Silent House, page 11
"Come on, Nat, pick up," she whispered, pacing back and forth. When the call finally went to voicemail, Sheila hung up without leaving a message, her concern deepening. What if something's happened to her? she thought, her mind racing through worst-case scenarios.
She took a deep breath, trying to quiet the panic that threatened to overwhelm her. I can't lose focus now, she reminded herself. The best way to protect Natalie and everyone else is to catch this killer.
With renewed determination, she returned to the crime scene, her eyes scanning the area for anything that might help them understand the murderer's motives. The weight of responsibility settled on her shoulders, pushing her to keep moving forward, no matter how much the grisly sight disturbed her.
A buzzing vibration pulled her attention from her fruitless search. She glanced down at her phone, hoping Natalie might be returning her call, but instead she saw a message from her father. The words on the screen did little to quell her growing anxiety, but they did provide a momentary distraction.
Come by the gym sometime, Sheila, the text read. Star could use some practice with you. I think it'd be good for both of you.
For a brief moment, Sheila allowed herself to picture the scene: her father coaching as she and Star circled each other, hands raised in a protective stance, ready to strike. The thought brought a fleeting smile to her lips. She quickly tapped out a response. I'd be happy to, Dad. It's been too long.
She hit send and slipped the phone back into her pocket, her thoughts immediately returning to her sister's safety. I need to focus, she reminded herself, squaring her shoulders as she scanned the graveyard once more.
As she walked, her eyes caught something peculiar etched into the bark of a nearby tree. It was crude and jagged: names carved in a haphazard manner, each one crossed out with a violent slash. Beneath the names of the Warren family were the words, "ONE BIG HAPPY FAMILY." The writing was so poor that the E in 'ONE' looked more like a large 3.
"What the hell?" Sheila muttered under her breath, her pulse quickening. She stepped closer, fingers tracing over the scratched letters.
"Find something?" Finn called out, noticing her sudden interest in the tree.
"Look at this," she said, motioning him over.
Finn approached, his footsteps crunching on the fallen leaves. The air hung heavy with the scent of freshly turned earth and the hint of approaching rain.
"Check this out," Sheila whispered, pointing at the message carved into the tree. Her heart raced as she watched Finn's brow furrow while he studied the crude writing.
"ONE BIG HAPPY FAMILY," he murmured, his voice tight with anger. "This killer's got a sick sense of humor."
"Maybe it's not just humor," Sheila added, her mind spinning as she tried to make connections. "Maybe it's a clue about their motive or even their identity."
"Could be," Finn conceded, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "But we need more evidence to tie it all together."
"Right," Sheila agreed, frustration mounting in her chest. She knew they were so close to something significant, yet still grasped at straws.
As they stood there, contemplating the meaning behind the eerie message, Finn suddenly snapped his fingers. "Macy Dobson," he exclaimed, his eyes widening. "I knew I recognized that name. I dated her younger sister back in high school."
"Really?" Sheila asked, raising an eyebrow. "What school did you go to?"
"Mildred Heights," Finn replied, a nostalgic smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
Sheila's stomach dropped. "Mildred Heights? That's where Roy Hubbard went to school as well."
Finn's smile vanished, replaced by an expression of disbelief. "You're kidding. What are the chances?"
"Maybe it's not a coincidence," Sheila mused, her mind racing with possibilities. "Maybe there's a connection between the victims that we aren't seeing."
"Wait," Finn said, thinking back to his high school days. "If I remember correctly, Macy's family also moved out of state, just like the Hubbards did."
"Seems like we've figured out how the killer is choosing his victims," Sheila said. "And maybe, just maybe, we can use that information to figure out who's next, because if we can do that—"
"Then we can catch him in the act," Finn finished for her.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The man pulled over to the shoulder of the road beside a river, his hands shaking on the wheel. He closed his eyes and tried to calm his racing heart, taking in deep, ragged breaths.
Take it easy, he told himself. Nobody's following you. Just breathe.
He opened his eyes, fumbled with the glovebox, and pulled out a bottle of painkillers. The label read 'OxyContin,' a narcotic he had stolen from Roy Hubbard's medicine cabinet during his murder spree. The man popped the cap off and swallowed several pills dry, wincing at their bitter taste.
"Damn it," he muttered under his breath. "Get a grip."
It was late at night, and the road was deserted. The only sounds were the crickets' chorus and the gentle gurgle of the river nearby. The man got out of the car, stretching his cramped legs and listening to the crickets' song of the night. He reached back into the vehicle and grabbed the paper bag sitting on the passenger seat. Clutching it tight to his chest, he stepped back out onto the gravelly shoulder.
"Okay, just gotta get rid of this, and everything will be fine," he told himself, trying to mask the fear gnawing at the pit of his stomach.
The night air was cool, but beads of sweat trickled down the man's forehead as he held onto the bag that contained damning evidence of his recent crimes. The memory of the Warren family flashed before his eyes, and he shook his head violently, trying to push them out of his mind.
"Focus. You're almost done," he whispered to himself, steeling his resolve.
