Black Lightning (28 page)

“That’s not funny, Mark,” Anne said, her voice tight.

Her words stung, and Blakemoor instantly regretted his attempt at humor. “Look, why don’t you just let us take the cat down and have someone look it over, all right? I can see exactly why you’re so upset, but we don’t know that there’s any connection at all between this and—”

“Don’t we?” Anne interrupted, her shock at the sight of the dismembered cat fading in the face of the detective’s obvious attempt to dismiss what had happened. “I didn’t see Shawnelle Davis, but I
did
see Joyce Cottrell. I
found
her, remember? And you can’t tell me that poor Kumquat wasn’t mutilated exactly the same way that she was. So first there was Shawnelle Davis, whom I admit I don’t know, but next was my next-door neighbor. Now it’s my daughter’s cat. This is literally in my backyard, Mark. I want some answers.” She turned to Lois Ackerly. “I know what you think about what I’ve been writing—” she began, but Ackerly silenced her with a gesture.

“What we might have thought yesterday doesn’t mean a thing today,” she said. “We’re going to take this seriously. Whether this creep had anything to do with Richard Kraven or not, it sure looks like he’s trying to copy his style. If this had been reported from somewhere else in town, we would’ve sent someone out to take a cruelty report. But after what happened last night, believe me when I tell you that we want to know what happened to this cat just as badly as you do.”

Anne’s jaw setting and her eyes narrowing, still not positive that Ackerly was doing anything more than placating her, she turned back to Blakemoor.

“We’ll call you,” he promised. “We’re not going to take the cat to the pound. We’re going to have the same medical examiner look at it who worked on Davis and Cottrell—”

“Davis
and
Cottrell?” Anne cut in, her reporter’s instincts suddenly surging. “Are you saying you
are
treating them as being connected?”

Mark Blakemoor and Lois Ackerly exchanged a look, then Mark sighed. “Off the record, of course we are. The M.O.’s aren’t identical, but they’re close enough that we aren’t about to rule out a serial killer. And very much off the record,” he went on, his eyes moving to Kumquat’s bloodied corpse, “I’m going to tell you that I’m going to have a very hard look at what happened to your cat. But if you write so much as a single word implying I’m investigating a cat’s death as a murder, I swear I’ll make sure no cop ever talks to you ever again. About anything. Clear?”

Anne hesitated, then nodded agreement. “Clear.” She glanced around, then, satisfied that she was still alone with the two detectives, said, “What should we do?” Her gaze fixed on Kumquat’s body. “Is this a warning? Does it mean he’s coming after me or one of my kids next?” Her eyes were troubled, a mirror of the emotions churning within her. She shifted back to Mark Blakemoor. “I’m scared. I’m really scared.”

Again Blakemoor had to resist the impulse to put his arms protectively around her and gently stroke her hair. And again, when he spoke, he was careful to keep his tone perfectly even, the matter-of-fact inflection of any policeman talking to any frightened citizen. “Let’s not get too worried until we know what’s going on,” he told her. “This could be someone’s idea of a sick joke, or someone just wants to scare you and figured out the best way to do it. For now, we’ll make sure you have a steady parade of cars going by all night, and if anything frightens you—anything at all—call 911. I personally guarantee there’ll be someone here in less than a minute.”

“But my kids,” Anne said, the last of her hard reporter’s shell cracking. “What about my kids? What should I tell them?”

“If it were me,” Lois Ackerly said, “I think at least for tonight I’d tell them we think a raccoon did it.” When Anne started to object, Ackerly pressed on. “Look, there’s no sense scaring your kids to death. You’ll be worried enough without them having nightmares about it. Tomorrow we should be able to tell you a lot more.”

Before Anne could ask anything else, the back door of the house opened and Glen emerged, carrying a white plastic garbage bag.

Though she hated herself for it, and felt utterly disloyal, Anne did nothing to break the silence that fell over the two detectives as her husband approached. Instead, turning finally away from the grisly remains of her daughter’s pet, she returned to the house.

