Killer Instinct, page 5
“Thanks.”
“You doing okay, Lane?”
“Sure. Why?” Have I been acting weird?
She smiles. “No reason. You’re always so quiet, stoic. I feel like I take your happiness for granted.” She laughs. “Your sister wears her emotions on her sleeve and you do everything but. I have to do my mom job and check in with you.”
“I’m good. Really.”
She studies me for a long, thoughtful second. “You’re so much like your father. I wish you could’ve known him.”
“Me too,” I agree, feeling the sadness I always get when she brings him up. He died before I was born, but Mom’s always had nothing but good things to say about him. He’d been a decorated marine who died tragically while kayaking. His father, my grandfather, had been a pastor. His mother, my grandmother, a stay-at-home mom. They both passed before he’d even turned twenty, and when my father died, it had ended that family line. Well, except for me.
My mom chuckles a little, like her thoughts had wandered off too, into another time. “Well, anyway, I love you, Lane.”
“I love you, too.”
She nods to the envelope. “Who’s that from?”
I give it a quick glance. “Reggie.” Although I doubt it is. But Reggie has been and always will be a justifiable, parent-friendly name that requires no additional response.
Mom smiles. “Good night, then.”
She leaves, and I look at the envelope, type-addressed to me with no return address. I tear it open and pull out a white card.
On it is glued a picture of the decapitated head, a picture of the severed arm, and a new one of a leg. Across the bottom is typed:
THIS IS A PRESENT.
TELL ANYONE AND I WILL HURT YOU.
I swallow as I read the typed words again. This is from the Decapitator. Oh my God. He knows me. He knows where I live. He probably knows I’ve been researching him.
My hand shakes as I take in the pictures of the body parts and the words again. If he knows where I live, he knows I have a family. He’s got to know my mom is the FBI lead.
This is a present. Why would he be sending me a present?
A very tiny arrow in the bottom right corner catches my attention then and has me flipping the card over. On the back is a small picture of me coming out of school and below that is typed:
I KNOW EVERYTHING ABOUT YOU.
My shaking hand transforms to a full-on wobble, and I put the picture down. I close my eyes and sit for second, trying to regain equilibrium. I inhale a deep breath and blow it out slow. My heart thumps an unusually deep rhythm, and it distracts me for a few seconds. I tune in to it and realize I’m definitely scared, but I’m also excited. Yes, thrilled, in fact, to have been contacted personally by a real-life serial killer.
Tell anyone and I will hurt you. I believe him. Of course I believe him. Hurt me personally, hurt me by going after my family, or both? He’s certainly capable of it all.
I’ve researched nearly every killer out there, and there’s a reason for everything they do. There’s a reason he’s contacted me. Perhaps to kill me, but my instincts say no. It’s more likely he wants my mom. He’s picked the wrong disturbed daughter if that’s his plan.
I open my eyes, more calm now, and pick the picture back up. As far as I know, he hasn’t publicly revealed the leg yet.
All are shrink-wrapped, which answers my previous preservation question. I bring the paper closer to my eyes and study it. Grotesque. I’m repulsed, but I’m also drawn in. Mesmerized. Curious of the facts and details just like I’d been with the Weasel.
As I study the picture, my mind narrows to three main questions:
Why send this to me?
How does the killer know I’ve been researching him?
And what does he want me to do with this?
Chapter Thirteen
ZACH COMES UP BESIDE ME the next day as I’m spinning the combination on my locker. “Hey, you.”
I haven’t spoken to him since the library when he asked me out. “Heard you were in a mental institution.” I always like to get right to the point.
Zach laughs. “This is why I like you, Lane. There’s no pretense with you.”
I grab my science folder. So he’s emotionally damaged. Join the club.
“Yes, I spent some time in rehab,” he admits.
“Alcohol? Drugs?”
“Alcohol. Haven’t touched any in twelve months and seventeen days.”
I close my locker. “What made you drink?”
“God, I think I just fell a little harder for you.”
I don’t know why. All I did is ask him a question.
“Our mom died. Mike never told you?”
“Why would Dr. Issa tell me that?”
“I got the impression you two are close.”
“We work together, that’s all.” I think of the kiss and what his smile does to me and wonder if he’d ask me out if I were older.
“Anyway, when I got out of rehab, Dad gave me a choice of going back to private school or coming here, and I chose here.”
The warning bell rings and I start off down the hall.
Zach follows. “I cleared things up with your sister.”
“I know.”
“Let me guess. Drama?”
Zach has no idea.
“So go out with me?”
I sidestep someone in the hall as I mull that question over. I had told myself if he asked me out again, I’d say yes. It’s the regular teenage thing to do. “Okay. Where?”
It takes him a second to realize I just said yes. “Hockey? Sunday afternoon game?”
I round the hall toward the GT wing. “I’ll meet you there.”
“Great. I’ll give you the details later.”
As I head into my class, I glance back, but he’s already gone. I don’t know why I glance back. It’s not like I expect him to be standing there staring after me.
All day long I physically go through the routine of school, but every class I’m in I stare out the window wondering if the Decapitator’s staring back. I spend my whole day thinking about his communication. Maybe he somehow knows I’m the Masked Savior. Maybe he saw me.
