Page 16 of Water's Edge

Ronnie goes on. “It represents the eye of God watching over humanity.”

Organized killers plan their killing. They stalk a victim, decide when, where, and how to dispose of the body, and cover their trail. Disorganized killers are more likely to kill in the heat of the moment or on impulse. They select a target of opportunity, leave them where they kill them. Minimal attempt to cover their trail. No planning. This killer was definitely organized. He left the body where it wouldn’t be discovered quickly but knew eventually it would draw attention. He posed it. Maybe he left behind the symbol as well. After all, the posing of the body was symbolism. What it meant to the killer I don’t have a clue. It may mean he is watching out for the body. Watching the body. Was he watching us find the body?

Possibly.

Killers also get a kick out of seeing people horrified, or in pain, or at their worst.

I’m pulled out of my thoughts by Ronnie tapping my shoulder.

“Are you okay?” she asks.

“I’m just thinking about this case.”

“I looked up news media accounts of other deaths that occurred around the area.”

I’m slightly interested but now she doesn’t speak. I’m not playing this game.

“Ronnie, you have my permission to tell me things before I ask.”

She smiles, missing my point by a mile.

“I’ve jotted down the details, but the long and short of it is they are mostly boating accidents and accidental drownings, RV fires, stuff like that. Nothing ever happens on Marrowstone Island.”

Something has happened now.

“Should we go back and see what Crime Scene and Captain Martin come up with? Maybe they found some new evidence.”

Ronnie doesn’t give up very easily. Both are characteristics of a stalker and a good detective.

As I drive, Ronnie sits back and is silent for a change. No doubt planning my demise and imagining being swept off her feet by Captain Marvel and living happily ever after. I know there isn’t any happily ever after, but I don’t tell her. Instead, I notice that her suit is wrinkled.

For some reason that makes me smile.

Eight

The mattress is lumpy. Something is jabbing into her ribs. Sharp pain. She doesn’t know where she is. Her eyes fly open and she swings her legs over the side. She intends to get up but lands flat on her face. She can’t lift her legs. Something is tight around her ankles.

She pushes herself up from the floor to see and pain shoots through her ribs. She sucks in breath through clenched teeth and doesn’t dare move until the pain subsides. She wonders if she has broken her ribs. What is happening?

She twists her head and looks around but even moving her head causes a throbbing pain behind her eyes. Her first thought is that she’s been in a car wreck. But this isn’t a hospital room. The floor is sticky, grimy linoleum that was a light marbled color at one time but is now cracked all over and ripped up in places. A rotting wood floor peeks out from underneath.

She tries to draw her knees under her to get up. She can’t move them more than an inch. She lies on her chest again and is immediately sorry. She was right about the broken ribs.

“Where am I?” she says, first to herself and then louder. “Where am I? Is there anyone there?” She listens. No answer. Not even footsteps. A chill runs through her. She’s alone, hurt, unable to get to her feet. Even breathing causes lightning bolts of pain to shoot through her side and head, paralyzing her.

The pain subsides a little and she opens her eyes. Carefully, without moving her head, she looks around. She’s in a room with a high ceiling. She’s in an older home. There are piles of things stacked against the walls and rows of junk surrounding her. Piles of clothing, plastic packaging, dolls, picture frames, blankets, rugs, cloth that may be coats or more clothing or just bolts of material with narrow pathways between them. A portable sewing machine is half buried in one of the piles. The piles are set so close together, it would be impossible to get between them unless she moves sideways. Straight ahead, she can see part of a boarded-over window.

“Hello! Is anyone there?”

She screams this as loudly as she can, but her breath is short, and it comes out no louder than conversation.

How did I get here?

A dim light plays in the room.

She shifts her chin toward her left shoulder. Despite the pain, she moves a little more, feeling a crack in the linoleum scrape her cheek. Her vision sweeps a side of the room and there are more and more junk piles, some that must be over eight feet tall, with only inches between some of them. Boxes everywhere. Some are nothing but boxes of kitchen appliances, a FryDaddy, a Mr. Coffee, a Crock-Pot, a tall box for a Dirt Devil vacuum with an extra-long cord and twelve extra bags included. Randomly, Lego blocks of all sizes and colors are embedded in the floor, as if someone stepped on them, pushing them into the deep black grime.

She lifts her eyes toward the ceiling, ignoring the pain. She is looking for the top of a door or a window that isn’t boarded over. What she sees makes her breath catch in her tortured lungs. The tops of the walls and the ceiling are covered with Styrofoam sheets several inches thick.

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