Haloed

By Sue Coletta

She may be paranoid, but is she right?

A string of gruesome murders rocks the small town of Alexandria, New Hampshire, with all the victims staged to resemble dead angels, and strange red and pink balloons appearing out of nowhere.

All the clues point to the Romeo Killer’s return. Except one: he died eight years ago.

Paranoid and on edge, Sage’s theory makes no sense. Dead serial killers don’t rise from the grave. Yet she swears he’s here, hungering for the only angel to slip through his grasp—Sage.

With only hours left to live, how can Sage convince her Sheriff husband before the sand in her hourglass runs out?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tirgearr Publishing
• Release date: Aug 23, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005734039

Sue Coletta

Sue Coletta is an active member of Mystery Writers of America, Sisters in Crime, International Thriller Writers, and the bestselling, award-winning crime writer of psychological thrillers and mysteries (Tirgearr Publishing). For true crime fans, PRETTY EVIL NEW ENGLAND will hit bookstores by Nov. 1, 2020 (Globe Pequot - trade division of Rowman & Littlefield). Feedspot and Expertido.org awarded her Murder Blog as one of the Top 100 Crime Blogs on the Net (Murder Blog sits at #5). Sue's also the communications manager for Forensic Science and the Serial Killer Project and a proud member of the Kill Zone, where she blogs every other Monday.

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Prologue

September 12, 2003

Glass shattered everywhere. Colt and Ruger barreled inside and over to me, whimpering, licking the blood off my face. They were so preoccupied with tending to my wounds, the masked man got a shot off before he fell. The bullet struck Niko in the shoulder, and he flew backward and landed in the garden I’d created around the apple tree. It had taken me days to edge the garden in slanted bricks. When Niko fell, those bricks drove into his spine and incapacitated him long enough for the masked assailant to scramble to his feet and flee.

But not before he hovered over me and offered one last warning. I’ll see you soon, Sage Quintano. His demon-like chortle stopped my breath. I squeezed my eyes shut, my head woozy, slipping into and out of a semi-conscious state.

Niko framed my face in his palms. Stay with me, babe. The ambulance is on its way. He pulled me into his lap, rocking me, crying, praying for my survival.

Warm blood sheathed my skin. Pain riddled my body, multiple injuries searing bone deep.

An unfamiliar female voice said, You need to let go of her, sir. What’s her first name?

Sage. But the neck wound— If I let go, she’ll bleed out.

On three, ready? One…two…three. Scratchy gauze replaced Niko’s hand. Sage? I’m Lenore. Can you tell me who did this to you?

I don’t know. Through thin slits, two different colored eyes stared back at me, one brilliant turquoise, one cognac. I struggled to raise my lids, but I did not have the strength. I’d lost too much blood.

Latex and gauze touched all my wounds. So many hands working in unison.

There’s too many injuries, a different female voice said. I can’t stop the bleeding.

Let’s get her on the gurney.

With slurred speech, I asked, Is my baby all right?

And lift, said Lenore.

Seconds later, they rolled me into the cool night air. Steel clanged against thin metal, the wheels grinding across the bed of the ambulance. Antiseptic filled my sinuses, and I gagged.

Metal doors slammed shut.

I’m right here, babe. Niko wove his fingers with mine. You’re gonna be okay.

The baby. I cried. Check the baby.

Sirens wailed overhead.

I cracked open one eye, but everything was foggy, hazy. Lenore?

You’re doin’ fine, Sage. She hovered over me, bi-eyed—one turquoise, one cognac. I hadn’t imagined it earlier. ETA, she hollered to the driver.

Three minutes.

Hang on, Sage. We’re almost there.

And my whole world went black.

Chapter One

Eight Years Later

September 12, 2011

Tuesday, 11:03 p.m.

The loft stair creaked, and I bolted upright in bed. Blackness enveloped the bedroom except for a glint of moonlight speared through the picture glass window above my head. A shadow floated near the loft railing.

Pup, I hushed, is that you?

No response.

My heart slammed into my ribcage, my breath growing more and more ragged. Where’s Ruger? He always blocked the doorway to Noah’s bedroom. If an intruder entered our home, he wouldn’t hesitate to leave his post to protect me. And yet, silence encompassed the loft. If only Colt hadn’t left with Niko, but New Hampshire Fish & Game called and asked for assistance in tracking a lost hiker.

A gazillion scenarios raced through my mind in the span of a few seconds. What if the intruder incapacitated Ruger? Or worse, killed him. A chill rattled my bones as though someone tossed the last shovelful of dirt on my shallow grave.

