Megan's Legacy

Megan's Legacy by Deidre Dalton is Book #8 in the Collective Obsessions Saga.

Megan Larkin falls for dashing Boston attorney Luke Castaneda, a newcomer to Larkin City. Locals try to warn Luke about Megan's family, their history of madness and tragedy, but he is determined to make her his wife. Other elements are at work to ensure the union never takes place, bringing another veil of evil over the Larkin's and their self-named city in the guise of a serial killer. Megan is forced to discover the truth and to set herself free from a legacy of family secrets and obsessions.

From Chapter Eleven

August 2006

Larkin City, Maine

IT WAS WELL AFTER midnight when Kerry Matheson arrived home from the annual beach party at Banshee Point, kicking off her shoes first thing. She felt the sting of her slightly-sunburned skin, wanting nothing more than to take a cool shower and go to bed. She was light-headed from one too many beers, but not inebriated by a long shot.

Her duplex flat in the North Town area of Larkin City wasn't extravagant, but it was clean and the rent was affordable. She was friendly with her neighbors, often giving them freshly-baked oatmeal raisin cookies, which also happened to be a favorite of her boss, Megan Larkin.

Her place was small, with a living room, kitchen, bathroom and one good-sized bedroom. She kept a tiny fish tank on top of her half-bookcase in the living room, which was populated with four lively Blue Gourami. Kerry tapped a portion of fish flakes into the tank, watching as Papa Smurfy, Glutsy, Scaredy and Tracker nipped at the food as it floated in the water.

She went to the bathroom, removing her shorts and tank top. She stepped into the tub-shower and drew the curtain, allowing the tepid water to run over her sun-burnt skin and to soak her long blonde hair.

Afterward, she dried herself vigorously with a large pink towel, wrapping it around her body when she finished. Walking barefoot to the kitchen, she went to the stove and put on the water kettle to boil. She had a sudden yen for a hot cup of tea.

Yawning, she stretched her arms above her head, glancing to the small window above her kitchen sink. She'd forgotten to draw the curtain closed, so she stepped toward the sink. Just as she reached for the curtain, she saw the reflection of a man behind her in the window.

"Oh my God," she whispered. Her first thought was to break the window and scream. Surely it would attract someone's attention, but before she could make a move she was hit from behind.

Some minutes later, she awoke on the kitchen floor. Her head was throbbing painfully, each beat of her heart seeming to pound in her temples, made worse by a taut blindfold across her eyes. She felt the blessedly cool linoleum against her cheeks. She tried to move, but her hands and feet were bound tightly together.

"Don't fight me and you'll live," a strangely familiar male voice said above her. "You saved me a lot of work by being naked under the towel, and for that I'm grateful. You'll get extra credit if you play your cards right."

Kerry felt hot tears swelling in her eyes, her mind running riot. "Please, God, don't let me die," she begged silently. "I won't fight what's happening to me, but please let me live through it. Spare my life, please . . ."

He rolled her onto her back, bringing her knees up to his chest as he pushed against her. He touched her intimately, and then she felt the dry pain of his first thrust. Tears seeped from her eyes, burning and soaking through the cloth he had strapped across her upper-face.

She heard his heavy breathing as he had his way with her, grunting every time he pushed into her. He increased the speed of his movements, each thrust more painful than the last, violating her in the worst way possible. She tried to remove her mind from the trauma, forcing herself to deny what he was doing to her. She heard the bubbling sounds coming from the fish tank, wondering idly if her Blue Gourami were enjoying their flake feast. Then loud screeching from the kettle filled the room as her tea water came to a boil.

"Damnit!" he swore. He moved even faster, pushing into her as far as he could go, and then out again. Finally, he reached a jerky climax. He moved away quickly, allowing her legs to fall to the floor.

He removed the kettle from the stove, and the screeching stopped. She heard the sound of a zipper, and assumed he was putting his clothes to rights. Then his voice came again. "The hot water is a good idea, Kerry. It's very cleansing."

He knew her name. How did he know her name? And why did he sound so oddly familiar?

