Killer Instinct, page 6
“Catching a hockey game with Zach,” I answer, not even glancing at Daisy.
“Zach?” Mom looks between me and my sister.
“I like Zach,” Justin chimes in.
Daisy shoves a huge bite of pancake into her mouth.
“Thought I’d go to the driving range.” Victor wisely changes the subject. “Justin, you in?”
“Sure!”
Mom motions to the corner where two huge Target bags sit. “I bought some things for that family at Justin’s school. Lane, mind dropping them on your way to hockey?”
My mom really is the greatest. “When’d you go to Target?”
“Last night. Why?”
Because I was there too, rescuing children from a runaway mother. “No reason. I swung in too, that’s all.” That statement will explain my presence in case parking-lot footage makes the news.
“I saw that cute doctor from your clinic. Dr. Issa?”
I perk up. “In Target?”
“Yeah, he was buying all kinds of stuff. Looked like he had quite a home improvement project going on.”
He never mentioned a home improvement project to me. Then again, why would he? “Did he see you?”
“No, don’t think so.” Mom reaches for the orange juice, and that ends our discussion on Dr. Issa and Target.
A few hours later I load the bags into the Wrangler and head to Justin’s school, where a drop box has been set up outside for donations.
I swing by the extended-stay hotel next and see the Montero parked in the lot. Through the hotel window I catch the dad feeding the baby and talking on the phone. There’s an older gentleman reading to the two other kids, and I assume he must be the grandfather.
The mom is nowhere to be seen. I hope I can find her. She deserves punishment for what she did. And those kids and the father deserve vengeance. I’ll give it one more day and google her name and see what’s been reported.
Those poor kids. At least they’ve got a great dad.
From the extended stay it’s off to DC and hockey. I meet Zach outside the Verizon Center.
He smiles at me. “Hey, you.”
I like the way he greets me. It’s cute. I smile back—“Hi”—and suddenly realize I am genuinely pleased to be here with him.
He leads the way in. “Ever been to hockey?”
“I have. A few times.”
Zach gives the attendant our tickets and leads me straight to a hot dog stand. “I assume you eat hot dogs?”
I eat everything. “Mustard only.”
He orders a veggie dog for himself and a couple of Cokes and directs me to our seats.
One bite in I ask, “Didn’t see Dr. Issa at work yesterday. Everything okay?”
Zach nods but doesn’t elaborate. I’ve never been one to press an issue, so I table the subject.
I lick mustard off my thumb, glad it’s not spicy. I’m a French’s-plain girl all the way. “What’s up with the vegetarian thing?”
He wipes his mouth. “Mom and Dad raised Mike and I meatless. That’s all. No animal-rights drama.”
I think about all the times I’ve seen Dr. Issa eating lunch. “Your brother eats meat.”
Zach laughs. “Who are you, the meat police?”
He’s right. It’s none of my business.
“Kidding, Lane. Yes, Mike eats meat. Just because they raised us vegetarian doesn’t mean we can’t choose for ourselves.”
I guess I can’t imagine not eating meat. I am a carnivore, through and through.
We watch the game, eat our dogs, and drink our Cokes while everyone around us yells and cheers.
I search my brain for something to say and come up with absolutely nothing. Talking has never been my strong suit, and frankly I thought Zach would have a lot to say. I thought he’d carry the conversation. I thought I could just nod, insert a comment here or there, make an acknowledging grunt, and the whole date would be done before either of us realized it.
It’s not like I’m having a bad time. I like hockey. I like hot dogs. I like mustard. And the more I sit here beside Zach, the more I like his scent—a nice mixture of laundry detergent and that same bodywash I caught on him in the library.
I tune in to him then. Really tune in to him. To his dark hair and his snug T-shirt. To the curve of his biceps, his flat stomach, and the fit of his faded jeans. He’s taller than me—I’d guess over six feet—and sports the body of a baseball player.
I take my gaze away from his strong thigh and look straight up into his face to find his brown eyes focused on me.
He trails those eyes down to my lips.
The lights go out as period intermission begins. Only a spotlight illuminates the rink, where a girl is ice-skating to a rocking beat.
Zach is still staring at my lips.
I lick them, and he takes that as his cue to immediately lean in.
There is no softness, no teasing. There’s only tongues and hunger. Fortunately, I like it. Unfortunately, I’m thinking of Dr. Issa.
The lights come on and we pull away from each other. Zach is breathing heavily. I focus on myself and note I’m not. I want to be, though.
The Zamboni enters and begins resurfacing the ice in prep for the second period.
Zach smiles at me at the exact second a scream pierces the air. Then another scream. And then another.
Zach and I look around, trying to figure out what’s going on, and there it is, hanging half in/half out of the Zamboni—a severed leg.
To my surprise Zach doesn’t even react. “Would you look at that?” is all he says.
Yes, would you look at that. But more importantly—I glance around the crowd—is the Decapitator looking at it too?
Chapter Sixteen
THE WHOLE STADIUM IS SHUT down, everyone with access to the ice is questioned, security film is reviewed, and the FBI is called in.