As Glen handed Mark Blakemoor the plastic bags he’d finally found in one of the kitchen drawers, he felt the detective’s eyes boring into him. Though no words were spoken, none were needed. Desperately, Glen tried to sort out exactly what had happened. Was it really possible that he himself had disemboweled his daughter’s pet?

But he had no memory of it.

Except that there was a memory—a vague memory—of a dream.

He’d been in a place of darkness, but there had been a pool of light.

In the middle of the light, something had been happening.

He’d moved closer, wanting to see, but there had been something in the way, something blocking his view. He had a fragmentary recollection of trying to move in the dream. To get away? To see? He couldn’t remember.

Then another fragment of the dream floated up into his consciousness. Red. Bloodred. And with the memory of the color came a strange sensation in his fingers. Warmth. No, more than warmth. Heat. His hands felt hot, and slimy.

Shuddering both at the memory and at the strange feeling in his fingers, Glen slid his hands into his pockets as if to hide them, then quickly pulled them out again. What was wrong? He had nothing to hide—he couldn’t even remember what the dream was about.

All that had really happened was that Mark Blakemoor had given him a look that made him feel guilty.

Still, a coldness seized Glen that had nothing to do with the damp chill of the afternoon.

Who was the stranger in the dream?

Could someone have come into the house while he slept? He remembered yesterday, and the inexplicable appearance of the shaver and the fishing rod. He must have bought them, but he couldn’t remember!

Could he also have killed Kumquat and not remembered that, either?

It wasn’t possible. Surely he hadn’t done this to Kumquat. He couldn’t have! It had only been a dream!

Or was he losing his mind?

Anne found Heather and Rayette still in the living room, still on the sofa, Heather crying quietly as Rayette did her best to comfort her.

Kevin was nowhere to be seen, but Anne was pretty sure she knew where he was: up in his room, watching from his window as Lois Ackerly and Mark Blakemoor finished their work.

Knowing there was nothing she could say to Heather right now, Anne went into the den, dropping morosely into the chair in front of her computer. For a moment she simply sat there, her eyes focused on nothing, her mind numbly trying to sort out all the events of the day, futilely attempting to make sense of the utterly senseless.

Write it, she finally told herself as her thoughts continued to tumble chaotically. Write it all down. It’s the only way to put it in order.

She switched on the computer and waited while it booted up. The orders issued by the autoexec file scrolled by, then the familiar Windows screen appeared. But instead of stopping to await her orders, the computer kept working.

Her word processing program opened, but still the computer didn’t stop.

An image appeared, framed in the familiar border of a graphics box. Inside the frame was a note:

Too bad about the cat
.

Some experiments just don’t work
.

That’s when things die
.

I’ll try to do better with you
.

By the time the words had registered on Anne’s mind, the screen had gone blank. For a moment Anne wondered if she had seen the note at all.

The hard knot of terror in her belly assured her that she had.

CHAPTER 41

T
here was a fresh stack of the morning
Herald
in the box in front of the 7-Eleven on Broadway, so at least he hadn’t had to walk all the way up to the QFC store to find one. But even now, gazing at the box with his heart beginning to race as he thought of the story that was bound to be on the front page, he felt a cold chill of apprehension. What if someone were watching?

He glanced around and instantly regretted the action: even that simple movement would be enough to betray his nervousness to watching eyes.

There had been watching eyes all night long. How many times had he gotten up from his bed to peer out into the street below, only to see a police car cruising by?

Were they just looking because there had now been two murders on Capitol Hill?

Or were they looking for him?

Looking for the Butcher.

The Butcher.

The name had come to him sometime during the night, when he’d been thinking about what Anne Jeffers might have written about him. He’d committed two murders now, so they would be giving him a nickname. There had been the Son of Sam, and the Boston Strangler, and the Green River Killer. Of course, Richard Kraven had never had a nickname, but that was good.