She felt the boiling water as he poured the contents of the kettle down onto her lap and thighs. She tried to scream from the excruciating pain, the blistering fire stripping her skin raw, but no sounds came from her throat. Then she tried to move and roll to no avail. He kicked her in the ribs to stop her, taking her breath away.

"I told you not to fight me," he said belligerently. "You'll pay for that, bitch."

She whimpered behind the gag, feeling as if she were being skinned alive by the scalding water. The cool air in her flat touched the raw wounds, but it gave her no relief from the mind-numbing pain.

"You should have listened to me," he chastised her, his tone now gentle.

Through her agony, she finally recognized his voice. How can it be? He didn't have it in him to be such a brutal monster - or did he? She couldn't believe he was the one . . . for now there was no doubt in her mind he was the serial killer running loose in Larkin City, free to do as he pleased without fear of retribution. If only there was some way she could leave a clue behind, a telltale hint that would help police identify him.

He knelt down and whispered in her ear: "Nighty-night, Kerry."

Then she felt the cold steel of a blade against her throat and the movement of his arm as he pierced and slashed from left to right.

LYLE GOULD WAS HORRIFIED when he viewed the crime scene at Kerry Matheson's apartment. It was brutal, far worse than the dump sites where the killer left the bodies of Katie Kirk and Chrissie Fox. He couldn't deny the feeling in his gut as he gazed down at the scalded and bloodied form of Kerry on the kitchen floor. Despite the fact she was raped and murdered in her own home, unlike Katie and Chrissie, there was not a doubt in his mind that her killer was one and the same.

Dale Grainger had been Larkin City's medical examiner for nearly fifty years, following in the footsteps of the legendary Julian Bathers, Kip's grandfather. Julian had been coroner in the days of Patrick and Colleen Larkin, the one who examined the body of one Nicholas Bertrand, the family chef who was also Colleen's lover. Patrick stabbed the cook to death as he and Colleen were in the throes of passion, shortly thereafter hanging himself in the attic at the mansion. Dale kept all of Julian's old notes from the past, where he noted on 31st October 1947 as he bent over the dead body of Nicholas Bertrand: "This is the most brutal murder I have ever had the misfortune to assess. The head is just short of being severed, and the eyeball has been sliced from its socket. If I had to guess, I would say Mr. Bertrand was stabbed more than thirty times. It's positively gruesome. I haven't heard nor seen the like since the tales of Jack the Ripper."

Dale would beg to differ at the moment. While none of Kerry Matheson's body parts were severed, the brutality of her attack reached the scales as one of the worst he had ever seen, including the fairly recent deaths of Katie Kirk and Chrissie Fox. Despite his years as the only medical examiner within thirty miles, he never grew accustomed to the intractable atrocity of violent crime. Larkin City wasn't swimming with murder and mayhem as a norm, but the last few years had motivated him to think of finally retiring at age seventy-one.

Lyle watched as Dale took Kerry's temperature with a liver puncture needle, and then scribbled in his black leather notebook. The medical examiner was short and slender, with a head of gray hair and watery blue eyes. Lyle noticed he was shaking as he wrote in his notebook, taking in the blue vein lines on his aged yet capable hands.

"What's the verdict?" Lyle asked him.

"Going by her body temperature, I'd say the victim died between midnight and two o'clock this morning."

"Any idea on cause of death, or is it obvious?"

Dale stood up from the floor, looking at Lyle. "The killer poured boiling water on the victim before she died. The seared flesh on her body is consistent with skin fragments stuck to the linoleum underneath her. She was raped beforehand as well. Her throat was cut, obviously, which I believe caused her death."

Lyle glanced helplessly at the tableau. "Did you find foreign hairs or fibers?"

"Nothing at first glance," Dale replied. "I'll know more once I get her body ready for autopsy. We'll test for DNA, check under her fingernails, the whole ball of wax."

