Tragic Spawn

By Joan Hall Hovey

Therapist Melanie Snow is driving to her office when her Honda is struck by a dark-colored van and sent spinning into a ditch, where it catches fire. The driver never stops. A passerby pulls Melanie from the car just seconds before it explodes.

Waking from the coma nine days later, she is devastated to find she is blind.

As Melanie struggles to cope with her new reality, life as a blind woman, her fragile state of mind is further threatened by a madman who is stalking and strangling disabled women. The first two victims were mentally challenged and Detective Matt O’Leary, who carries a torch for Melanie, (even though Melanie is engaged to someone else) tells himself she is not the killer’s targeted prey. But then a woman who lost a leg to cancer is murdered, and another physically disabled woman is stalked. Even with a whole town in terror, Melanie refuses to live her life in fear and reopens her practice in the basement of her home. She has a living to earn.

And Detective Matt O’Leary must find a way to keep Melanie safe until the monster is caught. But how? Her door is now open to the public and the killer can just walk through anytime he chooses.

And he does.

“...suspense that puts her right up there with the likes of Sandford and Patterson..." Ingrid Taylor for Small Press Review

“.... a powerful voice in the world of suspense and mystery..." Cindy Penn

"...a gripping style that wrings emotions from everyday settings. Oh and by the way ...is your door locked?" Linda Hersey - Fredericton Gleaner

(Previously released as Defective)

• Language: English
• Publisher: BWL Publishing Inc.
• Release date: Nov 1, 2015
• ISBN: 9781771457996

Joan Hall Hovey

As well as penning Award-winning suspense novels including Chill Waters, Nowhere To Hide and Listen to the Shadows, Joan Hall Hovey's articles and short stories have appeared in such diverse publications as The Reader, Atlantic Advocate, The Toronto Star, Mystery Scene, True Confessions, Home Life magazine, Seek and various other magazines and newspapers. Her short story, “Dark Reunion” was selected for the Anthology, Investigating Women, published by Simon & Pierre.Joan also tutors with Winghill Writing School and is a Voice Over pro, narrating books and scripts. She lives in New Brunswick, Canada with her husband Mel and dog, Scamp.She is currently working on her latest suspense novel.

Book preview

Tragic Spawn

By

Joan Hall Hovey

Digital ISBNs

EPUB 978-9781772997200

Kindle 9781772997217

WEB 9781772997187

Print ISBN 9781772997194

Amazon Print 9781772993547

Copyright 2015 by Joan Hall Hovey

Cover art Michelle Lee 2015

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

Acknowledgement

Many thanks to my first two readers Bill Larkworthy, author of Doctor Lark: The Benefits of a Medical Education and writer/editor Debby McMichael for taking the time and energy to ferret out typos and other embarrassing mistakes. Any that got through are entirely my doing.

Previously Published as Defective

Chapter 1

The woman’s voice reached down to her as if filtered up through deep bracken-green water, reminding her of when she was a little girl and had dived off the diving board at Shadow Lake and the voices above her would sound like that, all thick and gurgly in her ears. She felt herself rising to the surface, pins and needles of hurt prickling every inch of her body. Was she dreaming?

The words grew more distinct: Melanie? Melanie Snow. Wake up, dear, said the irritating voice. Open your eyes.

Someone was calling to her. Trying to wrench her from this warm, dark womb of sleep. No, leave me alone, please. All she wanted was to sink back down into that soft place again, to just sleep and sleep, away from the hurt.

Ms. Snow, the voice said again.

Every inch of her body throbbed with pain. She heard a moan and it took a moment to realize it came from her own parched lips. Why wouldn’t the woman let her be? Let her sink back down into that merciful cradle of sleep. But it was not to be.

Melanie, open your eyes now. Wake up. The doctor is on his way to see you. There was a note of excitement in the girl’s voice when she asked, Mr. Snow, are you sure you saw her eyes open?

Daddy? Daddy was here?

Yes, nurse. I’m positive. My little girl was born with those long smoky lashes and I saw them flutter and her eyes open. She looked right at me, he said, his voice breaking. And then they closed again.

Why was her father crying? But like he was happy too. What happened? He had called the woman nurse. She must be in a hospital. Yes, that made sense. Her mouth tasted of chemicals and medicinal smells filled her nasal passages and coated her tongue. She tried to open her eyes, but they felt as if someone had glued them shut. She tried again. Her eyelids parted, mere slits, seeing nothing. Why doesn’t daddy put the nightlight on? He knows I don’t like the dark.