Having a nickname himself would mean he was even more famous than Richard Kraven.

He was the Butcher.

The name had a strength he liked. Maybe he should send a note to Anne Jeffers tomorrow morning, and sign it that way. Then everyone in Seattle would be using it within a day or two.

The Butcher.

He’d thought about it all night long, savoring it, making it his own as he’d lain awake, waiting for morning to come.

Morning, and the early edition of the
Herald
. He would have gone out long before dawn, but with all the police cars out there, it would have been far too risky. So he’d waited. Waited until the shift at the hospital was changing and he could walk over to the 7-Eleven without being the only one on the street.

But now it was too late to buy a paper here—too late, and too dangerous, especially since he’d slipped, giving away his nervousness to anyone who might have been watching. Now he’d have to walk up Fifteenth the three blocks to the QFC.

Quality Food Center. Queens’ Food Center they called it on Broadway, which was why the Butcher never went to the one over there. But the QFC on Fifteenth was all right—he’d been there lots of times, and even if someone asked him why he wasn’t at work, he knew he looked pretty bad after the sleepless night. He’d just plead the flu, like he would when he called in sick for the third day in a row.

All he had to do was act normal. Normal and casual. Maybe pick up some magazines and soup, like he would have if he’d really had the flu.

All he had to do was be smart. And he knew he was smart, no matter what his mother thought. All he had to do was be careful and think everything through, and pretty soon he’d be famous.

At least as famous as Richard Kraven. Maybe even as famous as Ted Bundy.

As long as he didn’t get caught.

So he couldn’t just walk away from the 7-Eleven, either. He had to look like he’d come here for something. Turning casually away from the newspaper box, he went into the convenience store, wandered over to the magazine rack and pretended to be scanning the titles while he checked the store out to see who might be watching him.

Except for the clerk behind the counter, it was empty. Still, someone might be outside, maybe watching from a car.

He abandoned the magazine rack—better to buy them at the QFC when he got the paper—and went to the counter. He picked up a roll of Clorets and paid for them. By the time he emerged from the front door, he was busy unwrapping the cylinder of mints, and anyone who might be observing him wouldn’t know he was actually checking out every car in the area.

All of them were empty except for one black Cadillac he was pretty sure belonged to a drug dealer. Anyway, he’d seen it in the neighborhood a lot, and judging by the people who hung around it, it sure wasn’t a police car. Popping one of the mints into his mouth, he crossed the street against the light and started up the east side of Fifteenth to the QFC. He picked up a basket as he went inside, then found the soup section, where he took three cans of Chunky Chicken Noodle. Then he headed for the checkout counter. Sure enough, there was a stack of the
Herald
, and when he picked one up, his hands weren’t trembling much at all. He flopped it down on the counter along an
Enquirer
, a
Globe
, the
Post-Intelligencer
, and the three cans of soup. He was just reaching into his pocket for his wallet when the checker spoke.

“You hear about the murder?” The man’s heart raced. He felt his hands turn cold and clammy.

“Murder?” he echoed. What should he say? Should he already know about it? But it had been on the radio all day yesterday, and the TV news last night. “Oh, you mean the body they found up in Volunteer Park yesterday?” he asked.
That had been good. His voice had sounded just right—interested; but not
too
interested
.

“She was in here night before last,” the checker said.

The man felt his knees weaken. When he pulled his wallet out, his trembling fingers lost their grip on it and it fell to the floor. “Aah, shit,” he groaned as he bent down to pick it up. But that was all right, too. At least it gave him a couple of seconds to try to come up with a response. Then he had it. When he straightened up again, his eyes were wide. “You mean here?” he asked. “She was right
here?”

The checker nodded eagerly. As soon as he spoke again, the man began to relax—it sounded like the guy had already told the story a dozen times. “Ms. Cottrell,” the checker said. “She came in here practically every night for a latte on her way home.”

“You mean you
knew
her?” the Butcher asked, giving just enough emphasis to the word “knew” to let the clerk know he was impressed.

