Four Letter Word, page 23
“No one will believe that.”
“You mean your swarthy fisherman won’t believe it,” Alberto said with a curl of his upper lip. “But again, it’s just a diversion, so I don’t care.”
He turned toward the window, and Izzy knew her time was running out. She needed to keep him talking. One thing she’d learned from Murder Will Speak was that serial killers had massive egos. Once caught and convicted, they loved to brag about how they’d gotten away with it for so long. Maybe she could exploit that weakness.
“Framing me for Hunter’s death. That’s hardly your MO.”
Alberto glanced over his shoulder. “I have my reasons.”
He wasn’t taking the bait. “Do you even know anything about boats?”
“I’ll have help.”
She. Help. Shit, he must mean Peyton. How could she get wrapped up with him so soon after Hunter’s death?
“A partner? Also not your MO.”
“A temporary alliance.” Alberto slid the window open, and Izzy felt the stool tremble beneath her toes as the door flapped a millimeter or two. “An angry sea is a great place to hide a body.”
“Fuck you!” Izzy shouted. Now she wasn’t just trying to save her own life, but her best friend’s as well.
Alberto tsked, his face sagging with disappointment. “Such language! You need to listen to your mother about those four-letter words.”
“Dick,” she said defiantly. “Anus. Mofo. Twat.”
“Izzy…”
She wasn’t done. “And my favorites: shit and head.”
“Such ugliness from a pretty girl.”
“Ugliness? You’re the murderer.”
He sighed, weary of the conversation. “I only kill little sluts who deserve it.”
“You killed Hunter!”
A blast of wind rocked the side of the garage and the stool shuddered, but before the door flew open, Alberto crossed the garage to the door, stopping it with his foot. The stool stilled. “Look, I don’t enjoy killing men. There’s no thrill in it for me.” He licked his lips. “I can’t taste it.”
Izzy wanted to vomit.
“I can’t be inside them while it happens.”
“That’s disgusting.”
Alberto ignored her. “Kylie was exquisite. The salt of her tears….” He sighed again, lost in the memory. He was rhapsodic now, the ego taking over. At least she’d bought herself a little time, even if it meant enduring this stomach-churning display. He stepped toward her, and Izzy thought maybe if she could lure him close enough, she could get her legs around his neck and strangle him. “I was never getting out of here without a utilitarian murder. Either Hunter or your brother. Couldn’t be helped.”
Her brother? Alberto’s interest in Riley’s travel plans. The pompadour hairdo he sported for the bonfire. “You were going to kill Riley and take his place on the flight. Just like you killed the real Alberto.”
“If a plan ain’t broke, don’t fix it,” he said, quoting Izzy’s dad.
“But Riley is traveling with a friend, so—”
“Plan B.” He smiled again. “See? We’d have made a great partnership.”
“Temporary.” Come closer.
Alberto laughed. “True.”
A sharp ding pierced the howling wind, and Alberto’s hand crept to his pocket. His phone. Peyton had just texted him.
“I’m sorry to say that our time together has come to an end,” he said, backing toward the door.
Dammit. She was out of options, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing her fear. “I’m not.”
“Defiant even at the end. See, I like that. I wish I could stay. You must taste…” He exhaled. “Amazing.”
“Maybe you should find out?” She forced a smile, hoping she looked as if she didn’t have ulterior motives, but again, Alberto was having none of it.
“No time. A lady awaits.” He opened the door just enough to slip his lithe body outside. The stool inched away, almost out of reach of her toes. “Ciao, Izz-ee.”
THE MOMENT ALBERTO’S SMARMY FACE DISAPPEARED, IZZY screamed.
“Help! Somebody help me!”
A howling wind was her only response.
She cried out again, as loudly as she could with the thick rope pressing against her larynx, but this time she couldn’t hear herself, the roar of the storm swallowing her words whole.
