Killer Instinct, page 8
I look through the list of things that need to be done and choose trays first. After collecting all of them from the kitty condos I head out back to wash and disinfect them.
Tonight I’ll check the nanny cam and see if I’ve missed anything. I also want to try accessing Mom’s computer. I’ve attempted before and failed, but one never knows. It’s worth a go again. Because surely she’s got to have files that will help me connect the Decapitator dots and figure out why he’s contacted me directly.
I sense more than hear someone behind me and turn to see Dr. Issa. He gives me that shy, intelligent smile that does weird things to my insides. I haven’t seen him since the kiss and am curious to see if he’ll bring it up.
“Heard you and Daniel, or rather Zach, are dating,” he begins.
Dating? I don’t consider us dating. We went to hockey and made out. “We went to a hockey game.” I leave out the part where we swallowed tongues and he gave me an orgasm in the library.
“Um,” Dr. Issa looks down. “How about we forget what happened between us? You’re a nice girl and all, but—”
“Okay.”
He looks at me. “Okay?”
I shrug and tell myself I don’t care. Really, what’s the point anyway? Emotional attachment, talking things out, drama. If more people will just say what they mean, accept and move on, then life can cruise along at a steady unencumbered clip. Why don’t more people realize this?
Yes, I tell myself this as I look him straight in his adorable eyes.
“Oh.” Dr. Issa just stands there a second.
I wait. “Anything else?”
With a shake of his head he reaches for the door, then, as a second thought, turns back to me. “Lane, I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone like you.”
I’ve been told this before. And I never know what to say in return, so I maintain eye contact and wait for whatever comes next.
He sighs. “I’m going home for the night.” But he doesn’t move.
“Was that a compliment?”
He laughs. “I’m not sure what it was.”
I decide to bring up the other night. “I saw your Juke at Target in Seven Corners.”
“I live near there.” He turns back to the door.
“Mom said she saw you buying home improvement stuff?”
He doesn’t look at me when he answers, “Yes, that’s right. See you later.” And with that he’s gone.
I don’t know why I’m questioning Dr. Issa about shopping. It’s really none of my business what he does or doesn’t buy in Target.
At nine o’clock I’m the last one out. I lock up and head to my Jeep. A yellow piece of paper stuck under my wiper catches my attention. I look around the dark parking lot. He’s contacted me again. I round the driver’s side and see a long, deep, jagged white mark where someone’s keyed my Wrangler. It strikes me as odd that the Decapitator would do such a thing.
I open the yellow piece of paper and read: Stay away from Zach.
No, this isn’t the Decapitator. This is an ex-girlfriend. I’ll bet anything. I grab my phone and text Zach. MEET ME?
SURE, he immediately types back. U AT P&P?
YES, I answer. I’LL WAIT HERE.
Ten minutes later he pulls in. “Oh, dammit all to hell,” is what he says when he sees my keyed Jeep.
I hand him the note and watch him read it.
He frowns. “She’s done this before.”
“She?”
“My ex-girlfriend.”
“She makes a habit out of keying people’s cars?”
Zach gives a guilty cringe.
I thought as much. And I don’t want anything to do with deranged exes. “I don’t do this, Zach.” I tap the yellow piece of paper. “This has officially made things difficult between you and me.”
Zach takes on a look of panic. “Lane . . .”
I climb into my Wrangler.
“Lane.” He takes a step toward me. “Wait.”
I give him a friendly look. There’s no reason why I have to be mean. “I’ll see you around, Zach, okay?”
He doesn’t answer at first. I don’t want to hurt him. But like I said, this isn’t me. I don’t do this kind of stuff. I don’t do drama.
Zach moves back. “Yeah, see you around.”
Without a glance in his direction, I pull from the parking lot. I’ve got too much going on right now. If things with Zach can’t be simple, then sadly there can’t be a “things with Zach.” Although I could use another library encounter. . . .
When I get home, I set the house alarm, grab my mail off the kitchen counter, and head straight up to my bedroom. I shuffle through mostly junk mail, and tucked in the middle is a small white envelope. The Decapitator has sent me something again.
My stomach muscles clench in anticipation as I carefully break the seal and slide the card out.
Friday. Midnight.
4 Buchold Place
Herndon
Immediately I flip the card over, and sure enough, on the back is another picture. But this one is a shot of Daisy sitting with her friends at an outdoor café. Below it is typed:
TELL ANYONE AND I WILL HURT YOU.
I WILL GO AFTER YOUR FAMILY.
What? My family? How dare he! Threaten me and it’s one thing, but my family . . . my mom, my sister, my brother . . .
Anger rolls through me as I read and reread that last line. Oh, he’s picked the wrong unbalanced person to threaten. He’s going to figure that out real quick.
I’m disgusted with myself for even being minutely fascinated with this evil man. What was I thinking? My family. Son of a bitch—you don’t mess with my family!
I’m not scared of him; I’m infuriated. He’s pissed me off. I’m going to carve him up just like he sliced all those innocent people. I will kill him.
I pace across my room, my jaw clenched, telling myself to calm down and at the same time welcoming the rage filling my body. Rage is good, and when mixed with focus, very powerful.