“Well, I didn’t really
know
her,” the clerk said quickly, his own eyes now darting around the store as if he had suddenly realized that anyone who might have known the murdered woman would now be considered a possible suspect. “I mean, not any better than anybody else here did, you know?”

His own nerves calming as the clerk turned edgy, the Butcher handed him a twenty dollar bill, waited for his change, then picked up the bag into which the checker had put his papers and the cans of soup. Barely able to restrain himself, he started home, willing himself to leave the
Herald
in the bag until he was safely back in his apartment. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t keep his pace at the slow amble he was attempting, and finally he gave it up in favor of a purposeful stride down the street, as if he were late for an appointment. After three minutes that seemed to him like an hour, he at last closed his door behind him and yanked the paper out of the bag, letting the chicken soup cans roll unnoticed to the floor. Unfolding the paper, he scanned the front page, then scanned it again.

It wasn’t possible! It
had
to be on the front page.

But there was nothing. Nothing! Nothing but some crap about the park the city wanted to build between downtown and Lake Union.

Who the fuck cared about that?

Moving to the battered Formica-topped table that served as both a desk and a dining table, he flipped through the newspaper, his frustration mounting as he turned page after page and found nothing.

Then, on the third page of the second section, he finally found it.

And almost exploded with rage.

They’d buried it!

Bad enough they hadn’t put it on the front page, or even the second page of the first section!

He began reading the article, and with every word his rage increased.

Woman Found Slain Near Volunteer
Park Reservoir

The nude body of a woman was found in Volunteer Park early this morning. The victim, identified as Ms. Joyce Cottrell, 57, was a receptionist in the emergency room at the Group Health facility on Capitol Hill.

According to police sources, the victim, who was single and lived alone, was slain in her Capitol Hill home sometime between 11:00
P.M
. and 4:00
A.M
. yesterday morning. The body appears to have been placed near the reservoir in Volunteer Park shortly before dawn, where it was discovered by jogger Anne Jeffers (a staff reporter for this paper).

While the investigation is not yet complete, police sources stressed that there appears to be no connection between the deaths of Ms. Cottrell and of Shawnelle Davis, whose body was discovered last week in her rented apartment.

As he finished the article, the Butcher’s fingers tightened on the flimsy paper until it was crumpled into a wad.

No connection?

How could they say that? Hadn’t they even looked at what he’d done?

The two killings had been alike!
Exactly
alike! And he’d done it even better on Joyce Cottrell than he had on Shawnelle Davis!

Well, next time it wouldn’t be like this. Next time they would know what they were dealing with.

His anger erupting, he hurled the ruined newspaper to the floor. Maybe he should go out right now and do it again! That would show them—maybe he should just go out and find someone, and follow her home, and—

No!

That wasn’t the way to do it at all! He had to be smart! He had to be careful, and calm.

No matter what happened, he couldn’t let himself get angry.

Breathing deeply, he struggled to get himself under control. He reached down and picked up the crumpled newspaper. Spreading it out again, he smoothed the pages as best he could, then carefully tore out the article that had so offended him. Taking it to the dresser that served not only to hold his clothes, but to support his television as well, he opened the top drawer and added the article to the folder in which he’d already placed everything that had been written about Shawnelle Davis.

Tomorrow, or maybe even later on today, he’d buy an album and start putting the clippings in order.

And the next time he killed, it wouldn’t be a woman, even though murdering Joyce Cottrell had given him more pleasure than he’d ever felt before in his life.

He couldn’t let himself give in to the lure of that pleasure.

After all, that wasn’t why he was killing.

He was killing to please his mother.

It was the killing that counted, not the pleasure.

So better not to let himself be tempted. Next time he killed, it wouldn’t be a woman at all.

It would be some other kind of person.

In fact, from now on he’d kill
all
kinds of people.

Maybe later on, when he went out to buy an album, that wouldn’t be all he did.

Maybe he would go hunting, too.