Daddy...? The word came out in a croak, a rusted voice, unused, scraping the walls of her throat like sandpaper. Is Mom here?

She heard the intake of her father’s sob, felt the comforting weight of his big warm hand on her shoulder. Your mom’s gone, baby. She died a long time ago. You were just twelve. Don’t you remember?

Not to worry, Mr. Snow, the nurse said gently. A little memory glitch is all. She’s been in a coma for five days now, it’s to be expected. Could you let me in there for just a minute, Mr. Snow? Thanks.

There was the faint whisper of fabric brushing against fabric. Then the nurse said, Melanie, you’ve been in a car accident and you’re at St. Bart’s General Hospital. Do you know what year it is?

She apparently replied correctly. Very good, the woman said. "What city do you live in?

Evansdale.

Excellent. I’m Nurse Evans, Melanie. Lois Evans.

She got her to make a fist and then wiggle her toes. She ran a hand back and forth past her eyes but only Ted Snow witnessed it.

She took Melanie’s pulse. Her fingers felt light and soothing on her wrist.

Excellent, the nurse said. I’m going to check your eyes now. Melanie heard a soft click close to her face, felt the slight warmth on her skin, and the milky grey at the outer corner of her right eye grew brighter. Another click and the brightness faded.

Are you feeling any discomfort? Pain?

Yes, she half-whispered. Like I got beat up." She’d been in a coma, the nurse had said. A car accident. Melanie blinked her eyes and tried to focus them, but even on opening them wider, she saw nothing, only a blackish-grey, like peering through a wall of dense fog. Her father was in the room. Why couldn’t she see him—or the nurse?

Would someone turn on a light, please, she begged.

* * *

Ted, the doctor said the blindness is probably temporary, Doreen Snow said when they were out in the corridor, out of earshot of Melanie. She had been given something to calm her, but they could still hear her sobbing softly. Ted Snow had never felt so upset or helpless. For a moment back there, he had been elated that his daughter had wakened from the coma, but to have her be blind...

They were heading for the elevator when he broke down crying. He blew his nose and looked at his second wife through his tears. Not a platinum hair out of place, green silk scarf draped like a fashion model’s about her neck, and he felt a jolt of resentment toward her. All those years when Melanie was growing up he was constantly pulled in two directions. His new wife and his daughter were forever at each other’s throats. But it wasn’t all Doreen’s fault, he told himself, and it was unfair and cowardly of him to blame her when he was far more to blame. He had been weak. Knowing that didn’t lessen the resentment against her, however; it sat in his gut like a smoldering fire. Doreen carried the stick and he wielded it against his daughter. Not literally of course, he would never lay a hand on his child in anger, but still...

Ted had lost a wonderful wife in Ellen, his first love, and he had been devastated. But Melanie lost her mother, the real anchor in her life. They were close, best friends as well as mother and daughter. But he had thought only of himself. He met Doreen through a friend. He hadn’t thought he would ever love again, but he fell hard. Ted had been lonely and she took away the loneliness, made his heart beat again. He hadn’t even waited a year to remarry and now...

Oh, God, please let the blindness be temporary. The tears came again.

Why are you crying, Ted? Is it for Melanie? Or for yourself because you married me? Her own hazel eyes were swimming in tears, but he wasn’t moved by them.

Jesus Christ, Doreen, he lashed out, drawing a quick look from a nurse walking past them in the corridor. That was twenty years ago. Does everything have to be about you?

She looked like he had slapped her and he felt like the worse kind of creep. The truth was that she’d nailed it dead on as she usually did.

Chapter 2

Detective Matt O’Leary gazed down at the dead woman at his feet with a blend of sadness and anger. Dora Nabers had been a fixture at the corner of Logan and Horsefield Streets, next to Jake’s Hav-a-Snack, for as long as he could remember. Even on the coldest days in winter she would sit in her wheelchair like a big, overgrown baby with that perpetual smile on her round face, playing her accordion with great zest and joy, all the old toe-tapping tunes like Turkey in the Straw and Orange Blossom Special, that made you smile right along with her. Passersby would sometimes drop coins, and occasionally a bill, onto the red felt lining of the accordion case that sat on the sidewalk beside her. Matt himself had dropped in a few bucks from time to time, often stopping to chat. Everyone knew Dora or knew of her. She was even written up in the local rag once. She was local color.