In search of my bat, my hand rummaged between the bed and nightstand. Niko kept a spare gun in the safe, but the safe was in the living room. Might as well be miles away.

The shadow morphed into the silhouette of a rounded head and elongated face, but blackness obscured the torso and limbs. The stranger did not move, did not budge. He stopped. Stared.

Who’s there? Stupid question. A home invader would never announce his presence. What did he want?

My heart was working overtime, blood sluicing through my veins, adrenaline spiking well beyond normal limits. If I left this bed, the movement might trigger an attack. For weeks the local papers had reported on drug addicts breaking into homes. My husband lost the deadbolt keys, or I could have engaged the added locks we installed after the killer clown kicked in the door, leading from the mudroom into the kitchen—the main entrance guarded by the dullest flood light in existence.

Why did Niko leave tonight of all nights? I understood the draw of finding a lost hiker. After all, he’d trained Colt in search and rescue to help the living as well as the dead. But tonight? Didn’t he recognize the date?

Below me in the living room, the grandfather clock ticked…ticked…ticked…echoing through the floorboards, its hands counting off the seconds till chaos shattered the silence. A doorknob jiggled. But not in the distance.

Closer.

Much closer.

The hardwood floor creaked. From where I couldn’t pinpoint. Did more than one intruder enter my home?

Tick. Tick. Tick.

I rubbed a balled fist in my eyes. Spots of light danced in the darkness. Why wasn’t the stranger moving? What did he want? My chest tightened, and I parted my lips. Breathed in…out…in…out…tried to steady my nerves.

Nothing worked.

I curled my fingers around the handle of the bat. Dear God, please don’t make me use this. After all my family has endured, I might never stop beating this guy. My right shoulder twitched, flinched, anger and fear tousling inside me.

A click coiled through the darkness. The jangle of a clasp. Footsteps hit the hall outside my bedroom.

Oh, God. Noah! Could there be two intruders? What if they kidnapped my son? What if they poisoned Ruger? What if they were biding time till one of us moved? I summoned my mind to clear. Focus. My child needed me to act.

I don’t know what you hope to achieve, I said, my voice low but fierce, and I don’t care. You made a fatal error coming here, my friend. So, unless you’ve got some sort of death wish, I suggest you leave now.

Noah appeared in the doorway. Mumma?

I leaped out of bed, the bat held low, my fingers clasped in a death grip around its base. I’m here, baby. I raced across the room, into the hall, dropped the bat, and scooped him into my arms. Ruger lumbered out of the bedroom and plopped at my feet as though this was an ordinary night, as if evil hadn’t entered our home.

Cradling my son’s head on my shoulder, he wrapped his footy-pajama-clad legs around my waist. Mumma, who gave you that balloon?

What? I pulled him away from my chest. Did you dream that someone gave me a balloon?

Without a word, his tiny finger pointed at the dark corner of my room.

When I clicked on the light, and my stomach somersaulted forward and back, breath trapped somewhere in my chest. A red balloon hovered by the closet doors.

Why, oh, why was this happening again?

Tears welled in my eyes, and I ground my jaw, holding back a wail of raw emotion.

Before I lost control, I love-tapped Noah’s bottom. C’mon, pumpkin. Let’s get you back in bed.

His tender arms reached for the balloon, tiny fingers grasping air, low grunting escaping his lips. But I couldn’t let him touch it. What if there’s a note inside?

Not now, pumpkin. You need to get back in bed before Dadda comes home.

The hand dropped, and I carried him into his room with Ruger on my heels. As I pulled the covers up to his chin, Colt sprinted through the doorway, swan-diving on the bed.

Hey— I thrust a finger at the floor. Off. Now.

Chin dipped to his chest, Colt slinked down to the rug. Ruger was also not impressed with his brother’s foolishness, evident by the stink eye he tossed to Colt. In his view, only he had the right to guard the lifeblood of this family, and he took that job seriously.

Sweet dreams. I kissed my son’s forehead, then Ruger’s. Sleep well, puppy love.

Niko waited in the hall. Another nightmare?

I soldiered toward the master bedroom, tossed over my shoulder, Not exactly.

What does that mean? Following me into our room, he said, Am I missing somethin’?

I flung an opened hand at the balloon. Look.

Okay, he said, a hesitation to his tone. It’s a balloon. And?

Flames jagged up my chest. Aren’t you the least bit curious how a balloon got into our bedroom?

Not really. I mean, balloons do float.