The footless leg does indeed belong to the previous discovered head and arm. If things go according to plan, the killer will reveal the other arm and leg next.
My question, though—does he plan to include me in the next revelation? Or maybe he’ll send me another card.
I’m sure he knew I was going to be at the hockey game and he left the leg for me. His bizarre way of letting me know he’s tracking me.
I zero in on myself and try to analyze how this affects me. . . . I’m excited to have seen a severed leg in person, albeit from a distance. Eager to perhaps receive another letter from him. Thrilled that he’s including me. And yes, scared. Tell anyone and I will hurt you.
Which brings me back to why me. Also pondering the fact I’m both anticipatory and frightened that a serial killer is personally contacting me.
The entire thing incessantly circles my brain as I make French-press coffee Monday morning. I love the early mornings when I’m the only one up. Five a.m. is my natural alarm clock, which gives me at least an hour of “me” time before normal people get up.
I take my cup of dark brew over to the dining room table and log on to my laptop. As I’m waiting for it to come up, I check my phone for messages.
I have three.
From Zach: SEE U AT SCHOOL. The time stamp shows it was sent fifteen minutes ago. Looks like somebody else is an early riser too.
From Reggie: REQUESTED INFO IN YOUR INBOX. SORRY I CALLED U CREEPY.
THAT’S OK, I type back. I AM CREEPY. She’ll get a kick out of that.
I pull up my inbox to see half a dozen files attached. Quickly I browse them. Sure enough, she’s hacked her way into whatever necessary system to get me information on the Decapitator.
As I look through them, it hits me like a kick to the gut. If he’s tracing my research through IPs, then he’ll know Reggie’s supplied this. I’m an idiot. I involved Reggie before I even realized the Decapitator was tracking me. I immediately pick up the phone and call her even though I know she’s not up yet. It goes straight to voice mail.
“Reg, don’t send me anything else on the Decapitator. And do whatever you need to do to cover your cybertracks. I got in trouble with Mom,” I lie. There’s no way I’m going to tell her the Decapitator contacted me directly.
I hang up and go back to the third text message. It’s from a number I don’t recognize. DID U LIKE THE GIFT? Attached is a picture of the severed footless leg hanging out of the Zamboni. My heartbeat kicks into hyperdrive. He knows my number. Of course he knows my number. This shouldn’t surprise me.
Quickly, I forward the message and picture to my inbox and bring it up full screen on my laptop.
Like the head and the arm, it has obviously been removed with a sharp object. And like the head and the arm, it was shrink-wrapped for preservation.
At least this answers my question. The Decapitator knew I was going to be there. He left the stump as a present for me.
Victor comes downstairs, surprising me. “You’re up early,” I observe.
He puts an overnight bag by the front door. “Got a flight to catch. You sleep okay?”
“Always.” Sleep rarely eludes me. I don’t toss or turn. I typically wake in the exact position I fall asleep in. I read somewhere that’s the sign of a good conscience.
And I seldom if ever dream. Or maybe I do dream and just don’t remember it.
Victor grabs a banana from the kitchen, kisses the top of my head, and glances at my computer screen. “Lane, what are you looking at?”
I play it cool. “This is the leg that came out of the Zamboni at yesterday’s hockey game.”
“I know that. But where did you get that picture? And more important, why are you looking at it?”
“The picture’s all over. There were hundreds of people at the game.” I zoom in a little closer. “I know Mom’s on the case. I’m interested I guess.”
“Mom said she’s going to talk to you today about it. See if you’re okay. Were you scared?”
“Honestly, I barely even saw what happened. It was all so quick.”
He studies me for a second. “Okay. But if you feel like discussing it, you know your mom and I are here for you.”
“I know. Thanks.”
He nods to the screen. “Please don’t be looking at that when your brother comes down.”
“I won’t.”
He gives my shoulder a squeeze and is out the door. I wonder what he and mom would do if they found out the Decapitator is contacting me. They would freak. They would put our whole family in protective custody. They would in turn put me at risk. Put themselves at risk. A move like that would piss the Decapitator off. He wouldn’t back away. Protective custody or not, he’d find me. He’s evaded being caught for years. He’s good. There’s no doubt in my mind he couldn’t find me if he really wanted.
He’s chosen me for a reason.
I study his text for a second, deciding. . . . I select call and hold my breath for what might happen. It rings exactly one time then clicks over to “This call cannot be completed as dialed.” I release my breath. It’s probably a throwaway cell.
I catalog the text message and picture with my other files, password-protect them, and transfer them to my flash drive. Then I google the arson case.
The mother’s body was found floating in someone’s swimming pool. According to the police report she drowned herself. This is disappointing news. Not that she’s dead, but that I wasn’t involved. My internal itch raises its inflamed, scratchy head. I’ll have to find someone else to relieve it.
Those poor kids. Now they have to deal not only with their mom leaving them but also with her committing suicide.
And the dad. Left all alone to care for three young children. He had to have seen it coming. The mom seemed so out of it.
It occurs to me then: The Decapitator took the life of someone who wanted to live, and yet here is this mother who wanted to die.