Just as he began to breathe a little easier, the sudden roar of an engine shattered the silence. A semi-truck rushed by, stirring up a gust of wind that whipped his face and sent his heart racing again. He flinched, gripping the paper bag tighter as he watched the taillights of the truck fade into the distance.
"Stupid truck," he grumbled, forcing himself to take several deep breaths. "You're alone, so stop worrying. The police don't know where you are. You were careful. The dead can't talk."
With renewed determination, he approached the guardrail above the river. The water below churned ominously, its dark surface reflecting the moonlight in a shimmering dance. It was both mesmerizing and sinister, a fitting resting place for his secrets.
Reaching into the bag, the man pulled out a gun—the weapon that had silenced the Warrens once and for all. His fingers traced its cold metal contours, and he couldn't help but feel a pang of regret at having to part with it. He remembered breaking into that small pawn shop a week before, the thrill of sneaking past the sleeping owner to snatch the gun from its display case. It had been a thing of beauty in his hands, a symbol of power he had craved.
"Damn it," he muttered, staring at the gun one last time. "You served me well, but I can't risk getting caught because of you."
With a final, reluctant sigh, he hurled the weapon into the churning waters below.
The man watched as the ripples swallowed the gun, feeling a void where it had been in his hand. He peered into the bag, hesitating for a moment before taking inventory of the remaining items. A Rolex wristwatch gleamed amongst the bunch, its gold and silver links reflecting the moonlight. Beside it lay a pair of delicate gold earrings etched with intricate designs and two wedding bands—one smooth and plain, the other adorned with tiny diamonds.
"Damn shame," he muttered, running a finger over the watch's cold, smooth surface. "I could've sold these for a pretty penny—or kept them for myself." The thought of parting with such valuable trophies gnawed at him. They were symbols of his conquests, affirmations of his power. Yet he knew that if they were ever discovered, it would be his undoing.
"Think," he whispered to himself, his eyes darting between the precious trinkets and the river below. His heart hammered against his chest, urging him to make a decision before it was too late.
"Maybe I don't have to throw them away," he mused, recalling how he had masterfully hidden the items stolen from the Hubbards. "No one found those, did they? And no one will find these either."
His mind raced as he envisioned the perfect hiding spot, one so clever and discreet that even the most skilled investigator would overlook it. "I can do this," he reassured himself, a wicked grin spreading across his face. "I'm too smart for them. They'll never catch me."
Cradling the bag of treasures as if it were a newborn child, the man turned on his heels and strode back to his car. He slid into the driver's seat, stashing the bag beneath it, out of sight but still within reach. The thrill of keeping the items close made him feel invincible, as if daring the world to challenge him.
Let them try to find me, he thought, his fingers gripping the wheel with renewed strength. I'll always be one step ahead.
On impulse, he fumbled with the radio dial, his fingertips brushing against the worn grooves as he cycled through a cacophony of static and music. He needed to hear the news to know if they were talking about him yet. Finally, he found the station he was looking for.
"Breaking news," the reporter's voice crackled through the car speakers. "The victims of the mass hanging have been identified as Roy Hubbard, his wife Jane, and their teenage children Max and Lily."
"Ah, the Hubbards," the man mused, satisfaction creeping into the corners of his mind. "But what about the Warrens?"
"Police are still investigating the gruesome scene and have yet to release any details regarding potential suspects or motives," the reporter continued.
"Come on," the man muttered impatiently, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. He wanted them to mention the Warren family too; he craved the recognition, the thrill of hearing people speculate about his actions. He deserved some credit, after all.
"Earlier today, we managed to speak with a neighbor of the Hubbard family," the reporter said. "Pearl Delaroche became the Hubbards' neighbor a few months ago after they moved here from Seattle, and she had nothing but kind words to say about them."
"Roy and Jane were just...wonderful people," Pearl said, her wavering voice filling the car. "Max and Lily were so well-behaved and polite. Always smiling. They were like the picture-perfect family, you know? It's just...I can't wrap my head around it. Who would want to hurt them?"
The man clenched his jaw, the sound of Pearl's sincerity grating on his nerves. He didn't want to listen to her gushing about the Hubbards, praising their idyllic existence. With a harsh flick of his wrist, he switched off the radio.
"Enough of that," he muttered under his breath, his heart hammering in his chest. He couldn't let Pearl's words affect him; all that mattered was staying one step ahead, avoiding capture and remaining untouchable.
As the man pulled back onto the road, he found himself consumed with thoughts of his next move: new families to target, new plans to concoct. He had evaded justice thus far, but deep down, he knew that every success brought its own dangers. The game was far from over.
His fingers tightened around the steering wheel, his knuckles turning white. The dark road ahead of him seemed to stretch on forever, and the anger that had bubbled up inside him upon hearing Pearl's words was morphing into something else—a craving for power.
He remembered how he'd felt marching the Warrens to their graves—the way they'd trembled before him, begging for mercy. A grin spread across his face as he thought about how helpless they'd been in those final moments. But they were gone now, and he needed to find a new family, new victims to make him feel alive again.
"Can't wait to see the fear in their eyes," he muttered to himself, his voice barely audible above the hum of the car's engine. "Just need to find the right ones."