You can’t be serious. I exhaled through my nostrils. "Let me see if I’m clear about your theory. The Sheriff of Grafton County believes a red balloon has the ability to fly—sorry, to float—into our home, into our bedroom, all on its own. And tonight, of all nights. Or doesn’t the date ring a bell?"

The date? His eyebrows furrowed, then arched. September twelfth. Blinking, he shook his head in disbelief. I’m sorry, babe. Are you all right?

No, I’m not all right. There’s a frickin’ balloon in our bedroom!

Okay, okay, shh…calm down. Are you tryin’ to tell me you didn’t buy this balloon?

With my slipper tapping the hardwood, I crossed my arms. Now you’re catching on.

Are you sure Noah didn’t bring it home? Little guys do that stuff all the time. It’s not a reflection of you as a parent. Mistakes happen.

Mistakes? All the arteries in my neck popped at once, my scar tugging at my jawline. Impossible.

Is it, though? He coaxed me farther into our bedroom, out of our son’s earshot. He’s at that age where it’s normal to push boundaries. Maybe he lifted it from the store without your knowledge.

Blood pounded at my ears. Uh-ha, I said, heat incinerating my insides. Now you’re accusing our son of shoplifting?

I’m not sayin’ that at all. What I mean is— He paused, rephrased. Kids his age act on impulse. They don’t know any better.

That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. You know what? Fine. I’ll prove it to you. And once I do, I will expect an apology. I grabbed the bat off the floor, swung at the balloon, and smacked it down to grab its knotted end. Explain this. I swiped a ballpoint pen from Niko’s shirt pocket and stabbed the rubber.

A loud pop coiled through the bedroom.

I don’t understand. My gaze scoured the carpet for a note. It’s gotta be here.

Babe?

Did it drop into the living room? When I peered over the loft railing, periodic dims of light dotted the downstairs.

Babe?

I whirled around. Still have your flashlight on you?

Yes, but—

I leveled a flat hand. May I borrow it please?

Of course, but—

But what, Niko?

Shoulders rose to his ears. Why am I the bad guy here? I don’t even know what we’re arguing about.

Let me enlighten you. I firmed a hand on my hip. The Romeo Killer used red balloons. Remember?

Pink.

No. Pink and Red bouquets. That’s why the women opened their doors. And why the press gave him that ridiculous moniker. Because it sure as hell wasn’t about his penchant for rape.

Babe, don’t go there. We’ve worked too hard to move past that time in our lives.

I can’t help it. Tears tumbled down my cheeks. It’s happening again. I don’t know how, but it is.

Attempting to soothe me, he rubbed my upper arms. Babe, I understand why the balloon startled you tonight. I really do. The anniversary’s always a rough day. But the Romeo Killer is dead. He can never hurt you, or anyone else, ever again. Think rationally. What’s more likely, a serial killer rising from the grave or our beautiful son finally managing to pull the wool over his momma’s eyes?

Not the latter.

No?

No. If Noah stole the balloon, I would have seen him do it. And how would he get it home? For cripes sake, I’m not blind. Even if he somehow managed to sneak a balloon in the house, then why ask who gave it to me?

Umm, ’cause he’s four. He’s allowed to ask questions that make no sense.

You know, there is an easy way to settle this.

Great. How?

Lend me your flashlight. If the note didn’t fall into the living room, I’ll drop the subject. But if I do find the note, you need to contact Boston PD for a death certificate and autopsy report with photos.

Wow. You’re serious about this.

As a heart attack.

Okay, deal. Not sure why you need my flashlight, though. We do have electricity in this house.

Oh. Right. That didn’t help my case any. Niko parted his lips to speak, and I stopped him with a flat hand. For my sanity and yours, please don’t say it’s late or I imagined this or anything close to that scenario if you value our marriage.

If you let me finish, I was gonna say I’ll help you search. He swung a hand toward the staircase. Lead the way.

At the bottom of the stairs, I flipped on the light switch. Brightness bathed the living room in stark white while I searched behind the sofa, under Niko’s La-Z-Boy, and around the TV stand.

Found nothing.

I searched around the grandfather’s clock and under the coffee table.

Still nothing.

I don’t understand. I rubbed my weary eyes. How could there be no note?

Niko shrugged. Sometimes a balloon is just a balloon.

Then how did it get in our bedroom?

He offered me a wan grin. Think of this as good news.

No, I know. Have I become so jaded that I automatically jump to the most menacing scenario?

Not willing to answer, he folded his lips around his teeth. I plead the fifth, Your Honor.

Smart man.

Thanks. I learned from the best. He slung an arm around my shoulders. C’mon, let’s go to bed.