Friday. Midnight. He either wants me to find the next body part, or he wants to meet me. I can’t imagine he just wants to meet me, unless he somehow knows I’m the Masked Savior. And why would he care one way or the other if I am, unless he imagines there’s some similarity between us?
Unless . . . a shiver of terror runs down my spine as a new thought forms.
Do I already know him?
Chapter Twenty
FOUR BUCHOLD PLACE CONSUMES MY every thought the entire next day at school. I look the address up and get nowhere. I check Google Maps, but the trees prohibit an accurate satellite image. My natural inclination is to ask Reggie for help, and so I pick up the phone.
“Yo. Everything work out okay with that Lynn Hoppman information?”
Sometimes I forget she’s in Massachusetts and not privy to local news. I quickly give her the rundown.
“Wow. How crazy. I’m so glad my information helped.”
“Me too. Hey, listen, do you have time to look something up for me?”
“Sure. What’s up?”
“I was looking through an old scrapbook”—I start the lie—“and saw an envelope marked with an address in Herndon, Virginia. I looked it up and can’t really figure out who lives or lived there. Mind doing some digging?”
“Why don’t you just ask your mom?”
“She’s so busy with work,” I say. “I don’t want to bother her. Listen, if you don’t have time, it’s really no big deal. . . .”
“Please, you know I’m the queen of multitasking. I always have time. I’ll look it up. It’s probably some old relative or something.”
“Probably.”
We hang up; I text Reggie the address and start making a mental list. Taser. Zip ties. Gloves. Ski mask. Cargo pants. Tranquilizer.
Tranquilizer. I’ll have to stop by Patch and Paw and steal some. I’ll wait until six o’clock. That’s when the shift changes—people come and go, and I’ll be least likely to be noticed in the stockroom.
“Hey, Slim.”
I snap out of my zone and look up at the president of the science club passing me by in the cafeteria. I give him a nod, go to dump my garbage, and see Zach sitting off by himself.
His hunched shoulders, drooped head, and picking-at-his-food demeanor have me walking toward him.
I sit down beside him but don’t say a word.
He doesn’t even spare me a glance. “I almost tipped up a bottle of rum last night,” he admits.
My heart sinks. “Zach,” I start.
“It’s not because of you, so don’t go feeling guilty or anything.” He pushes his lunch tray away. “My ex-girlfriend, Belinda, and I used to get drunk together. All the time. When I voluntarily went into rehab, it’s like it offended her or something. She visited me once, doing the ‘good girlfriend’ thing, and then never came back.”
I don’t know what to say, so I focus on being a good listener.
“I learned a lot about myself in rehab. What’s healthy. What’s not. Anyway, I broke up with her, and let’s just say she’s not the nicest of drunks. What she did to your Jeep is a very small portion of what she’s capable of. She’s the reason why I chose not to go back to private school.”
He lets out a laugh that holds no amusement. “And she used to be the nicest girl.”
I can take care of her, I almost suggest, but instead I ask, “When did you notice she had a dark side?”
He finally glances over at me. “Hm. I’ve never thought about her as ‘dark.’ ”
I ignore that. “Do you think she was born dark, or do you think she became dark?”
Zach gives that a lot of consideration. “I think she became dark.”
Or maybe Belinda was born dark and has hidden it well.
• • •
Around six o’clock I stop into Patch and Paw.
“What are you doing here?” the receptionist asks.
“Forgot my travel mug.” I head past her and into the back. The usual stuff is going on—last-minute appointments, people cleaning, others packing up to head home.
I stroll straight into the storage closet and over to the tranquilizers. I don’t hesitate as I reach up and snag a vial. I’m beginning to question the idea of using a sedative to end a person’s life. It’s clean but holds no significance for me.
The serial killers I’ve studied use the same method time and again. A method they not only choose but that chooses them as well.
If I’m meant to be a killer, I’ll find my method. I can’t force it. It has to happen naturally. This I know.
After pocketing the vial, I head back out to my Jeep. Across the parking lot stands Dr. Issa and a dark-haired woman. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but they’re obviously arguing.
She climbs into her white Prius and peels out of the parking lot. Dr. Issa turns and kicks the tire on his Juke. I blink in surprise. I’ve never seen him angry.
He kicks it one more time, turns, catches sight of me, and hesitates.
A few seconds later he gives me a nod, strolls the long way around the lot, and back into Patch and Paw.
I’ve never experienced jealousy before. It has never been an issue for me. But I’m jealous of the dark-haired woman, even if they’ve been arguing. It’s unsettling to admit that to myself. I always considered that emotion beneath my common sense.
• • •
By Friday I still haven’t heard from Reggie about 4 Buchold Place. My day is usual. Morning coffee, school, Daisy heading off for a Friday date, me taking Justin to aikido. Me thinking nonstop about the big event tonight.
By seven p.m. I’m back home. Victor and Mom order pizza. At nine p.m. I ask if I can catch a late movie. They don’t mind as long as I’m home by curfew. But since the Decapitator wants to meet at midnight, I already know I’ll break curfew, which I’ve never done before.
By eleven p.m. I’m sitting down the road from 4 Buchold Place. I know I’m way early, but curiosity has more than won out.
