A Soul To Steal (The Sanheim Chronicles, Book One) (23 page)

“Fantastic,” she said. “Let’s get out of here.”

“What about Janus?”

“What about me?” Janus said, appearing from nowhere. Both Kate and Quinn jumped.

“What the hell were you doing back there?” Quinn asked.

“Saving your ass,” he said. “Now let’s get gone before we have another little incident.”

*****

Kate and Quinn sat in Quinn’s apartment, each of them drinking a Coke. It was late, they should be sleeping, but instead they were sitting with a raft of paper. The file on Anderson had been thick. In it were stuffed Anderson’s articles from the murders: a profile of a kid that was murdered, reports on the police investigation, and a big blow up piece that read, “Who is Lord Halloween?” Below the headline was the deck: “And why can’t the police stop him?”

Quinn glanced through the article. “The police investigation appears crude, inept and ineffective—and the killer undoubtedly knows it,” one article read. “While police routinely try to contain information about a case in order to confront a suspect with evidence unknown to the public, they have also attempted to bury information that could be vital to the citizens of Loudoun County. The police concluded there was likely a serial killer in the area three days before the death of Trudy Pharaoh on Oct. 16, yet refused to acknowledge as much until after her death and those of two other people. Critics charge the police have put the public at risk and are no closer to identifying a suspect in the case.”

No wonder the cops hate us, Quinn thought. Not that what Anderson wrote was untrue, but still, it was harsh. If the police had told everyone there was a serial killer in town, how long before panic set in? As it was, when people had figured it out, the reaction had been over the top. A curfew and a ban on Halloween and related activities had been just the beginning. Then again, weren’t the police making the same mistake now, denying that the deaths of Fanton and Kilgore were related?

“Fascinating,” Kate said. “Lord Halloween really had a yen for Anderson. Look at these.”

She produced a stack of paper and handed them to Quinn. He started reading from the top of the stack: “Some of what I tell you will be lies. I don’t mean to get us off on the wrong foot, but I thought I should make that clear from the outset.”

“He wrote about ten letters, it looks like,” she said. “Though not all of them appear to be here. We are at least missing letters four and six.”

“What do they say?”

“You should read them, but they are quite the ego trip. It turns out Lord Halloween was apparently an anti-development pioneer—way ahead of his time. It’s all about stopping change, and yadda, yadda, yadda.”

 “Maybe he’s part of the anti-development team now?” Quinn asked. “One of the people trying to preserve Phillips Farm, for example.”

“I don’t think so,” Kate said.

“Why not?”

“I think it’s all a show,” she said. “I think he was trying to give a motivation to Anderson that would be somewhat sympathetic—however crazy—to people who read his stories. He’s like an eco-terrorist on steroids. But I don’t think he meant a word of it.”

“He might have meant some of it,” Quinn said.

“Everything about these letters is over the top,” Kate said. “Just like the man himself, I assume. I think ‘Lord Halloween’ itself is a put-on, a sham, something designed to scare the kiddies. The man behind it probably thinks it’s all in fun.”

“Then what’s the point of the letters?”

“To establish a mythos,” she said. “To create buzz around him. He’s not just a killer. He’s a serial killer bent on destruction and chaos. But my point is, he feels about as real as a comic-book villain. Yes, he kills people, but the whole, ‘she screamed delightfully’ while she died.”

“The editor in me noted that you can’t really scream delightfully,” Quinn said.

“Exactly,” Kate said. “It’s a put-on. He’s trying to make himself bigger than he is, some kind of arch-fiend. He’s not. He’s just a guy who gets off on killing people. That’s it.”

“But he also seems to want a certain kind of press,” Quinn said, flipping through the letters.

“Yeah, that’s the other point of the letters, I think,” Kate said. “It’s about control. He’s trying to get around the police muzzle about his existence and using a reporter to do it. When the reporter doesn’t do it…”

“He kills him,” Quinn said.

“Very likely,” Kate said. “Though that last letter has thrown me a bit. Maybe it was meant to throw other people, I’m not sure. But one letter seems to imply he killed Anderson’s girlfriend. That’s a place we ought to start looking. Who was she? Did she work for the
Chronicle
? It’s too bad you couldn’t steal more files.”

