Killer Instinct, page 13
Reggie sighs. “Want my two cents?”
“No.”
“Let it go. Don’t be mad at your mom and stepdad. They love you. If you had a daughter that had been through something so horrible, you’d probably do the same thing.”
No. I don’t think I would.
It all starts trickling back. The years of them carefully watching me, explaining away my emotionless self by saying I was simply different and unique. The years of them encouraging me to embrace myself and walk to my own beat. The years of counseling we all went to just to make sure we were healthy and happy.
They’d simply been assisting me in repressing the nightmare, watching, waiting for signs of remembrance.
Likely, their FBI psych department counseled them to handle it that way.
“You still there?” Reggie asks.
“Did my real father stab that woman?” Who else—it’s his house and he was the one who took me.
“No one has proof. To this day it is an unsolved crime.”
“Well, was he at least brought in for questioning?”
“Yes, but according to the reports, he left you in the care of that woman, stepped out for a grocery run, came back, and found the scene.”
The Decapitator’s first documented kill had been thirteen years ago, one year after this murder. “What month was this picture taken?”
Reggie takes a second to look that up. “September.”
The same month the Decapitator kills.
“I know you can’t tell from the picture and all the blood, but whoever stabbed that woman tried to saw off her arms, legs, and head,” Reggie tells me.
I get really still. This has got to be the Decapitator’s first attempt. Surely the FBI’s made this connection.
No wonder he’s been contacting me, following me. The Decapitator’s first attempt . . . and I was there to witness it.
Nature versus nurture: I never had a fighting chance. I’ve been ruined from both angles.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
FULLY AWARE I’M BREAKING CURFEW and in no way caring, I park my Jeep down the street from 4 Buchold Place just a few minutes before midnight. Like the last time I was here this late, the street and its few houses sit shadowed, and aside from a car here or there, fairly empty.
In my left cargo pocket sits my Taser. In my right is the tranquilizer gun, already loaded and with the safety on. Zip ties lie in an untangled circle in my back right button flap. Duct tape takes up my calf pocket.
I desperately try to ignore my thumping heart as I go through the motions of wrapping my springy hair into a ponytail and cramming it up inside my ski mask. Preparations, I’m discovering, serve to not only build the anticipation but also provide focus for events about to transpire.
With one last glance around the dark street, I wedge my fingers into my black leather gloves, turn the dome light off in my Jeep, and quietly climb out.
I’m not sure what to expect, but I’m not taking any chances. I will use the tranquilizer if I have to. I will use all of it without a second thought. This much I’m sure of.
Staying in the shadows and under the enormous oak trees, I silently make my way to the dark house. I ignore my shallow breathing and my rapid pulse, and focus on what is about to happen. I’m either going to meet the Decapitator or he is going to reveal the next body part to me. I can’t see that anything else is going to happen.
I crouch behind a bush and survey the area. Same wet leaves cover the ground as the other day. A slight October breeze rustles through the bushes and the branches of the trees. I catch a faint hint of chimney smoke lingering in the air. It’s not cold enough for a fire.
Carefully I survey the house. Top to bottom. Left to right. And see no movement.
I wait for a sign. Does he want me to come in the front door?
“Stop right there!”
I freeze.
Mom?
“Don’t move!” Her voice resonates from the backyard.
I leave the bush I’m crouched behind and make my way in that direction.
A shot goes off and I plaster myself to the side of the house. Oh my God! Was that aimed at me?
Up and down the street, a few lights flip on.
The sound of two people fighting echoes through the night. Mom?
“Stop!” my mom shouts, and then immediately sucks in air.
I peek around the corner to see her drop to the wet leaves holding her side. From the tree branch above her head dangles the missing arm.
In the moonlight blood glistens off her hand. Has she been shot?
She groans and I don’t hesitate in racing toward her.
She sees me coming and tries to crawl away. I want to speak, I want to tell her it’s going to be okay, but I know I can’t. She’ll recognize my voice. For that matter, she might recognize my body even if it is completely covered.
I come down beside her and reach for her bloody hand. So much blood.
She stops struggling, maybe realizing I’m here to help.
“I’ve been stabbed,” she gasps.
She’s wearing her Kevlar vest, but the knife went up under it.
What are you doing here? I want to scream.
Sirens pierce the air and I automatically jerk to attention. I can’t be here!
She grabs my wrist, and in that second I understand she can’t let me go. She doesn’t know who I am, but she knows I have something to do with all this.
I twist from her strong grip and take off into the night.
The sirens get closer, and I know she’ll have help soon.
I climb in my Wrangler and stealthily pull away.
Mom’s been stabbed! I fight every urge in me to go back to her and instead concentrate on driving away. Help will come soon, I reassure myself.
Oh, God, what if he pierced an organ when he stabbed her? She could be dead right now in that backyard, and instead of waiting by her side, I ran.
She may have recognized me!
The Decapitator must have invited us both. He wanted us to meet. Or maybe he intended on getting me caught. What kind of sick game is he playing, stabbing my mother?