In the back of his mind, a quieter voice begged him to reconsider, to give it some time before striking again. But the man was beyond listening to reason. He was addicted to the high that came from wielding control over others, from knowing that their lives were in his hands.
"Slow down? No, not this time." He shook his head, dismissing the thought. "I'm unstoppable."
With a newfound sense of determination, the man pressed down on the gas pedal, the car speeding down the empty road. His heartbeat quickened, matching the accelerating vehicle. The thrill of the hunt surged through his veins, making him feel invincible.
As he drove deeper into the night, the darkness enveloping him like a shroud, the man sensed that he was on the verge of greatness—that soon, he would reclaim the power he so desperately craved.
And nothing would be able to stop him.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The coffee machine sputtered and hissed as it filled the stained ceramic mug. Finn glanced at Sheila, who was rubbing her temples. "Want another cup?" he asked.
"Hell, no," she replied, forcing a smile. "I'll have a heart attack if I drink any more caffeine."
Finn shrugged and poured himself another steaming cup. "There are worse habits," he said, taking a sip.
The sheriff's department break room was a cramped, windowless space with peeling paint and a lingering odor of burnt microwave popcorn. A few mismatched chairs surrounded a small table littered with old yearbooks from Mildred Heights High School. Sheila and Finn had been combing through the yearbooks for hours, searching for any patterns or connections between the victims of the two brutal family murders.
Sheila glanced at Finn, who was pouring himself another cup of coffee. She wondered if his comment about there being worse habits had something to do with the confession he'd made about his drinking problem. Would he open up about it if he asked her? It bothered her not knowing the extent of his struggle or how he was handling it.
There was also the matter of his compass necklace. What was the deal with that? What did it signify? He was full of secrets, it seemed. Sheila didn't need to know them all, but she did want to better understand the man she would be partnering with for the foreseeable future.
Finn took a seat at the table and opened a yearbook, his eyes scanning the pages for any possible clues. Sheila hesitated for a moment before deciding to broach the subject of his drinking. As delicately as she could, she said, "Hey, Finn, can I ask you something personal?"
Finn looked up from the yearbook, his expression guarded. "Sure, what's up?"
Sheila took a deep breath. "You mentioned earlier about there being worse habits than drinking. Is everything okay? Do you need any help?"
Finn's eyes flickered with surprise before settling into a resigned expression. "I'm fine, Sheila. Just dealing with some personal stuff."
Sheila leaned forward, her voice soft. "You don't have to go through it alone, you know. We're partners. We have each other's backs."
Finn let out a humorless chuckle. "Trust me, Sheila, this is something I need to deal with on my own."
She sat back, wondering what to do. Should she just give him space or push him to open up? It was a tricky situation, and she didn't want to overstep any boundaries.
But what if he was really struggling? Wouldn't the kind thing be to keep talking about it?
"Tell me about the necklace, then," she said, hoping to find a chink in his armor. "You're always playing with it, so it must have some significance for you."
Finn pulled the necklace out and fingered it, his gaze growing thoughtful. "That's a long story," he murmured.
"We have time."
He hesitated, and for a moment Sheila thought he'd change the subject instead. To her surprise, however, he said, "It was in my survival gear back when I was a fighter pilot. That was the best time of my life, back when I was flying." A nostalgic smile crept across his lips, but it was soon shadowed by a look of pain. "Worst time of my life, too."
He paused, and Sheila waited, studying him. The last thing she wanted to do was to interrupt his train of thought.
"I was going through a lot at the time," he said. "My father passed away, and without him—" He shook his head. "Life just wasn't the same."
Again he paused, and again Sheila remained silent, her heart aching for him.
"Anyway," he continued, "me and my buddies had this habit of getting drinks after each successful mission—you know, a way to celebrate being alive." He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Pretty soon, though, I was drinking before my flights as well. I knew it was risky as hell, but that's what being a fighter pilot is—risky."
"What happened?" Sheila asked gently.
"One day, I took off after having several beers. I thought I was good, and maybe I would've been if everything had gone right, but I had a mechanical failure that day. Instrument panel malfunctioned."
He let go of the necklace and looked up at her. "Any idea what it's like to be flying forty-five thousand feet above the ground and suddenly the system you rely on stops working?"
She shook her head. "No idea."
"It's terrifying. I didn't know how much fuel I had, didn't have any instructions on what to do or how to get back. If I was sober, I wouldn't have needed the guidance system to hold my hand, but I was anything but sober. Flying that plane the old-fashioned way, without the help of the system—" He shook his head.
"And is that where the compass came in?"
He nodded, then picked the compass up again and kissed it. "My dad always had one on him when he was alive. He was a navigator for the Navy. It was his good luck charm, and I guess it became mine too. It led me to safety, and without it—" He shook his head again. "I would've crashed for sure, and considering how inebriated I was, there's a good chance I would've gotten myself killed."
Sheila felt a pang of sympathy for Finn. He had been through so much, and yet he wore his pain with grace. She wanted to say something comforting, but words failed her.
After a few moments of silence, Finn cleared his throat and returned the compass to his neck. "Sorry, didn't mean to get all nostalgic on you."
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