Free SUMMER of FEAR by T. Jefferson Parker Page A

other, that choking, meaty, slaughterhouse
stink all around me, I followed Marty from the room.
    We stood in the hallway, our backs against the wall, and smoked. The
ceiling seemed terribly low. It was dark, too, even with the recessed flood
lamps bearing down from above. A uniform jangled by, his face averted, crossed
himself, and headed into the twins' room.
    "You make enough money to get out of this business, then come back
for this kind of shit," Marty said. "Does it really pay that
well?"
    "Go to hell, Martin."
    "Wish I could."
    "Damm... damn."
    "He does, He does. Mom and Dad are in the master. There's a daughter,
too, but she must have been gone. Her bed's made up and she isn't anywhere
around."
    I went in. It looked as if something had fed there perhaps—captured
prey, torn it apart, partaken. Or maybe not eaten at all, but simply shredded
the room and the people in it, searching for something very small, very hidden,
very important. The smell was strong. Both bodies—smallish dark-skinned
bodies—were opened and emptied like drawers. Their contents were everywhere,
strewn around the floor, hurled against walls, piled on the bed, strung from
the blades of the ceiling fan, flung onto the lamp shades, the blinds, the
television screen, the dresser, hung from the top fronds of a palm that stood
by a window, splattered against that same window and drying now from red to
black in the golden summer sunlight of morning. The carcass of Mr. Wynn, on his
back, arms out, was spread across the bed. Mrs. Wynn was hanging in the shower
stall, tied by her hair to the nozzle fixture. Some of what had been inside her
was spilled out in a pile over the drain, which had backed up, making a pool of
blood.
    The two Crime Scene men were going to work with a video camera and
evidence bags when I left and found Martin, still in the hallway.
    I heard a muted commotion from the living room, followed by Sheriff
Daniel Winters and his entourage coming briskly toward us up the hallway. Their
footsteps had a ring of assurance. Winters is a tall, very thin man,
bespectacled, a sharp dresser. Gray colors his hair at the temples, and his
eyes, behind the glasses, are black, hyper-vigilant, and consuming. He often
stoops, catches himself at it, straightens himself, then slumps back into his
characteristic posture again. There were three men besides Dan—two assistant
DAs I knew, a uniform I'd never seen—and a pretty red-haired woman named Karen
Schulz,. the Sheriff's Department Community Relations director. Winters nodded
at me on his way past, then took Martin by the arm without a word
and led him into the master suite. The prosecutors and deputy followed. I heard
Winters's shocked expletive, then heard it again, filled with outrage,
disbelief, dread.
    Karen Schultz studied me with her always-alert green eyes. "We're
going to have to hold back a lot of this, Russell
    "You just say what."
    "I need to see your copy before you file."
    "You can see it, but I won't change it. Tell me what to sit on, and
I'll sit on it."
    "We'll admit the possibility of a link to Ellison ;
Fernandez."
    "That's why I'm here."
    "But nothing positive until the ME's done and all the labs are
complete. You will use the words possibly linked and say we are
attempting to establish a definite connection. You not encouraged to use the
term serial killer."
    "Repeat offender sounds a little trivial."
    She sighed, glanced toward the door of the master suite, then looked
back at me. Karen Schultz's hair was straight and luxurious, her skin pale, her
nose freckled. She never smiled. "Go ahead with it for the Journal if you want, but if we can't connect the scenes, you're the one who'll be
wearing the ass ears."
    "What time is the press conference?"
    "Four tomorrow. That vets out to a two-day scoop on all the other
print. Spin Dina well."
    "I will. Thanks."
    She looked again at the door to the master. "Gad, I hate
this," she said.
    All I could think
of to say back was, "I'm