Killer Instinct, page 7
Back to me and how I fit into all this. He’s “chosen” me for a reason. I am none of his things, though. I’m not a blonde, fake or real, and the last thing I ever want to be is a preschool teacher. September has no significance to me, and none of the victims have ever been as young as me. The Decapitator doesn’t want to kill me. He’s involving me for some other reason.
I focus back on the files Reggie has sent. She’s included several profiles put together over the years. At first the experts thought the killer was a teacher at the same school. Then after the second kill the experts thought it might be a copycat. The third kill occurred, and the experts concluded it was a middle-aged man, intelligent, financially secure, personable, grieving the loss of a loved one.
Hacking someone apart with a knife is an interesting way to grieve the loss of a loved one.
If I were grieving for a family member, I would visit their grave and put flowers on it.
Or maybe I wouldn’t. Maybe I’d just stare at their picture and remember different times. I guess I’ve never thought about it. I really don’t know what type of griever I’d be.
Will I cry when/if my parents die? I didn’t grieve for my real dad. I wasn’t even born when he passed. I don’t remember any of it. Anyway, the way I’m going, I’ll die before my mom and stepdad, most likely.
I glance at the clock on the wall. I have fifteen minutes. Time enough to quickly research Lynn Hoppman. I take my flash drive out, re-enable the wireless, and type in Lynn’s name.
“Who’s Lynn Hoppman?”
I glance over my shoulder to Zach. That’s twice in one day I’ve been “caught.” First with Victor and the leg and now this.
In one swift movement I stand, grab Zach’s wrist, and pull him between two tall bookshelves.
I back him up against one and go straight for his mouth. He tastes like a mixture of orange juice and doughnuts, and somewhere in the back of my brain I wonder what I taste like.
It must be good because he hungrily responds, running his hands all over my butt, my breasts, my body. I reach for the snap of his jeans.
“Whoa,” he whispers, stilling my hands.
I’m just trying to reciprocate. What’s the problem? I brush my fingers over his hard-on and he sucks in some air.
“O-kay.” Gently he pushes me away. “Believe me, I so want this to go where you’re directing it. But”—he laughs—“we’re in the library, the bell’s about to ring, and”—he glances down at his protruding jeans—“I suddenly need a cold shower.”
I tune in to my aroused body and want . . . something . . . now. I reach for his hand and put it between my legs. His eyes go wide. I push his hand into me, rotate my hips, rotate them again, and my whole body rolls with a spasm. I stare right into his brown eyes that look so much like Dr. Issa’s as I ride the wave.
“God damn,” he breathes.
A heartbeat passes and I swallow. “We need to do this again sometime.”
He doesn’t respond as I walk back to my computer, log off, and gather my things.
The bell rings, and I glance back to the bookcases to see Zach still standing there looking at me.
If we have a repeat performance, will I think of Dr. Issa again?
Chapter Eighteen
LYNN HOPPMAN LIVES IN A big effing house on the Potomac. He is a financial planner with clients all over the world. He is not married and does not have any children. I have no clue what he does with such a big house if he’s all alone. And from everything me and Google found out, the guy’s clean. So I pick up the phone and dial Reggie.
“Yo.” She greets me in her customary way.
“So Ercita, our housekeeper . . .” I go right into things, quickly giving Reggie the rundown on what’s happened. “Mom’s helping a little, but honestly, she’s so overwhelmed with her normal work I don’t know how much she can assist. I told Ercita I’d help her by finding out about this Lynn guy. But he’s coming up clean. Can you do your digging magic?” Of course I didn’t tell Ercita I’d help, but Reggie doesn’t need to know that.
“Sure. Let me see what I can find.”
“Thanks.” I leave out the part that I plan on handling Lynn myself if he turns out to be the deviant my inner sense thinks he is.
• • •
“Everything going to be okay with Ercita?” I ask my mom over dinner Tuesday night.
