, and he felt his pulse slow to normal. His grasp on the phone relaxed.

  Neither of them spoke for a minute. Terry listened to the stereophonic rain outside the window and on the phone.

  “I guess we just had our first fight,” Sarah said.

  He smiled. “I suppose we did.”

  “I’m sorry, Terry. I’ve treated you badly. But it had nothing to do with you. It’s the story I’m working on. It just landed in my lap, and when it did, I had to go for it. You were just caught in the middle. Bad timing, that’s all.”

  “Sarah, is that how it’s going to be every time? A story falls in your lap and you drop everything, including me?”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “I’ll admit it, I don’t.”

  “My work is important to me, Terry. Surely you see that.”

  “And I’m not important, is that it?”

  “Now you’re just twisting my words.”

  Maybe his friends back in England were right. He was too wrapped up in the romance of an international love affair to think straight. A whirlwind marriage with someone he hardly knew was a mistake. They would be hammering the point home if they knew what had been going on. Terry felt as dumb as they thought he was. He knew his relationship with Sarah might be rough and might not work, but he hated to think they were on the rocks already.

  “If you love me, you’ll come home,” he said.

  Her reply would either steer them aground or into safe waters.

  “Because I love you, I won’t.”

  “Sarah.”

  “Terry, this story could cost you your life. Five women are dead.”

  “I know.”

  “How?” She didn’t hide her surprise.
<
br />   “I found your notes.”

  “Then you know that I’m in danger. I’m not trying to be a heartless bitch, just a good wife. This story is big, but at the same time it’s deadly, and I would never forgive myself if you got hurt.”

  “Sarah, I’m willing to take that chance. I want to be involved. Dammit, I am involved.”

  “No, you’ll come to understand that I’m right.”

  “Tell me why these women were killed.”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “Then tell me why the killer blames you.”

  “What?” Her voice trembled.

  “You exposed someone. Who was it?”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because those dead women exposed people, and you’re a reporter—that’s your job.”

  Sarah’s phone picked up the noise of a car roaring past. “I’ve got to go.”

  “Give me your number?”

  “I’ll call you.”

  “Sarah, don’t do this to me. Please give me your number.”

  “Speak to you soon.” She was trying to sound as if nothing was wrong, but she failed. Her voice cracked. Tears weren’t far away.

  “Sarah, don’t.”

  She wasn’t listening. The investigative journalist in her took over. “I’ll call soon.”

  “Sarah!” he shouted, but she’d hung up.

  “Dude, you’re wet,” Oscar said, closing Terry’s front door.

  After Sarah’s call, Terry had been angry with her for hanging up on him. He’d cooled off by standing in the rain, and he hadn’t bothered to towel himself off.

  “Sarah called,” he said in a flat tone, all emotion drained from him.

  “When?”

  Noticing that he was dripping on the floor and a chill was seeping in, Terry tugged his shirt off and pulled out a towel from a closet. “About half an hour ago.”

  Oscar followed him to the closet. “Where is she?”

  “She wouldn’t say.” Terry toweled off his hair and face.

  “Why?”

  “Too dangerous.”

  Oscar frowned.

  “Yeah, well, that’s how I feel about it too,” Terry admitted.

  “Did she leave a number?”

  Terry shook his head and tossed the towel in the bathroom sink.