It’s too bad the Decapitator and the mother couldn’t have gotten together. They could’ve solved each other’s problems.
Which brings me back around to my questions. How does the Decapitator pick his victims? And why the month of September?
The shower goes on upstairs. My family’s getting up. I use the few extra minutes to pull up Reggie’s information again. In addition to Oregon, Arizona, and Tennessee, the Decapitator did three others, two years apart instead of one. Add Minnesota, Maine, and Wyoming to the list. I glance through all the victims’ names and don’t immediately see any similarities.
I need to figure out the parallel points and why he changed from two years apart to one. Also—I zoom in on an old picture—he used a dull knife and then switched to a sharp one. There’s got to be a connection between it all. A connection well hidden, otherwise the FBI would’ve already figured it out. Or perhaps they have figured it out and have chosen not to release information to the public. A killer doesn’t just randomly pick victims and methods.
Unless . . . the Decapitator has been fine-tuning his technique. Like I am with my kit. It’s a learning process as you go along.
Our front door opens and Ercita walks in. I’d forgotten she was coming today. I glance at my laptop clock. Six fifteen a.m. As usual, she’s right on time.
Ercita’s our housekeeper. She only comes once a month and spends the whole day sanitizing our home from the ceiling fans on the second floor down to the lumpy couch in our basement.
She’s approved through the FBI, which is why my mom hired her some five years ago.
“Good morning, Lane.” She closes the door and goes straight into the laundry room.
Something’s wrong. Ercita never walks past me without sitting and talking.
She comes out of the laundry room and goes into the bathroom. Seconds later she crosses right in front of me and into the living room to turn on the TV.
“Ercita, what’s wrong?”
She turns and—oh my God—there’s tears in her eyes. I’m not good with tears.
“Federico didn’t show up.”
I know she’s been saving money to bring her brother from El Salvador to America. Just like she brought her sister and their mother. “What do you mean didn’t show up?”
She shakes her head, holding back tears. “We went two days ago to meet him on the bus, and he never got off.”
“Well, do they know where he’s at?”
She shakes her head and gives in to the tears.
My mom comes downstairs at that second, takes one look at a broken-down Ercita, and turns to me. I quickly tell her what she just said.
Mom walks over and wraps her arms around Ercita. “It’s okay.” She sits with her on the couch. “When was the last time you spoke to your brother?”
“A week ago.” She sniffs. “He’d already crossed the border into America.”
Mom nods, in full-on investigator role. “Good. Did you use the same sponsor you used for your sister and mother?”
Ercita shakes her head. “No, we used a new one. But he came highly recommended.”
“By whom?”
“Other people in our apartments that have used him.”
Mom hands her a tissue. “Name?”
“Lynn Hoppman.”
Mentally I catalog that name.
Mom gets up. “Let me make some phone calls.”
Ercita nods, and Mom charges off into her office. “Lane, make sure your brother’s up,” she says right before closing the door.
I get up from the table and go upstairs. I’m eager to research Lynn Hoppman. My inner sense tells me something’s up. I’m curious to find out what. . . .
Chapter Seventeen
FIRST-PERIOD TA JOB I do my customary checking in with Mr. Bealles, then head over to my station. Reggie calls me not more than five minutes later.
“Got your message. What happened?”
“Nothing to worry about.” I continue the lie. “Like I said, I got in trouble with Mom. You covered your tracks, right? I don’t want the FBI to know I got nosy in their Decapitator business and you helped me.” I don’t want the Decapitator to know my best friend helped me research him.
Reggie snorts. “Puh-lease. Did you just meet me? Nobody knows anything I do. I have so many filters it would take two of me just to figure me out.”
I like it when Reggie gets cocky. “You sure?”
“I’m positive.”
I believe her. But I’m still not taking any chances. “You’re a good friend, Reg, but no more on the Decapitator. Okay?”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”
I don’t press it. I know if I do she’ll pick up on my tone, so I play it cool. “Be a good girl.”
She laughs at that and hangs up. What I need to do is give her something to sidetrack her. Something non–serial killer. Something harmless. I’ll get her involved with researching Lynn Hoppman when I know a little more.
I log on to the computer, disable the wireless, and plug in my flash drive. I bring up the Decapitator files Reggie sent me and begin perusing them. Each of the known victims was a blonde and a preschool teacher. Two points of similarity. They don’t share the same names or birthdates. And since the killer has moved around, they’re certainly not from the same area.
Blond and preschool teachers. The kill month of September is a common detail as well, but with the skipping of years . . .
Maybe he didn’t skip years. Maybe the blond hair is a key. A lot of women color their hair. Perhaps that’s why certain kills aren’t linked, because the victim had changed their hair color to a brunette or a redhead.
The thing, though, is that the location varies. Some are found in homes, others in warehouses. One was done with a chainsaw, others with electric carvers, and yet others with butcher knives.
The guy’s good, or he’s really stupid.
My gut tells me he’s good, mixed with the other.
Somehow the killer has got to be connected to the preschool-teacher detail. This is his preference, and there’s got to be a reason why.