She sighs. “I don’t know. I’ve got some friends working on it.”
“What about that man she mentioned. Lee”—I purposefully misname him—“somebody?”
“Lynn Hoppman,” my mom says. “He checks out clean. Ercita was right. He’s successfully helped numerous people come to America on work visas.”
“Hm.”
Later, after dinner, I give my standard going-to-study-at-the-coffee-house line and head to Lynn’s mansion.
Between a security gate and perimeter fencing there’s no getting in.
I park down the road, where I can scope out his comings and goings. It might be a while, so I get my calculus homework out and dive in.
A little over an hour later a Jaguar pulls up to the gate; the driver punches a code and rolls on in. Lynn Hoppman’s home from work.
Using my binoculars, I check out as much as I can, but with the property’s surrounding thick trees it’s impossible. I could rent a kayak and laze my way right down the river his property overlooks, but frankly I don’t want to get some funky infection.
The Potomac isn’t known for its cleanliness.
Another thirty minutes tick by, and he comes back out in his Jaguar. I guess he’s not home for the evening after all. I follow a safe distance behind as he heads into DC.
He makes a stop for wine and eventually finds his way to a condo off Connecticut Avenue NW. He feeds a meter and turns toward the building.
“Lynn!” a guy yells from a balcony four stories up.
Lynn holds the paper bag in the air. “Got the pinot you wanted.”
The guy waves. “Come on up.”
Lynn disappears into the building and a few minutes later reappears on the balcony with the guy. They uncork the wine, pour two glasses, and settle down to visit.
My cell chimes Reggie’s personalized ring. “Whatcha got?” I answer.
“Hoppman’s clean. Can’t find anything. Except . . .”
I wait. Reggie sometimes has a penchant for drama.
“His father owned a warehouse in Fairfax. Hoppman inherited it when the father died. He donated the property to a nonprofit that moved its headquarters to Rockville.”
“So the warehouse is sitting empty?” I surmise.
“And because it’s changed hands several times, there’s quite a paper trail. However, someone with my expert hacking skills saw it as a mild challenge.”
I can just imagine her swag expression on the other end. “Anything else?”
“Nope.”
“Thanks. I’ll pass it along to Mom and Ercita,” I fib.
“Okeydoke. Bye.”
She texts me the address and I set my GPS. I get a little lost, and an hour later I pull down a long gravel road bordered by trees and into an empty dirt parking lot. A dark, abandoned warehouse sits some fifty yards away surrounded by a chain-link fence.
I park for a few minutes and survey the vacant area. It’s a small warehouse with old, faded graffiti decorating the metal walls. I’d say it’s probably three thousand square feet. Certainly not the size of a Super Target, but big enough.
I look along the roofline but don’t see any security cameras.
To the right of the warehouse sits a tractor-trailer.
I study the tall chain-link fence, zeroing in on the barbed wire along the top. Interesting. Clearly, Lynn doesn’t want people getting in or out.
I roll my window down and tune my ears in to the night. Crickets chirp in the nearby trees. Car engines rev by up on the highway. Industrial fans in the warehouse’s roof whirl.
Anybody coming down the gravel road would see me sitting here. Not good.
I glance around through the darkness and eye the nearby woods. I put my Wrangler in four-wheel drive and head straight for a gap in the trees.
I drive far enough in to be hidden, cut my engine, sit, and wait.
I’m good at waiting. Always have been. I have a lot of patience. I’m that kid parents take to church, and while all the other kids have to go to the children’s service, I get to stay in the congregation with the adults.
Not that I’ve been to church tons, but my parents have taken us a few times.
About an hour in I decide nothing’s going to happen and go to crank my engine, but then I catch headlights glowing down the gravel road.
Seconds later a truck comes into view. It drives right past me and up to the chain-link fence. Lynn Hoppman gets out. He unlocks the fence and drives through.
Somewhere between the boyfriend on Connecticut and here he’s changed vehicles.