“I’ve had another disturbing thought,” Quinn said. “Why does Laurence have all those files anyway? If it were Buzz, I wouldn’t think twice…”

“I wonder if it’s him,” Kate said.

“Him?”

“Maybe Laurence is Lord Halloween,” she said. “This is his way of tracking his victims, enjoying the thrill.”

Quinn laughed out loud.

“You aren’t serious?” he said. “Have you met Laurence? There’s no way. He can’t even stand up to Rebecca.”

“So maybe he acts out in other ways, Quinn,” she said. “You don’t really know people: not ever. Maybe he’s just a nice guy on the surface and underneath…”

“No way,” Quinn said. “I just don’t see it.”

“I hope you’re right,” she said.

She looked at her watch. It was past three in the morning.

“I should get back to the hotel,” she said.

“You can stay here,” Quinn said.

They looked at each other. For a brief moment, Kate saw the Tarot card lying on Madame Zora’s table: a man and a woman with the Devil standing between them. But she was far too tired to be thinking that way.

“I’ll sleep on the couch,” Quinn rushed to clarify. It was good that Janus had already gone home. He would have mocked Quinn—in front of Kate, no doubt.

She was also too tired to argue. She nodded. He rushed off to get towels and generally get his room in order. Within fifteen minutes, they were both asleep.

LH File: Letter #8

Date Oct. 23, 1994

Investigation Status: Closed

Contents: Classified

Dear Tim,

I think it’s about time we used each other’s Christian names, don’t you? That last article—that was what I wanted all along. Was that so hard? The police are inept, no one can find me, and I’m killing with impunity. If that doesn’t frighten the huddled masses, I don’t know what will.

I confess I thought our partnership was a failure, but here we are, finally working together. I’m sure the police are thrilled. Maybe you don’t want to hand this letter over? Just a suggestion, but how long do you think it is before they begin to suspect you? Think about it: Maybe you’re just a reporter who wants attention. Maybe you’re writing these letters to yourself. You could even have multiple personalities and not know it. Sure, it’s crazy, but the police are desperate, Tim. How long before they go looking for a scapegoat? Hey, it can even be the same reporter that called them names. Think of how excited they would be.

Is your blood pumping yet, Tim? I could help them, you know. I know where you live, I know where you eat, I know everything about you. I’ve even been in your room while you slept. Bet you didn’t know that, did you? I came to kill you, but thought better of it. You’re good at what you do. I’m good at what I do. There should be room in the world for two people of talent, don’t you think?

But our time is fading. By Oct. 31, my time here will be up—at least for this year—and you… You could be in jail. Or dead. Or just mentally unhinged. Part of this is up to you. Your next article should hit the police even harder. They have suspects, I will tell you that. My favorite is Charles Holober, a paranoid schizophrenic that lives in Ashburn. The guy keeps dead fish in his drawer, Tim. He’s married, but there are all kinds of domestic trouble. He even cut her.

Or there is always Mike Taylor down in Sterling. He’s been arrested for armed burglary twice in the past 10 years, so he knows how to get into houses. He could be their man.

This county is filled with sickos and psychos, fools and fall guys. They’ll find someone that fits their bill. It won’t be me, but I can pretend, Tim. I know a lot about pretending.

And so do you, it seems. I’ve seen your brave face to the public. I also know how you begged your bosses to help you. But you are starting to feel it, aren’t you? The burn, the weariness, the feeling that it will all be for nothing. She’s dead and you can’t bring her back. This story is making your career, but the price you are paying is your soul. Do what I want and you are nothing but a hack. Refuse me and you are nothing but a corpse.

So let’s go out with a bang, shall we? Hit the police even harder, Tim. Pull no punches. Waste no ink. Let’s see what you really are.

Yours Sincerely,

Lord Halloween

Chapter 15

Thursday, Oct. 19

Quinn and Kate were careful not to walk into the office at the same time, lest they start any rumors. Quinn had rustled up some breakfast, drove them both to Starbucks, then let Kate arrive a good 15 minutes before he walked into the office.