I kissed his soft lips. Love you, pup.

Love you more.

Fifteen minutes later, Niko’s breath shallowed next to me in bed, his nose whistling, light snores filling the room with a hypnotic lullaby that normally sent me into a deep slumber. But tonight, sleep was not an option. How would Noah sneak a balloon into the house without my knowledge? It made no sense. And why on earth would he then ask who gave it to me? The balloon in my bedroom surprised him. A four-and-a-half-year-old did not possess the ability to fake emotion. He hadn’t developed those life skills yet.

No. Someone purposefully left the balloon for me. Of that, I had no doubt. The question was, who? And why?

Chapter Two

September 13, 2011

Wednesday, 8:30 a.m.

At the office, Niko tried to make sense of last night. Perhaps Mrs. Falanga left the balloon for the little guy. She had a key to the house.

Deputy Frankie Campanelli poked her head into the office. Prisoner transport call. Want me to take it?

No. Give it to Ben. He needs the experience.

Oh, really? She planted closed fists on her hips. Why’s that?

Niko sighed. As I said, he needs the experience. Besides, I need to talk to you about somethin’.

She stepped into the office, closing the door behind her. Okay. Shoot.

Tell Ben about the call first.

Again, the hands flung to her hips. You’re stalling.

I am not stalling. Please do as I ask, Frank. I don’t have the energy to argue with you this morning.

Fine. She swung open the door. Hey, golden boy. You’re up. Prisoner transport.

Ben shot out of his desk chair. Me?

Yeah, you, genius.

Am I going with you?

No. Why, you scared to transport a murderer all by your onesie?

A murderer? Ben’s baby blues popped wide. Who’d he kill?

With a straight face, she said, The last deputy who gave him a lift.

Niko almost choked on his coffee. The poor kid didn’t stand a chance against her.

Seriously? Ben said.

Yeah. It made the papers and everything. I’m surprised you didn’t hear about it.

Umm. Ben cleared his throat. Is Niko coming with me?

Nope. Just you. Big smile. Unless, of course, you don’t think you can handle it.

Before this got out of hand, Niko hollered, Take Childs with you. Particulars are on Frankie’s desk.

She whirled around, shutting the door behind her. Since when do you care if I have a little fun?

One of these days you’re gonna make the kid piss his pants. You know that, right?

"Hey, it’s not my fault you hired a pussy. She slid into the padded chair in front of his desk. Enough about him. What’s up?"

Fingers woven behind his head, he leaned back in his leather executive chair, staring at the ceiling.

Oh, boy. What’d you do this time?

What makes you think I did somethin’ wrong?

She slapped the desk. Enough. Spit it out already.

If anyone but Frankie spoke to him in that tone, he’d demand their gun and badge on the spot. But Frankie was his right hand, his number two in command, his friend. I get home last night, and Sage’s all freaked out over a balloon in our bedroom. I don’t get it. I thought we’d buried the past, but you shoulda seen her.

Rather than agree, she said, What kind of balloon?

I dunno. Why’s it matter? It’s a frickin’ balloon.

Typical man. Lemme spell it out for you. She rose to her spiked heels, set her knuckles on the desk, and leaned forward so she could not be ignored. It matters because it frightened your wife. What’s the significance of the balloon?

There is no significance. Little man probably lifted it from the store. Or Missus Falanga swung by and dropped it off.

I didn’t ask for your theories. When Frankie grimaced, he instantly regretted starting this conversation. Why’d the balloon scare the shit outta Sage?

You know why.

I don’t. I really— Her jaw slacked. Aw, shit. The Romeo Killer. The balloon reminded her of that night in Boston. She palmed her forehead. Yesterday was the twelfth. Man, I totally spaced it.

Me too.

Let’s back up a sec. I don’t understand why, all of a sudden, balloons are a big deal. I’ve bought ’em for little man, and Sage seemed fine with it.

Because she knew they came from you.

Huh? I don’t get it. Who bought this one?

No one, apparently. Like I said, Noah probably—

Her eyes grew wide. Y’mean, the balloon just appeared in your bedroom?

Apparently.

What color is it?

What’s it matter? For chrissakes, it’s an innocent balloon, not a death threat.

Frankie’s grimace morphed into a hard stare.

Red. Okay? It’s red.

Did she pop it?

This is ridiculous. He shuffled papers around his desk—a clear signal to leave him alone. You and I both know the Romeo Killer is dead and buried. He paused a moment to steady his heart rate. Look. I’m not interested in rehashing this with you. What I need is advice on what to do. Should I call in a professional? I’m afraid if I don’t get her some sorta help, she might spend the rest of her life looking over her shoulder, waiting for a ghost to reemerge.