It’s a small redbrick house. Dark. Unkempt. Doesn’t look like anyone’s lived in it for years. But the grass isn’t too high, so obviously someone has.
Large oak trees overwhelm the front, the sides, and the backyard. Their limbs extend out and touch each other to form a canopy over the small property. No wonder Google Maps gave me squat.
Up and down Buchold Place houses similar to this one dot the lots. Some of them are unkempt as well, making number four blend in just fine.
11:15. I check my cell phone. Still nothing from Reggie.
11:30. I pack my cargo pants with my supplies.
11:45. I tuck my hair inside the ski mask.
11:50. I give the dark street one last survey and reach for the door.
My cell chimes. Reggie has the worst timing.
“Better be good,” I answer.
“Four Buchold Place belongs to your father. Your real dad, not your stepdad.”
My whole body goes numb. “Reggie, my real father is dead.”
“No. He’s not.”
What?
Chapter Twenty-One
I DON’T GO INTO 4 BUCHOLD Place at midnight. I turn around and go home. No one even knows I’ve broken curfew.
I don’t know what is waiting for me in number four. What I do know is that my mom lied to me.
The next morning I call Reggie. “Can you hack into my mom’s computer?”
Silence.
I already know the answer. For Reggie, my mom’s off-limits. Sometimes I think she admires and respects Mom more than I do. Reggie and Mom met the same summer we became friends at camp. I think Mom must have sensed Reggie’s sadness, because she gave my friend her e-mail address and told her to message any time. Reggie did about six months later. I don’t have a problem with their surrogate mother/daughter relationship. I know Reggie desperately needs a “real” parent after the crappy upbringing she had.
Reggie interrupts my thoughts. “You know I won’t.”
“I know.” I sigh. “It was worth asking.”
“Just ask her. I’m sure there’s a perfectly logical explanation as to why she’s not told you the truth.”
Reggie’s right. I need to talk to Mom.
The doorbell rings, and I glance at my bedside clock. Who’d be here at eight a.m. on a Saturday morning?
“Lane!” Victor yells up. “For you.”
I hang up with Reggie and go downstairs. There’s a short black girl standing at my door.
“Yes?” I say.
She smiles. “Are you Lane?”
I nod. Obviously or I wouldn’t have been called down.
“I’m Belinda,” she tells me, and waits like I’m supposed to know who she is. “Zach’s girlfriend?” She laughs. “Or ex-girlfriend, I should say.”
The delinquent who keyed my car. Lovely.
The differences between us are almost ridiculous. She is just as short as I am tall, as black as I am white, and all smiles where I am anything but.
Her smile grows even larger. “I wanted to meet you.”
“Why?”
She laughs again. “Any friend of Zach’s is a friend of mine.”
“I don’t want to be your friend.”
Her smile doesn’t falter. “Okay, then. At least we met.”
“That we did,” I agree.
“So, are you and Zach planning on going to the football game?”
Football game? I don’t go to football games. That’s Daisy’s scene. “Listen, I said I don’t want to be your friend.”
“That’s fine, but you can at least be civil and answer my question.”
“No, I can’t. Good-bye.” I close the door in her face.
“She seems nice,” Victor cautiously comments.
“Don’t let that act fool you.”
“You could’ve been a little friendlier.”
I flip the lock on our door. “Have you seen my keyed Jeep?”
He nods.
“She did that.”
He sighs. “What’s her name? I’m going to call her parents.”
“Please let me handle this. Trust me?”
He doesn’t immediately respond. Then, “Okay. I’ll give you thirty days. If she hasn’t made right her wrongs, I’m contacting her parents. Fair?”
“Fair.” This is the good thing about my parents. They really do trust me.
Daisy comes down the stairs dressed in her cheerleading warm-ups. “Who’s the chick?”
I go to the coffee. “Friend of Zach’s.”
“What’s she want with you?”
“To say hi.”
Victor grabs his keys. “Let’s go, Daisy.”
I pour milk into my mug as he and my sister head out to her Saturday cheerleading camp.
Mom comes downstairs. “Morning.”
“Good morning.” I take my first sip and watch her putter around the kitchen.
How to bring up my real dad circles around in my brain. I can’t ask her about 4 Buchold Place because then I’ll have to explain how I know about the address. And what am I supposed to say?
Mom, the Decapitator has been communicating with me, and I think he wanted to meet me last night at Four Buchold Place?
“Tell me about Dad,” I say instead, giving her a chance to come clean with the lie. “My real dad.”
She doesn’t miss an FBI-trained beat. “Why do you ask?”
“Been studying about family trees in school,” I say. “And it got me thinking. . . .”
Mom opens the bacon and starts laying it out on the skillet. “We met in the marines at Quantico. I got pregnant with you. We never married. Before I even had a chance to tell him I was pregnant, he was killed while kayaking.”
These are all the things she’s told me before. “Mom, every time I bring him up, you tell me the exact same things. Please give me some solid details.”
Mom grabs tongs and turns to me. “He was handsome. Intelligent. Liked to play golf. Dry sense of humor. Quiet man. Tall. Red hair.”