He parks his truck next to the tractor-trailer, climbs in, and starts it up. He pulls a gun from the waistband of his jeans and approaches the warehouse. A gun?
Something’s going down, and I don’t have everything I need. I do have my Taser, my face mask, and gloves, but I’m not wearing the right clothes, I don’t have any zip ties, nor did I bring tranquilizer. Oh, and he’s got a gun!
Okay, focus. There’s no way I’m turning back. I will go forward. I will keep my wits about myself, focus on disarming him, and, while staying conscious of the bullets, block them out. If there’s anything that aikido has taught me, it is the ability to compartmentalize.
Starting tomorrow I’ll always be prepared. This right now proves I can’t plan all my attacks.
I lower the ski mask over my head and face, slip my gloves on, and jump from the Jeep.
I sprint across the dirt parking lot, straight through the open gate, and around the side of the warehouse where the tractor-trailer sits idling. I merge into the shadows and flatten my back against the warehouse’s metal wall.
Maintain focus. Stay calm.
In aikido I have been trained to be the defender, not the attacker. Tonight. I. Am. The. Attacker. Power fills me, and I silently recite that one more time. Tonight. I. Am. The. Attacker.
“Move!” barks a voice from around the side of the warehouse.
A second later a young girl steps from the corner, then an older teen, and then a man I’d put in his early twenties. Their mouths are duct-taped shut, and their wrists are secured behind their backs.
The young girl glances over, and her tear-filled eyes widen when she sees me. I shake my head and hold a finger to my mouth. Shhh.
Lynn Hoppman appears then, the gun held out, pointed at the three captives.
I’m already off his line of force, and I move, grabbing the gun barrel with my left hand and his wrist with my right. The gun goes off, and its booming release surges through my ears as I jerk away. Lynn whips around and lands a solid punch on my jaw. The impact shocks me off-balance and sends me stumbling backward. Adrenaline spikes through my veins, fueling me with anger, and propels me forward.
I lunge and grab the gun, press and twist it free, bring the barrel back, and strike him once in the head. Not giving him a chance to regain balance, I go straight into a circular throw, changing directions, and spinning him around.
His face hits the concrete. He rolls over and throws a kick, and it lands solidly on my shin. Son of a bitch! Panic spears fury through me that’s he’s one up. I channel its energy into slamming the gun against the side of his head. Blood squirts out and immediately fills the air with a coppery scent. My nostrils flare in primal response at the sight and smell.
I lock his arm and press my thumb into the concavity behind his left ear. His body sinks lifeless in a brief loss of consciousness. I almost sink with him in relief. Not yet, Lane. Move! Quickly I run over to the truck he’d driven in and leap into the bed. I flip open the large toolbox, rifle through, find duct tape, and snatch it up.
Lynn Hoppman groans and sluggishly tries to get up. I jump from the truck, cover the ground back to him, and jab my knee between his fifth and sixth thoracic vertebrae.
I twist both wrists back and duct-tape them together, lever up and do his legs, then slam the gun into his head again. This time when blood squirts, I smile.
Finally I turn to the three captives.
What the hell am I going to do with them?
Lynn moans and lets out a string of curses, and I swipe the duct tape over his mouth. I search his pockets and find keys and a phone.
I dial 911, and through my mask I lower my voice for disguise. “Lynn Hoppman. Fifteen Carmel Lane, Fairfax. Three people hostage.”
Leaving the phone on, I put it, the keys, and the gun on the ground beside the truck. The gun . . . I eye it for a second, considering . . . I can easily kill him, and that powerful thought straightens my spine. His life sits in my hands. But . . . does he deserve that finality? No, I can’t see that he does. He deserves to suffer, for sure. Just like he made others suffer.
In my peripheral vision I see one of the captives move, and I spin around. They’re all staring at me with relief and fear in their eyes.
Fear? But I’m here to help them.
I peel the tape off their mouths.