Lyle turned to his assistant, Curtis Day. The younger man had a medium build with mousy brown hair and eyes, a gap-toothed smile seeming ever-present on his face. He started as a traffic cop with LCPD, but quickly ingratiated himself with Lyle. Since the murders began two years ago, Curt willingly lent a hand in the investigation. As far as Lyle was concerned, Curt was his best choice. He might not be the brightest tool in the box, but he was intensely methodical when gathering evidence and following leads in the open murder cases. He was also a Larkin City native, familiar with the community and its people.

"Who found the body?" Lyle asked Curtis.

"The next door neighbor," Curtis replied. "He came outside to get his newspaper around six o'clock, when he noticed Kerry's front door was wide open. He said he peeked in to make sure she was okay, and then found her in the kitchen."

"Does anyone know if the victim has family in Larkin City?"

"Her parents have a small blueberry farm on Cliffhaven Lane."

"We'll have to take a trip out there," Lyle said with distaste. "One of them has to positively identify the body. Ah, crap. I really hate this part of the job."

"The victim worked for Megan Larkin," Curtis volunteered.

Lyle paused. "You're right. Kerry was Megan's assistant, wasn't she?"

Curtis nodded.

Lyle darkened. "Someone has to tell Megan about Kerry, too."

"Better you than me," Curt muttered.

CAPTAIN PAUL COLLINS ACCOMPANIED Lyle to the Matheson home on Cliffhaven Lane, helping him with the difficult task of informing Kerry's parents their daughter was dead. Collins did not normally involve himself with every crime committed in Larkin City, but felt the implications of Kerry's death in relation to a serial killer required his special attention. While there was no solid proof her murder was perpetuated by the same person who took the lives of Katie Kirk and Chrissie Fox, he knew as well as Lyle it was more than likely.

Kerry's parents Rick and Amy worked full-time on their small blueberry farm, selling most of their seasonal produce to the Banshee Point Winery. Their son Randy was just about to enter his senior year in high school. The Matheson's were a hard-working, middle-class family who saved for years to send Kerry to LCU, where she earned a degree in computer networking two years ago.

Lyle was glad for Captain Collins presence when he told Rick and Amy Matheson their daughter was dead. Having been chief of the LCPD for more than twenty-five years, Collins wielded a calming influence in difficult situations. He was tall and spare of frame, with thinning white hair and thick spectacles perched on his nose. He seemed to give the air of a concerned father or benign college professor, but Lyle knew the man could be as hard as nails when he had to be.

As Lyle and Collins prepared to depart the Matheson home, Rick agreed to make the trip to the medical examiner's office to identify the body of his daughter. Amy refused to go, instead remaining inside the house, where she sobbed uncontrollably in the arms of her son Randy.

"Where are you going now?" Collins asked Lyle.

"To the Larkin mansion," Lyle replied. "I'm sure a phone call would do, but since Kerry worked as Megan Larkin's assistant, I think she deserves to be told in person."

"I agree. When you're finished, come back to the station so we can get all our ducks in a row. I'm giving you four deputies to help in the investigation. We have to get the son of a bitch who's doing this, Lyle."

"I'd like nothing better," Lyle said in frustration. "But so far, the bastard isn't leaving any clues behind. No DNA, no hairs, no fibers, no fingerprints, no footprints. Worst of all, we don't have any witnesses." He shook his head. "Maybe Grainger will find something on Kerry's body to help us, but I have my doubts."

"Your theory the killer is after Diana Larkin just went out the window," Collins said as he climbed into his police cruiser. "Katie Kirk and Chrissie Fox were affiliated with Diana, but Kerry Matheson wasn't. Instead, she worked with Megan Larkin."

"I'm not sure where we go from here," Lyle muttered as he stood by the open door of the police cruiser.

"I have a suggestion, but it might not work." He hesitated. "While Larkin City has never really been a hotbed of crime, Mark Balsam is perhaps the only person with enough years of experience to give us some advice. He's rather testy about being bothered in his retirement, but maybe he'll make an exception in this instance."

"You're saying I should ask Mark for advice?"

"You don't have many other options at the moment, do you? Besides, what can it hurt?"

"I'll give him a call," Lyle agreed. "And thank you."

Collins looked at Lyle with compassion. "Good luck at the mansion."

"I'll need that, too."