Murder Deja Vu

larger cities within a hundred-mile radius—Asheville or Charlotte—put up in a motel, and found someone to satisfy his sexual needs. No entanglements. No emotional attachments. He could do it by himself—he had years of practice—but he never found that a satisfying substitute for the warmth of a woman’s body or the touch of soft skin. That was the way it had been for the six years since he got out of prison and how it would be from now on. He’d even adapted to the loneliness. Had plenty of practice with that too.
    The three-legged dog nuzzled his leg. Reece never named any of the dogs or cats roaming his property. They were there, and he fed them. “Hey, Pooch. She gave you a good name, didn’t she?” He leaned down and rubbed the dog’s neck. He’d found the beagle cross lying on the side of the road, near death, taken it to his vet, and had it treated and fixed. He did that with every abused or emaciated animal he came across. Electronic fencing and collars kept them inside his property so they couldn’t wander off and wind up like Pooch, or worse. Reece debated whether he was imprisoning them, but dead was more of a prison than contained, though he disliked the thought of either.
    The phone rang. He let it go to the answering machine. When he heard the voice, he picked up. “Hey, Carl.”
    “Deciding whether you feel like answering your phone, big brother?”
    “I couldn’t check the number in time.” Sometimes Reece answered, sometimes he didn’t, depending on his mood. Carl knew that.
    His brother laughed.
    “What’s up?” Reece noted the hesitation. “Carl?”
    “Dad’s in the hospital. He had another heart attack.”
    Reece stiffened at the mention of his father, a reaction over which he had no control. “What do the doctors say?”
    “It doesn’t look good. He’s conscious but weak. It’s only a matter of time.”
    “Well, keep me informed.”
    “Jesus, Reece. That’s cold. Your father is dying and all you can say is ‘keep me informed’?”
    “We’ve gone over this a hundred times. Sorry, but I can’t fake that I care. Wish I could, but that’s not my style.” He pulled a beer from the fridge.
    “You’re still his son.”
    Reece wanted to laugh, but the humor eluded him. “He should have thought about that twenty-one years ago.” He took a long draft from the bottle. It did nothing to cool his heat.
    “He could have handled it differently, I agree, but―”
    “Look, I’ve gotta go. Let me know when it’s over.”
    Reece clicked the off button before Carl could argue. He finished the beer, then took another. He’d worked hard over the years to control his anger and sense of betrayal, but times like these brought them back like a knife twisting in his belly. How could he forget? One day he and Carl were drawing up plans to expand the family’s home-building business—Reece, the architect, designing a new type of energy-efficient structure; Carl the business head, making them affordable. The next day he was locked in a cement cell with the echoing sound of steel doors clanging shut to keep him rotting inside. One day he had dozens of friends; the next only Carl and his mother stood in his corner. When he saw the toll it took on his mother to sneak away and visit, he asked her not to come any more. That, more than anything, had torn him up.
    Now she was gone, and he hoped the old bastard would soon follow, freeing him of at least part of the rage that consumed him and, yes, the hatred for the old man he carried in his chest like one of his stones. How could he feel anything for a man who believed his son capable of slicing a woman’s throat, almost severing her head from her body? Who probably still believed it with his dying breath?
    Reece looked around the house he built with his own two hands. Stone and wood and glass. It fit the new life he’d made for himself. A life he liked. He wasn’t designing the buildings he’d envisioned all those years ago, except for his own, but he was creating something he considered beautiful. Others thought so too, which gave him pleasure. He worked when the spirit moved him, nourished his passion for reading, fished, and ran the mountain roads—all the things he couldn’t do inside, except for the reading, which had saved his sanity.
    His thoughts roamed back to Dana Minette without conscious effort. He couldn’t decide whether she was cute, pretty, or beautiful, though his skill judging women was twenty-one-years