“Por favor, ayúdeme,” the young girl pleads.
I make a quick decision to leave them tied up. I need to get out of here, and I can’t afford them either following me or trying to keep me here.
“It’s okay,” the twenty-something guy says with a thick accent. Federico? “Get out of here. Help’s on the way.”
I nod and take off into the night. In my Jeep I crank the engine and four-wheel out of the woods and down the gravel road. I don’t turn my lights on, and trust the darkness will provide me with the necessary cover.
I tug the mask from my head as I reach the end of the gravel road. I turn onto the county highway and flip my lights on, and police sirens echo in the distance. What a rush. What a great big effing rush. The gun, being hit, almost losing it, the adrenaline, the relief . . . the blood. Seeing it squirt. Oh . . . that was amazing.
A half mile later four squad cars whip past me.
A half mile after that so does an ambulance.
Lynn Hoppman’s about to get everything he deserves. And that fills me with a different type of rush. Another wrong righted. Slim justice.
The gun . . . I could’ve easily killed him, and yet I chose not to. I think I’m discovering it might not be necessary. But can I truly fulfill my darkest urges without the finality of death?
Chapter Nineteen
IT’S ALL OVER THE NEWS the next day.
Mom nods to the TV. “Did you hear Ercita’s brother Federico was part of that?”
I shake my head. “What was that man going to do with them?”
“Sell them into sex slavery.”
My stomach clenches. What a horrible man. Maybe I should have killed him.
Gently Mom touches the yellow bruise on my chin where Lynn hit me. “Aikido?”
I nod. I’ve had bruises before, so one on my chin is really no big deal.
I tune back in to the TV and watch as the camera goes inside the warehouse to show dirty blankets on the floor, a bucket for urine in the corner, and several rats scurrying about. The reporter starts in on the description of the person who rescued the captives and ends with, “It looks like the Masked Savior has struck again.”
Justin shovels in a bite of cereal. “It’s like we have our own superhero.”
“Oh, please,” Daisy snorts. “Masked Savior. How stupid.”
This is one thing I agree on with Daisy.
Later at school Zach finds me in the hall. “So . . . crazy what happened between us in the library.”
“Yes, crazy,” I answer, only because I think that’s what he wants to hear.
He waits for me to say more, but I don’t.
“Well, anyway. It’s interesting you were googling Lynn Hoppman, and then he’s all over the news this morning.”
Seeing as how we’re in a crowded hall, I can’t use sex to distract him this time. So I agree, “Yeah, it is strange.”
“Why were you researching him?”
See, this is the thing. He thinks because we made out he can ask me whatever he wants. I don’t agree. My business is my business and his is his. If I wanted to share, I would. However, I don’t. This is not polite communication, though, so I say instead, “The lady who cleans our house . . .”
And I go on to tell him about Ercita and my mom helping, dropping major hints the FBI likely had a lot to do with the whole thing.
“That’s really great of your mom,” he comments, his curiosity seemingly alleviated.
The whole thing only serves as a reminder I need to be more careful.
That afternoon I check the news feeds to see a sketch artist has put together a depiction of the Masked Savior. He is tall and skinny. He dresses in all black. He wears a full-face mask. Some sketches are even showing me with a cape. Justin will like that.
But thanks to my flat chest, deep voice, and tomboy stride, Lynn Hoppman’s captives in no way guessed I’m a girl.
Good.
I’m working a midweek shift at Patch and Paw and head over after school.
I go straight to boarding and find Corn Chip absent.
“He’ll be here this weekend,” the receptionist tells me. “That other cute one’s here. What’s his name? Bear. That white Bichon?”
“Thanks,” I mumble.
True, Bear’s cute, but he doesn’t do it for me. Visiting with Corn Chip always brings my world back into focus. There’s just something about his knowing, dark stare and bushy gray brows. They have this way of cocking right and left when he’s looking at me. Even when I’m not talking, he seems to know what I’m thinking.