Or perhaps he’s like Reggie, has his cyberfingers in everything, and knows I’ve been researching him. Maybe he traced an IP address or something.
More important, what does he want me to do with the knowledge that he knows me now? Does he want me to keep researching him, or maybe he wants to play some weird game of hide-and-seek? Just the thought of that not only frightens me, but also entrances me. The things I can learn if I play along . . .
Later after school, Daisy’s already out in the parking lot waiting at the Wrangler. “You’re a bitch.”
I climb in the Jeep. So what’s new?
“Samantha overheard Rachel say that she saw you talking in the hall with Zach.”
What, I can’t talk to Zach?
“Samantha overheard Rachel say that Zach asked you out.”
This is why high school annoys me. This is why people annoy me.
Daisy tears up. “I can’t believe you’re the other girl!”
“Oh, would you get over yourself?” I snap.
Daisy’s eyes go wide.
“Yes, Zach and I were talking. Yes, we’re going out on Sunday. Daisy, you need to grow up. You think you can whine and pout and flirt your way out of every issue. It might work with some people. It sure as hell doesn’t work with me, and clearly it doesn’t work with Zach. Move on with your life. Jesus!”
Daisy doesn’t speak. I don’t blame her. I’ve never raised my voice to anyone. Thinking about the Decapitator all day long has put me a bit on edge. Yes, I’ve never raised my voice, but I can’t think of a person who deserves it more than my sister.
I park in the elementary school’s kiss-and-ride, and Justin runs out. Daisy silently moves into the backseat, and Justin climbs in the front.
He hands me a flyer. “Do you think Mom can give me stuff to donate?”
I glance through the flyer detailing a family’s house that burned down. The school’s organized a fundraiser to replace what was lost.
Justin buckles his seat belt. “One of the kids is in my grade, one’s in kindergarten, and another one’s still a baby. They lost everything.”
I hand him back the flyer. “Mom won’t have a problem. I’ll help you when we get home.”
“How’d the fire start?” Daisy finally speaks.
“Arkenic?” He shakes his head. “Ar . . . ar . . .”
“Arson?” I provide.
He points at me. “That’s it!”
How sad they lost everything. I can’t imagine. “Do they know who?”
Justin shakes his head.
Someone needs to pay for making that family suffer. The edginess that had been simmering in me all day heats to a slight boil. The familiar itch raises its scratchy little head. Arson. Maybe I can find out who. Trail the guy. Scratch my itch. Cool the boil. Yes, this is exactly what I need right now.
Daisy doesn’t speak to me the whole rest of the afternoon and evening, and believe me, it’s a welcome relief.
After dinner the whole family scours the house for items to donate to the family in need.
By ten p.m. I’m in my room. I pull up the nanny-cam footage from last night and listen to Mom’s conversation.
“. . . I agree with Bill,” Mom’s saying. “The media leak is on the outside. I feel strongly it’s not an inside source.”
She stops and listens to the other end of the conversation. “Profilers say it’s the Decapitator leaking the information?” She huffs a laugh. “This guy’s got a high opinion of himself.”
The person on the other end talks for a while. Mom responds, “Reports indicate the arm was thrown from a vehicle moving approximately ten miles per hour.” She listens for a few seconds. “Yes, I agree. I think the person was riding a bike.”
A serial killer who rides a bike, leaks information to the media, and who has contacted me directly. He’s interesting. This is for sure.
I want to text Reggie, but after the “creepy” comment I’m hesitant. Reggie and I don’t say things like that to each other. We’ve always accepted one another for our odd selves. It’s an integral part of our friendship. It’s the one thing I value the most.
Back to nanny cam, I save the file and do the only thing I can at this point: dig into researching the recent arson. Taking this guy down will relieve the tension in me. It’ll help me regain my equilibrium.
When I find the arsonist, I think I’ll deal with him by setting him on fire. Or maybe I’ll just burn down where he lives too. I’ll have to think on it for sure.
I bring up the news feed on my laptop and read the paragraphs. Five days ago at approximately four in the morning an unknown person poured gasoline around the perimeter of a twelve-hundred-square-foot home. The mother and baby were asleep in the master bedroom with the two older children in a separate room. The father was gone on a business trip. Currently there are no suspects.
I’ll lay odds it’s the dad. He came home from his trip a day early. Set the house on fire. Planned on collecting not only home insurance but also life insurance on his family.
Yes, I’ll bet anything it’s the dad. And starting tomorrow I have someone new to trail. Electricity zings through my synapses, stimulating me for the pursuit. An arsonist. Someone new to add to my now-growing repertoire. The question is, what will I do to him when I catch him?
Chapter Fourteen
THE ARSON FAMILY IS STAYING at an extended-stay hotel. I spend two nights in the hotel parking lot with my binoculars, watching the dad come home, the kids exuberantly greeting him, and he genuinely exhibiting happiness toward them. I observe as he helps with homework and bath time and plays with each kid.
I’ve got a good stepdad, but this guy can easily win the father of the year award, he’s that perfect.
