Page 25 of The Grave Artist
Her face would turn from confusion to troubled, perhaps to glorious horror.
Look, really, please, don’t tell her I said anything. Just have her call me, okay? On the special number. I should go now. Really, sorry. But you and me, I know we’re going to hit it off just great.
And TammySammyKelli’s life would go off the rails, now convinced that her mother was having an affair. A confrontation between parent and child would ensue and, given the girl’s age, it would be spectacular.
A smaller Tableau than one that created a herd of mourners, but not every canvas was painted on a large scale.
Serial Killing 2.0 had always been about more than just a cracked skull and water-filled lungs.
Damon Garr always thought expansively.
A glance behind him. Good, the Brock event had yet to begin.
He had time for the girl.
Damon walked up to her and gave the familiar smile he’d just planned. “Oh, hi there!”
Pausing, she looked up.
Dark-gray suit, handsome and kind face, beautiful purple tie.
He was about to deliver the tragic news about her unfaithful mom when motion caught his attention.
Wait, no . . .
What wasthis?
He gasped. Police were here!
Uniformed and plainclothes. They were moving into the cemetery quickly from the two entrances—the north service entrance he’d walked through and the front gate in the south. And they were speaking to people in the Brock party. Their body language was tense.
Impossible!
He turned and walked quickly away from the confused girl.
Think, Damon raged to himself. Think!
Had they figured out that Brock’s death was not an accident and somehow linked it here?
He didn’t see how.
But maybe, despite his infinite care about cameras at the Hollywood Crest, he had been spotted.
Did this have anything to do with the dark-blue car he’d seen earlier?
He sprinted toward the line of limos and other vehicles here for the second funeral. On the far side, using them as cover, he turned north and, staying low, returned to the back gate. He couldn’t get through, because a young cop was stationed there, eyeing those nearby. So he ducked into the shed, unnoticed. It smelled of fertilizer and damp earth and grease and oil. Two backhoes were parked here. He squinted in the dimness and when his eyes grew accustomed to the faint light, he saw that there were no windows through which he could escape.
A burst of anger snapped within him.
He returned to the shed’s door and gazed out.
If there was any doubt the police had been tipped to the idea that the groom had been murdered, that was now put to rest. One man inthe party was pointing to the exact spot where Damon had been standing just before making the assault on the teenage girl’s psyche.
So, yes, he had been made at the wedding.
He continued scanning the perimeter ...
Could he scale the wall? He was strong but the stone was smooth. He could get no grip. And even if he found a way to boost himself up, he’d be noticed immediately and tracked down outside, within a dozen feet of the wall.