The phone rang, and Niko heaved a sigh. Whoever it is, I’m busy.

Internal line. Ben probably crashed the transport vehicle. Snickering, she raised the receiver to her ear. Sheriff Quintano’s line, Deputy Campanelli speaking.

Listening to the caller, she paused.

Where? Frankie gestured for a pen. When Niko passed a ballpoint, she slapped her notepad on the desk. Copy that. Show me responding.

She hung up.

Well?

DB in Alexandria. Possible ten-fifty.

The ten-code for homicide. A local homicide in the town he and Sage called home. Well—he slapped his knees and rose— we better go take a look.

In the parking lot, he slid behind the wheel while Frankie settled in the passenger seat. Heading toward the Fowler River, bales of hay checkerboarded farmlands. Row after row so straight, so symmetrical and perfect, if someone ran a level down the edge, the bubble would stay centered. Country living had taught Niko to appreciate hard-working farmers who lived a simple life, not an easy one, and provided vital resources to the community.

The morning sun beamed through the windshield, highlighting chestnut strands in Frankie’s dark hair.

Niko’s gaze settled back on the road. Run the case for me. Whaddawe know so far?

Sliding her boot under one leg, she twisted to face him, and Niko prayed the spiked heel didn’t tear the leather. Hunters found skeletal remains on Welton Falls Road, deep in the woods on unoccupied land. Private property, the land held in trust while the owner’s adult children contest the will.

I’m surprised they admitted to trespassing.

They didn’t. Reed knows the family. Officer Henry Reed from the Bristol PD was one of the few local patrol officers Frankie could stand. Maybe the only one. Why these guys try to dump illegal deer carcasses in the woods is beyond me. Eventually, Fish and Game will catch up. It’s only a matter of time.

To preserve the whitetail deer, black bear, and moose populations in New Hampshire the state limited the number of kills, but some dishonest hunters didn’t think the law applied to them.

"In case it slipped your mind, Deputy, we have a duty to report all illegal activity, whether it falls under our jurisdiction or not."

So, what, I gotta call Rambo now? A pet name for Conservation Officer Miller. Balls.

If you’ll let me finish, I was gonna say let’s hold off till we know what we’re dealing with. We don’t need more boots trampling through our crime scene. He’d been so preoccupied with Sage and the balloon, the transport call slipped his mind. Where’d you send Ben and Childs earlier?

I didn’t send Childs anywhere. She winked. You did.

Stay on point, Deputy.

Without missing a beat, she said, Pedophile needed a lift to Plymouth District Court. Scumbag’s broken probation twice already. Hope they castrate the bastard.

For an arraignment or…?

Jury trial.

Perfect. Then call Ben and tell him to drive straight to the crime scene when they’re done.

He turned onto Fowler River Road and followed the winding road. Trees fringed the streets, leaves splashed with hints of gold, red, and copper as the tires clamored across three low bridges, the Fowler River raging beneath. Enormous flat-topped boulders allowed visitors to relax on the shoreline.

The asphalt ended at the fork—a rocky dirt road that murdered shocks—where he veered right onto Welton Falls Road. Is there a lot number posted?

Uh… She flipped through pages of her notebook. No, but it’s the last lot on the right before the falls. My favorite place. Sarcasm laced her tone.

Niko ignored the remark. He had enough problems without rehashing the past with her, too.

A clearing parted the thick forest.

There it is, Frankie called out.

A Bristol PD cruiser idled out front. With only one Alexandria officer on duty, the neighboring town of Bristol often assisted.

When Niko pulled behind the patrol car, Deputy Preston Bradley appeared in the rearview mirror. Cool, he said. Tell Bradley to cordon off the scene. He got out and slammed the door. Over the hood, he added, You’re with me.

No shit, Sherlock.

Ignoring her favorite comeback, Niko snatched the duffel bag off the backseat and met Frankie in the clearing, near the road. Forgetting somethin’? He passed her the bag, slipped crime scene booties over his boots, and tossed her a pair. Start memorializing the scene as we walk but be careful. Evidence could be scattered throughout this area.

Struggling to slip heels into disposable booties without tearing the material, she mumbled, Hate these friggin’ things. From the bag, Frankie withdrew the video camera. The red light blazed on. Ready when you are.

Niko led her deeper into the woods, over fallen branches, through crunchy dead leaves, and rivulets of water collected after the weekend storm. It’d rained so hard, the ground soil could no longer