Except . . . he and the wife rarely interact. And that—my gut tells me—is the key.
On Friday night I watch him pack for yet another business trip. He takes a taxi to the airport, and the mom sits in the hotel living room for hours, watching TV while the third grader makes sandwiches. The child gives one of those sandwiches to the mom, dresses the younger one for bed, gives the baby a bottle, and when the baby cries, picks her up and soothes her.
Clearly, he’s used to this routine. And all the while the mom sits zoned out in front of the TV. I’m not entirely sure she’s even watching it.
At eleven thirty the kids are all asleep in one bed, the mom has passed out in the living room, and I need to go home. Not only do I have a curfew, but I have to work the early shift at Patch and Paw. Plus . . . I want to see Dr. Issa. I want to see how he reacts to me after the kiss I unexpectedly gave him.
Tomorrow rolls around, but by one p.m. Dr. Issa still hasn’t shown up at work, which isn’t that odd. In the two years I’ve worked here, he has missed several days.
“Where’s Dr. Issa?” I ask the receptionist.
She shrugs. “Called in sick.”
Sick because he’s really sick or sick because I kissed him?
WE STILL ON FOR SUN? Zach texts me.
Okay, that annoys me. If I’ve made plans, then I’ll be there. Why do people always insist on the need to double-check everything?
YES, I type back.
DID U GET MY NOTE? TIME & PLACE?
YES, I respond. If I hadn’t, I would’ve already followed up. Don’t mean to be a bitch here, but common sense.
Thankfully, he doesn’t text me back with a smiley face or other cute lingo.
At the end of my shift I leave work, text my mom with HEADING TO LIBRARY, and then go straight to the extended-stay hotel. I park and get out my binoculars, and it’s like a day hasn’t even passed.
The mom’s still sitting in the same spot, wearing the same sweatpants and oversize T-shirt, staring at the TV that’s now not even on.
The kids are out on the tiny balcony, playing.
Hours go by and night settles in. I’m not sure when the dad is coming back, but I hope it’s soon.
I’ve heard of postpartum depression. Is this it?
Abruptly the mom stands up, and I nearly jerk to attention. She yells for the kids, and they excitedly go running. She grabs her purse and ushers them all out into the parking lot and into a Montero.
The oldest buckles the baby into a safety seat, checks on the other’s seat belt, and then fastens his own. The SUV pulls from the lot, and I follow a safe distance behind as they visit a Burger King drive-through.
Normally kids are cheery, babbling, singing on family outings, especially ones involving fast food. It strikes me how all three kids are exceptionally still.
She drives to a Target next, parks the SUV, says something to the kids, gets out, closes the door, and walks off. She keeps on walking, right past Target, right past a string of restaurants, hangs a left on a side road, and disappears from sight.
I stay in my Wrangler a few aisles over, watching the Montero, waiting, waiting, waiting for I don’t know what—the mom to come back—something to happen.
I want to go to the kids. I want to tell them it’s going to be okay. I want to drive off and find the mom. I want to call someone but don’t want my cell traced.
As inconspicuously as possible I glance around at all the security cameras. Target is not my ideal place. I glance at my watch. At this point I’ve been sitting here thirty-two minutes. Anybody reviewing this footage will wonder why I haven’t gotten out.
And they’ll probably wonder why I’m here at nine thirty at night.
Fortunately for me Target is still hopping on a Saturday evening, so me and my Wrangler don’t stick out too much.
The door to the Montero suddenly opens and out crawls the third grader. He unbuckles his baby sister from the car seat, props her on his hip, grabs the hand of the kindergartner, and starts right toward me.
I sit as still as possible, watching them silently, expressionlessly cross the Target parking lot.
If their mom was here right now, I’d taser her just for putting them through this.
It becomes so clear to me. She set that house on fire. She wanted these beautiful kids dead. She gave up on them. And she better be glad she walked away. I would’ve killed her if I’d caught her trying to hurt them again.
The three children draw closer, and I roll my window down in expectation. There’s no way I can avoid getting involved.
“Hi, babies, where are your parents?”
I look to the right, where an elderly lady is pushing a cart with a toddler in the seat.
The third grader breaks eye contact with me and turns to the elderly lady. “I think our mom left us,” he bravely tells her.
I roll my window up and hang out a bit while the lady calls for help, police eventually show up, and the three children are taken into custody.
As I pull from the parking lot, I catch sight of Dr. Issa’s silver Nissan Juke. I do a double take and see the Hopkins sticker on the back that verifies it’s his. That’s odd. I wonder how long he’s been here and . . . if he saw me.
I briefly consider waiting, just to see, but then decide that’s not a good idea. I need to get out of here. I drive from the parking lot and head in the direction the mom walked. I drive around for a while, looking, not expecting to find her, but I don’t know, maybe hoping I’ll see her.
Hopefully, by tomorrow the kids will be reunited with their father. And by tomorrow there’s no telling where the mom will be.
A thought slams into me then, and I nearly brake to a stop. Has the Decapitator been watching me tonight as I watched them?
Chapter Fifteen
“WHAT ARE YOU UP TO TODAY?” Victor asks me over Sunday breakfast.