No matter the season, Dora always wore a white knit stocking cap with a Canadian maple leaf on the side, pulled down over her ears. She wore it now as she lay in her metal three-quarter bed in this rented room. Her body was discovered by her landlord who became concerned when she was late with the rent. She was always very prompt about that, the short, jowly man told him. Poor soul, he muttered, pulling a large white handkerchief from the back pocket of his pants and wiping his eyes. Matt thought the hanky was probably more to smother the putrid odor of human decay than out of any actual grief, since he quickly lowered it to his mouth and nose, and he showed no sign of removing it. Matt didn’t blame him. The body was pretty ripe and he had to swallow back his own gorge. He smeared Vicks under his nostrils to stifle the smell. You can go back up to your apartment, he told him. Stay put. Someone will be up later to take your statement. The landlord, who had been hovering in the doorway nodded and fled, clearly grateful to be out of the room.

Dora had been here awhile, he thought. He ran a hand through his dark hair with its smattering of grey. Although he was only thirty-eight, he felt older. Sometimes he wondered if he’d chosen the wrong profession. Times like now. It had been expected of him; both his father and grandfather were cops. The thought was fleeting as he went about his work of investigating a murder.

The stocking cap hadn’t even shifted on her head. Was it her habit to wear it to bed? he wondered. Or did her killer put it on her as a kind of parting gesture, for whatever reason. It was clear from the bruising on her neck, the petechiae (blood spots) in the whites of her eyes when forensic expert Harry Deagan lifted her lids, that she had been manually strangled. Harry worked quietly beside him, peering over the tops of his round glasses. Harry was a small man who did the comb over and wore shiny polyester brown suits, but he was ace at his job, had been at it for a good twenty years. Matt liked him.

The coarse grey blanket was drawn up to her shoulders, as if by tender hands. Beneath it she wore a faded blue cotton nightgown. Her eyes were closed. She might have been merely sleeping but for the smell. That and the green discoloration of her skin, the grossly bloated flesh.

Matt, take a look at this, Harry said softly, holding up one of Dora’s hands for him to examine. They had been folded over one another as if she was already laid out in her coffin. Like Jodie’s had been. Dora had rather chubby hands, in keeping with the cherubic smile she always wore.

Her killer had cut her fingernails. She managed to claw him then, Matt said, as much to himself as to Harry. He was getting rid of the DNA. A quick search turned up no fingernail clippings. And no scissors. He apparently took them with him. Did he go out the same way he entered? Matt wondered.

Leaving Deagan to his business, Matt wandered to the window. It was at street level and Matt could see lots of shuffling feet out there; a crowd had gathered and excited chatter reached him. Murder draws curious onlookers like flies to dog crap, he thought.

The window screen was slit three ways, providing easy access into the room. Her killer would have waited until dark to enter, he surmised, otherwise he stood a good chance of being spotted by neighbors. Matt turned away from the window and took in the sparsely furnished room, early Goodwill ambiance. Dora’s accordion sat in its case on the worn brown linoleum in the corner, next to a round table marred with scars and burn marks. Since Dora didn’t smoke, according to the landlord, they had to have been there when she moved in three years ago. Before that, she lived with her mother, who had passed on. She was alone in the world.

The room spoke of a sad life, belying how Dora had actually spent her days. Making music and bringing sunshine into the lives of everyone she met. She didn’t deserve to die like this.

Neither had Jodie Ballard, he reminded himself, the young girl with Down syndrome, murdered two weeks earlier. When Jodie didn’t arrive home at her usual time, her father called 911. After he hung up, something drew him outside. He walked around back of the building where he found her. A neighbor said she had heard his howl from three floors up. The young woman he’d always called his special child lay next to trash bins, hands folded one over the other, in death. Like Dora, she’d been strangled to death. Just had a bad feeling, Mr. Ballard told Matt. He was a sickly grey color, Matt remembered, and looked as if all the muscles in his face had collapsed. Later that night Joe Ballard was rushed to the hospital with a heart attack and died on the table while the medical team worked on him, but failed to bring him back. So Jodie’s mom was understandably in pretty rough shape. This bastard was inflicting a mountain of pain on a lot of people. The kind you don’t easily spring back from, if ever.

For a time, a town would grieve for Dora as it had for Jodie. It seemed the whole town had turned out for Jodie Ballard’s funeral. Many to support Rita Ballard whose primal cries had torn at his heart. She looked pale and fragile, and as if she might crumble to the ground at any minute, and which she might have if friends hadn’t been holding her up. She had lost everything. Matt had attended the funeral, along with half a dozen officers, though out of uniform. Often killers like to show up at the funerals of their victims, it gives them a rush. They scanned the faces in the crowd looking for the one that didn’t belong, the one that triggered suspicions, but came up empty.