Another gust blasted the side of the garage, and the door flapped. Izzy leaned back, her face tilted toward the roof so her body was elongated an extra millimeter or two. She was able to get the toe of her left foot in front of the stool. It skittered an inch across the concrete floor, and Izzy pressed down with all of her strength. By some miracle, the swirling winds changed direction and snapped the door shut again. She’d avoided death for the moment, but with the storm intensifying, it was only a matter of time before the busted old latch gave and the door flew open with enough force that she’d be unable to prevent the stool from being ripped away.
She frantically wrung her hands, trying to break free of her bonds. If she could just loosen the knot, maybe she could slip her hands out and remove the noose. But Alberto, or whatever the hell his real name was, had tied it viciously. Rough fibers dug into her flesh, rubbing the skin raw as she twisted her wrists. Sweat coated her body as she contorted her fingers, trying to make her hands as slender as possible to slip one free. But it was no use. Her hands were swollen from the lack of circulation, and freeing them would be like shoehorning a basketball into a golf hole.
What were the odds she’d survive once the stool disappeared? Alberto had fitted the rope tightly around her neck so that even when she tilted her head back, she could feel the noose pressing against her windpipe. With the full weight of her body pulling her down, there was no way to prevent the noose from cutting off her airway completely. She was pretty sure death would be inevitable.
Fear, anger, and shame mingled in her heart. As shitty as her life felt, she certainly didn’t want to die. Not only that, but unless someone stopped Alberto, Peyton would be his next victim. Once she’d helped him navigate out of the marina, there was nothing stopping him from strangling her, probably during some disgusting sex act, then shoving her overboard in the midst of the storm.
She hated Alberto. Hated that he’d won. Hated that he was going to live to kill again. How many women would die because Izzy hadn’t trusted her instincts, hadn’t gone to the authorities sooner? Those deaths were on her head, even though she wouldn’t be around to feel the guilt.
Or to feel love. She shrieked in frustration, a heart-wrenching wail of impotence and regret. Her last words to both her dad and to Jake had been said in anger. They’d never know how much she—
“Izzy? Izzy?”
“Help!” she cried, practically choking on the word. She took a deep breath, and with the last of her strength, she screamed.
Izzy probably should have anticipated what would happen next, but even as the door swung open, she only felt an instant flood of gratitude and relief. Until the stool was ripped out from beneath her feet.
She dangled from the overhead beam, writhing as the noose instantly closed off her windpipe. The panic returned tenfold as she tried and failed to gasp for breath. Her eyes rolled back and she felt a tremendous pressure, like her entire head was about to pop off. She didn’t even know who had come into the garage, and as the seconds stretched on, she wondered if it was Alberto, come back to enjoy his favorite moment: watching a woman die.
Suddenly, the pressure on her throat lessened. She felt herself being lifted into the air, and she gulped greedily for oxygen. Her lungs burned as if they’d forgotten how to breathe in those seconds she had dangled from the noose, but then they seemed to remember their primary function. Izzy’s breaths were quick and deep, almost as if she was hyperventilating; she never even felt the noose being removed from around her neck.
Then she was back on terra firma, feet squarely on the ground, legs wobbly as she tried to steady herself. Two strong arms held her upright, and it took her a heartbeat to realize that the body attached to those arms was talking to her.
“Izzy? Are you okay? Holy shit, what happened?”
She looked up, vision still blurry, and Jake’s face came into focus.
“How?” Izzy croaked. The sound of her raspy, muted voice startled her, a tangible reminder of just how close she’d come to death. “How did you—”
Jake stroked her damp hair. “Your dad and I both followed you outside, but you’d disappeared.”
Like a pouty child. Her tantrum had almost been her undoing.
“He went to your brother’s place, and I headed here,” Jake continued.
“Thank you. For coming after me.”
Jake took her face in his hands. “What happened?”
“Alberto. Or whatever his name is. He killed Hunter.”
The muscles in Jake’s jaw rippled. “Where is he?”
“Heading for the marina. He’s got the keys to Bodega’s Bane.”