Still, as soon as he walked through the door, he could see Janus smirking. He caught Quinn near the vending machine where, after finishing his overpriced espresso, he was heading for a Coke.

“So how did it go?” Janus asked. “You noticed I got out of there pretty quickly. I was hoping maybe a little adventure got the blood pumping and you two…”

“Please silence the porn movie in your head,” Quinn said. “We were exhausted. We went to sleep.”

“Yeah, but she stayed over right? You cuddled a little bit, right? Right?”

Janus stared at Quinn for a moment.

“You didn’t even cuddle, did you? Seriously, dude, everything was right. There was action, drama, a hint of romance—this always works.”

“In the movies, Janus,” Quinn said. “In the real world, these things tend to tire you out.”

But in the back of his mind, he wondered if that was true. They were both exhausted, but hadn’t he continued to feel that spark during their evening together? Should he have made a move? He remembered something then, a voice saying, “Don’t hesitate.” Who had told him that?

“Thanks so much for bringing this up,” Quinn said.

Janus clapped him on the shoulder.

“Next time, make a move,” Janus responded.

“Make a move on what?” Kate asked, walking up to them both.

Quinn had to give Janus credit. If he had intended to embarrass Quinn, he could have easily done so. Hell, he could have simply let an awkward silence reign. Instead he immediately said, “He should have grabbed more files when he had the chance.”

“Come on, he did great,” Kate said. “I thought we weren’t going to find anything.”

With that, the three of them returned to their desks and began to work. They had divided up their investigation into Lord Halloween. Kate was cross-referencing previous victims with their addresses and occupations in an attempt to figure out if any had been killed in the
Chronicle
building and if any were connected to Tim Anderson.

Quinn, meanwhile, was interrupted by Laurence to have a brief conversation in his office about the company’s sexual harassment policy. Glaring at Janus when he finally returned to his desk, Quinn started looking through old clips of Anderson’s and doing some Internet research to find out if the reporter was still alive. One thing was clear: Anderson was not on the official victim’s list. He wasn’t even officially labeled missing. So whatever had happened, no one had made it public.

Since neither was supposed to be doing their investigation during work hours, they both also had to keep handling their normal workload, with Quinn writing up his story on the ghost hunter while Kate finished off the piece on Madame Zora.

After a few hours, Quinn was growing increasingly frustrated. He had gone to the library and managed to find microfiche on the
Loudoun Chronicle
and read Anderson’s work. Quinn thought it was some of the best writing he had ever seen. Anderson should have easily made his way beyond the
Chronicle
to the
Post
or even
The New York Times
. But in a search of LexisNexis later, Quinn found no by-line by that name or others like it. Assuming Anderson was alive, he hadn’t kept writing—at least not under his own name.

He was probably dead, Quinn thought. But something about that last letter from Lord Halloween made him wonder about that. The letter had said Anderson passed some kind of test. It had warned him to leave, but it hadn’t threatened to kill him. Additionally, Lord Halloween was anything but subtle. If he had killed Anderson, wouldn’t he have left a calling card? He did with everyone else.

But if Anderson had left, where had he gone? What was he doing? And if it wasn’t his blood in the basement of the building, whose was it?

An idea popped into Quinn’s head. He got up suddenly from his desk and wandered over to where Alexis was.

“Alexis, I was wondering if you could help me out?” he asked.

“Sure,” she said, turning in her chair to face him. “What’s up?”

“That story you did a couple months ago on how teachers are cracking down on kids who use the Internet to copy term papers,” Quinn said. “You mentioned someone was selling software to help catch them. How did it work?”

Alexis was clearly excited. She often felt like she was considered the unimportant part of the paper, but clearly Quinn was reading her work. It mattered to him.

“It’s sold over the Internet,” she said. “It’s just software that detects patterns in a document and looks for it elsewhere. So if a kid copied a term paper from the Internet, it would catch that immediately.”

“But could it also find phrases? Something that literally wasn’t the same exact document?”

“Yes,” she said. “At least, I think that’s the idea.”