I park in the shadows of a nearby playground and watch as an ambulance and cops swarm the neighborhood.
The neighbors probably called when they heard the gunshot. Or maybe Mom’s team was nearby. If the FBI was watching the neighborhood, they probably saw my Jeep pull in. They may have even seen me hiding in the shadows. They’re all going to connect the dots now if they haven’t already. The house. The Decapitator. Me. I don’t know what I’m going to do.
Another siren blares past me and I jerk.
I close my eyes, smothered in guilt. I’m a horrible daughter.
I can’t lose my mom. I can’t.
The ambulance peels out of the neighborhood, sirens blaring. Blaring sirens are a good thing. It means she’s still alive. Right?
Mom’s supposed to have backup, a partner at least. She shouldn’t have gone in there by herself. What the hell was she thinking?
None of the cops leave the neighborhood, and I assume they’re scouring every inch of the property. Roadblocks will go up soon. I’ve got to get out of here.
I stow my gear, change out of my clothes, and drive home. I want to go to the hospital but know I can’t. If I do, they’ll know I know. And they’ll want to know how I know. I pray Victor is up, but he’s not. Does he know yet? Surely they would’ve called him by now.
I lie awake the whole night, guilt eating me from every angle. I left my mom to protect my own identity. This is all my fault. I should’ve never kept any of this to myself. He threatened me, my family . . . I did what he said and he double-crossed me!
At five a.m. I’m up, waiting, waiting for someone to come tell me everything’s okay.
At six a.m. Victor finds me standing in the kitchen. “You three kids aren’t going to school today.”
A lump forms in my throat. “Why? What’s going on?”
He approaches me, dark circles under his eyes, salt-and-pepper hair standing on end. He pulls me into a hug. “Your mom was stabbed last night. She’s been in surgery for hours.” He takes a deep breath, and I still myself for the worst. “But she’s going to be okay.”
Relief slams into me. I grab on to my dad, and I hold him tighter than I’ve ever held anybody. Tears press my eyes.
“It’s okay,” he whispers.
I nod and, for the first time in my life, let tears fall.
He doesn’t know what to do. He’s never seen me cry. “It’s okay,” he murmurs. “You go ahead and give in.”
I do. Letting tears fall freely. Giving in to the emotion I’ve never experienced before. He holds me tight, slightly rocking me, and I press my face into his chest.
Sometime later I blink and sniff, but he doesn’t lessen his hold, and I realize he’s crying too.
“What’s going on?” Justin’s voice interrupts us.
Slowly we pull apart and look down into his worried little-boy face.
Daisy comes down the stairs. “Who died?” she stupidly jokes.
I push past her and head up to my room. I’m so not in the mood for her right now.
In the background I hear Victor telling my brother and sister what he told me. They start crying, and I’m more than pleased that Daisy now knows what an idiot she is.
Later that morning our whole family sits around Mom’s hospital bed. She’s awake, but groggy.
Beside me, Justin hasn’t stopped crying. This is the first time he’s ever seen Mom like this, hooked to beeping equipment, IVs, tubes—defenseless.
It’s the first time any of us have ever seen her less than strong, less than perfect.
Daisy sits across from us, clutching Mom’s hand. It’s the most affection I’ve seen her show Mom in a very long time.
A television hung on the wall is already reporting James Donner is a fraud and the Decapitator is still at large. There’s footage of 4 Buchold Place, roped off now with police tape.
There’s no mention of the Masked Savior. Maybe Mom hasn’t gotten around to telling anybody yet. Or maybe she somehow figured out it’s me. . . .
“Let me talk to Lane,” Mom croaks. “Alone.”
I give Justin a reassuring squeeze.
“Let’s try to eat a little something,” Victor says, and ushers my brother and sister out.
As the door closes, I scoot up beside Mom. “Are you in a lot of pain?”
She shakes her head, but I know she’s lying. She licks her dry lips, and I give her a couple of ice chips to suck on.
Mom closes her eyes and takes a few seconds like she’s gathering her thoughts.
“Lane,” she finally rasps. “You know this happened at Four Buchold Place, right?”
I nod. She must not have recognized me after all.
“Internally, the FBI is focusing on your uncle as the Decapitator.”
Actually hearing the words in an official capacity renders me mute for a second. “What . . . what do you mean, internally?”
“Sometimes when an official announcement is made, it hinders the manhunt more than helps it. You need to be very careful. I have reason to believe the Decapitator, your uncle, is following me and probably you.”
I have reason to believe it too. “What evidence is pointing in his direction?”
“I can’t say. I’m sorry.”
I try not to get frustrated. “Does the FBI know I own that house?”
“Of course they do. But they also know you have nothing to do with this.”
If only that were true. “Where was your backup?”
She shakes her head. “He wanted me to come alone.”
“Mom, that’s stupid.” Her machine beeps and I ignore it, watching her lick her dry lips again.
I give her more ice chips.
She sucks. “I’ve done it before, against FBI protocol, and gotten in trouble because of it.”