“He’ll never make it out of the bay alone,” Jake said.
Now it was Izzy’s turn to clench her teeth. “He isn’t alone.”
“What?”
“Peyton’s waiting for him.”
“But…” He turned away, thinking. It was a lot to process, Izzy knew full well. “She won’t be able to guide them out in this weather,” Jake said, shaking his head in disbelief. “They’ll capsize on one of the coastal bars.”
She had only a passing idea of what he meant. “That’s bad, right?”
“Deadly.”
Which would take care of Alberto but wouldn’t save Peyton. “Can we call someone?”
“Coast Guard, but they’ll have their hands full.”
“Deputy Porter?”
“If we can track him down.”
Then Izzy thought of someone who might be able to help, someone with more pull than the local sheriff’s department or even the US Coast Guard. She grabbed Jake’s hand and pulled him toward the door. “How about the FBI?”
* * *
In the dash from the garage to the house, Izzy and Jake were drenched to the bone, and as they ducked onto the porch and through the front door, Izzy was thankful her family never locked up.
The house was quiet again, only this time the silence felt menacing. Izzy knew that her dad was either still out looking for her or back at Peyton’s house, but that still left her mom and her brothers unaccounted for.
“Mom?” she called up the stairs. It was dark on the second floor, so Izzy dashed through the dining room into the kitchen, her mom’s usual stomping ground. “Parker? Ri?” The kitchen was empty. Izzy even poked her head into the laundry room and pantry to make sure, and when she backtracked to the living room, she saw that Jake had opened the foyer closets and even the cabinet of the grandfather clock.
“They must be upstairs,” Izzy said. She flipped on the lights, more aspirational than hopeful that she’d hear a familiar voice drift down.
Jake placed a hand on her arm. “Maybe I should go first.”
“You’ve never even been in my house, how could you…” Her voice trailed off as she realized the implication of Jake’s offer, and the reason he’d opened the closets and grandfather clock. The Casanova Killer would cram his victims into small spaces in their own homes. Jake was afraid that her family had become Alberto’s latest victims.
Without waiting for Jake to take the lead, Izzy raced upstairs, throwing open the door to her parents’ bedroom. “Mom! Are you okay?” The room looked empty, but Izzy wasn’t going to take that at face value. She checked under the bed, then in the bathroom and closets. Thankfully, she found nothing.
Jake was coming out of Parker’s room as Izzy emerged into the hall. He looked as relieved as Izzy felt. “No one’s here.”
Relief replaced the menace, though the eerie emptiness remained. Izzy nodded to the door behind Jake. “That’s his room.”
Not that he’d be foolish enough to hide out in the Bell house after staging Izzy’s death to look like a suicide. The whole point was that he’d be halfway to the marina by the time she died. Still, they needed to be sure, and a quick search of the room proved that Izzy was right. Alberto had left the room exactly as he’d found it—virtually untouched. Even the duffel bag was still on the chair. Izzy wondered if the security hair he’d placed over the zipper was intact as well.
“He’ll be at the marina by now,” Jake said. “But they’ll have to gas up before they can leave, and that’ll take some time.”
“Okay.” Izzy backed out of Alberto’s room as if, even without him there, she was afraid to turn her back on the space. “Agent Michaels’s card is upstairs.”
She led Jake down the hall to the attic door. The frame was splintered, the door hanging off its hinges at a precarious angle. The last time she’d been there, she’d busted that door open with the giant grandfather clock, avoiding death by moments. She climbed up to her room slowly, expecting someone to jump out at her from the darkness, just like in a horror movie, but the room, like the rest of the house, was empty.
Izzy paused at the top of the stairs, her eyes falling on the window, now pelted by the onslaught of rain. She ran her fingers along the sill. This time, she didn’t feel the cool metal nailheads, only small holes in the wood. The nails had been removed.
Jake stepped beside her, his hand on her back. “Is this where you—”
“Yep.” She didn’t want to hear him say the words “almost died” because now that phrase applied not only to her bedroom, and the main staircase, but to her dad’s workshop as well. How was she going to live in a house that reminded her of death?
There were going to be more if they didn’t get moving. Izzy pulled her eyes away from the window. Her phone was still on the nightstand, charging. Exactly as she’d left it. And tucked into the case was Agent Michaels’s card.
The phone rang four times before an answering machine picked up. Generic outgoing message, and Izzy hoped that Agent Michaels was good about checking her voicemail.
“This is Izzy Bell in Eureka,” she said, speaking quickly in case the messaging service had a time limit. “You have the wrong suspect. Alberto Bianchi is the Casanova Killer. He admitted to killing Kylie Fernández and Hunter Bixby, and he’s tried to kill me three times in the last twenty-four hours. He’s attempting to escape Humboldt Bay in a fishing vessel called Bodega’s Bane moored at the marina on Woodley Island. I told Deputy Porter everything I know.”
She glanced up at Jake, wondering if she’d forgotten anything. He smiled, nodding his head as if impressed, and flashed a thumbs-up. Izzy was about to beg Agent Michaels to alert the Coast Guard, when a bright flash of blue light illuminated her room, followed by a heavy popping sound.
Then the lights in her room, and the house, and all of Eureka below her bedroom window, went dark.
JAKE DROVE TO THE MARINA AS QUICKLY AS THE WEATHER and the complete darkness would allow. Izzy wasn’t sure she’d ever experienced such an utter blackout. Electricity to the entire town was out, making streetlamps and porch lights useless, and thick storm clouds blotted out the moon. Torrential rain pummeled the windshield so fiercely the wipers could barely keep up, adding another layer of disorientation to the drive. Everything looked different, as if all natural landmarks had been wiped clean, and Izzy only recognized where they were when Jake turned onto the bridge.
Izzy glanced down at her phone, which she held in a death grip. The words “No Signal” mocked her. “I just hope Agent Michaels got that message.” She left the rest unsaid, but she and Jake both knew the reality of the situation. Without backup from the Coast Guard, the FBI, the sheriff’s department, or some other law enforcement agency, they had little chance of stopping Peyton and Alberto. Even if they could get onto the boat. Alberto had killed over a dozen people and was planning to add one more to that list in the immediate future. Why not make it three?
The power outage had come at the worst possible time. Not that it should have affected their plan, since her phone was fully charged and the grid of cell phone towers across the greater Eureka area should have provided them with some kind of signal, but when Izzy had dialed 911 at the house, she’d heard a long beep and then noticed the “No Signal” message on the phone’s tool bar. Jake’s phone said exactly the same thing. Along with the power, the cell phone towers in Eureka must have been completely knocked out.
She couldn’t even text Peyton to warn her about Alberto. She’d typed and sent a half-dozen messages pleading with her friend not to trust him, but they all sat in her messaging app with ominous little red exclamation points signifying a failure to send.
Izzy had checked her phone every few minutes as they crawled down to the marina, hoping they’d eventually come into range of a functioning tower, but so far, she’d had no luck.
Water sloshed over the asphalt as Jake eased the car off the bridge, and the aged spruce and oak trees flailed around in the wind, their spiny limbs occasionally caught in Jake’s high beams. The parking lot for the National Weather Service was, ironically, empty. Even seasoned professionals were riding out the storm in a safer location.
“I’m cutting the headlights,” he said as a ferocious gust blasted the side of the pickup. “So they don’t see us coming.” Izzy could feel the cab rock back and forth on its suspension, and Jake had to muscle the steering wheel to keep them moving in a straight line.
“I guess driving without lights in this storm can’t be that much more dangerous than driving at all,” she said.
“Or trying to power a boat out of the channel with that surge.”
The lot for the marina was also completely empty, and submerged in an inch or two of water. Luckily, Jake’s truck was high enough off the ground to plow through. He pulled into a row two docks away from where Bodega’s Bane was moored, cut the engine, and dropped the keys into the cup holder.