This is news to me. And . . . doesn’t sound like her at all. “Are you in trouble now?”
“I suspect so. My boss is coming to see me later.”
“Was your team at least somewhere nearby?” Did they see me?
“You know I can’t divulge details. And you must know your silence is imperative regarding your uncle. We can’t afford to have any leaks.”
I nod, trying to be the patient person I’ve always been but totally consumed by frustration.
With a soft groan she squints against the pain.
I touch her arm. “Can I get you anything?”
“I need to rest.”
“Okay.” I turn to leave.
“Lane?”
I turn back.
“I’ve put a guard on you. On the whole family. For a couple of weeks. I’m not taking any chances.”
“What?” I can’t have a guard. How in the hell am I supposed to operate with a guard on my ass?
Chapter Thirty
THE NEXT COUPLE OF DAYS go by as expected—school and visiting Mom in the hospital.
Our FBI bodyguard is good at his job. I barely know he’s there.
On Wednesday I get a text from a number I don’t recognize. HOW’D U LIKE ALMOST GETTING CAUGHT?
U SONOFABITCH, I bang back. U STABBED MY MOTHER!
AH, AND NOW WE KNOW WHAT FINALLY PENETRATES SLIM’S BARRIER.
I toss my phone on the bed and walk away from it. He knows he’s gotten to me, and I despise that. All these years of thinking I had no family on my real dad’s side, and the one I end up getting turns out to be a serial killer. And to think I’d been at first fascinated with him. . . . He stabbed my mother. I hate my uncle.
I snatch the phone back up and hit call. It rings once and I get the same “cannot be completed as dialed” message that I got before. I don’t know why I bothered calling him back. I knew that would probably happen again.
The next afternoon I get home from the hospital and check the mail. Another small white envelope has been delivered with no return address.
My heart skips as I open up the envelope, already suspecting what I’ll find. I pull out a pieced-together picture, similar to the other he sent, but now with a head, two arms, and a leg. The type below it reads:
ONE LEG TO GO.
I KNOW WHO THE FBI THINKS I AM.
AND THEY’RE WRONG.
MAYBE I’LL TELL YOU WHO I AM. MAYBE.
GOOD GIRL, KEEPING THIS TO YOURSELF.
I flip the card over, and there’s a picture of my mom sitting in her car talking on her phone. Below the picture is:
LET’S HOPE I DON’T HAVE TO TEACH ANYONE ELSE IN YOUR FAMILY A LESSON.
My jaw clenches as I flip the card back over and scan the lines again. I know who the FBI thinks I am. How does my uncle know that? Or maybe he doesn’t and he’s just playing with me. Either way we’ll see how much of a good girl he thinks I am when I bust his ass.
I use the next couple of days to chart out his fourteen-year killing spree, starting with the woman I watched get stabbed to death.
I pick up the phone and call Reggie. “I know I said I didn’t want you doing anything else with the Decapitator, but that bastard stabbed my mom.”
“Oh, I’ve already been digging.” Reggie really is a good and loyal friend.
“Okay. Couple of questions: Can you tell me where my real father has been over the past fourteen years in the month of September? Can you tell me where his brother, my uncle, has been? Can you tell me if either one of them was connected in any way to the women who have died, including that initial murder I witnessed? Finally, can you tell me who’s been on and off the FBI task force over the past fourteen years? Specifically, Victor. I know he’s traveled to many of the states where the killings occurred.”
“Your stepdad. You don’t think—”
“I’m not discounting anything. I’m on a warpath, and everyone connected to this in any way is game. I’ve lost all trust.”
Through the phone I hear Reggie typing. “It’s going to take me some time to put all this together.”
“I know. And . . . I’d also like to know if I personally am connected to any of the fourteen women.”
“What do you mean? Like, related?”
“Yeah, or anything else.”
“Okay, I’ll send things as I find them.” With that, Reggie clicks off.
I pace my room, thinking through everything. Why would the Decapitator be contacting me personally if I don’t have some sort of stake in all this?
Unless he thinks I saw him all those years ago, and he has to get rid of me as I’m the only eyewitness. So why lure me back to 4 Buchold? Is it his sick attempt at completing the killing cycle?
Or maybe he’s after the whole family because my parents are on the investigative team.
Perhaps—and this is way out there—he fully intended to have me watch him all those years ago in order to make me into his successor.
Why, though, would he want a successor?
Reggie calls back. “There’s no proof your father took you all those years ago. Everyone naturally assumed it since you were found at Four Buchold Place. He kidnaps you, you’re found covered in blood, and no one thinks he committed that murder. It doesn’t make sense. Something’s off.”
Something’s way off. “I thought you said the reports noted he was questioned.”
“They did. It’s almost like the reports have been doctored or mistyped, or someone filed one and then someone else filed another. It’s like there’s—”
“Someone working on the inside.” Like Victor.
“Exactly.”
“So it could’ve been anyone who took me. Mom told me Seth and his brother both lived there.”
“You’re thinking your uncle might have kidnapped you?”