“Great,” Quinn said. “Where can I buy it?”

*****

Kate and Quinn met again for dinner that evening and he had trouble taking his eyes off Kate. When he showed up at the hotel, he hadn’t been expecting her to dress up. But she came downstairs looking amazing. He had suddenly felt embarrassed about his own appearance.

He chose the King’s Court Tavern right near the center of town and Quinn was surprised when Kate asked for a romantically lit table in the far corner. Then he figured it out: it was much better to discuss their investigation without being overheard. When the waiter had finished taking their drink orders, Quinn started.

“So I did some digging,” he said. “Thomas Fillmore.”

Kate gave him a blank look.

“Should the name mean anything to me?”

Quinn looked around to ensure no one else could hear.

“That’s Tim Anderson,” he said. “He goes by Thomas Fillmore. Lord Halloween let him live.”

“How the hell do you know that? And why does that name sound familiar?”

“Let’s start at the beginning. I think Lord Halloween let Tim go, but also told him to get lost. So he does. But where does he go? And what is he going to do?”

“He could go anywhere or do anything,” Kate responded.

“Go anywhere? Yes. Do anything? I don’t think so,” Quinn said. “If you looked at his writing, it’s exceptional. I think I’m pretty good, but this guy was much, much better. I’m sure Lord Halloween put him off journalism for some period of time, but in 12 years, is the guy liable to give it up altogether?”

“He could go into PR,” she said.

“Not a guy like this,” Quinn said excitedly. “This is his talent. I’ve met people who are good at a couple things, but never one who is exceptional at more than one. Frankly, I don’t know what I would do if I left journalism and PR is not a viable option for me. So wherever Tim went, it’s a safe bet he’s a reporter.”

“And Fillmore is a reporter?”

“He’s now the editor of the
Bluemont Gazette
in West Virginia,” Quinn said.

“Hasn’t that paper won a few awards?” she said.

Quinn put his finger to his nose. “Bingo,” he said.

“There are more than two good writers in the world,” Kate said.

“I paid $30 to buy some software that helps track down kids that are cheating in school. You know, they don’t write that paper on
Great Expectations
, but instead just download it from the Internet? The software tracks phrases, even writing style, to help a teacher figure out if something is plagiarized. So it also can be used to scout through newspaper articles looking for someone who is ripping off someone else. If that’s true, Fillmore is the biggest copycat of Anderson I’ve ever seen.”

“How so?”

“Every writer establishes a style and we tend to fall back on the same turns of phrase, over and over. Anderson was dramatic but concise. In 1994, he wrote a story about the victim of a shooting that started: ‘Violence was the thing that Carlos Ramirez fled from in El Salvador to start a new life in the United States, but it caught up with him on Friday night.’ In 2003, Fillmore wrote this: ‘Violence has been a factor in the life of Harry Davids since he was a teenager, but it finally caught up with him on Saturday night.’”

“Not conclusive,” Kate said, but she was looking excited.

“No, but do you know how many matches I had by loading up Anderson’s old articles into the software? Throughout the country, I got as many as two hundred to three hundred hits on a single reporter using the same kinds of phrases. That’s not that weird, because not everything is unique. With Fillmore, that number is two thousand, five hundred and sixty-one. That’s how many hits come out. Call it a writing signature.”

Kate looked up at him.

“Quinn, you are a genius,” she said. She leaned across the table and kissed him again. This time, the kiss seemed to linger for a second or two longer.

“Where is Fillmore now?”

“Still sitting in Bluemont, less than two hours’ drive,” Quinn said.

“Why wouldn’t he go further away?” Kate asked. “I would think he’d be in New Zealand by now.”

Quinn paused. “You are a fine one to talk,” he said.

“But I’m…” she stumbled. “Actually, it’s a good point. I don’t know why I’m here either.”

“Maybe he just couldn’t get away,” he said.

“Or maybe he’s Lord Halloween,” Kate said.

Quinn whistled. “What makes you say that?”

“Come on, he writes letters to himself, that’s not so hard,” Kate said. “One of the last letters even suggests as much.”

“He’s drawing attention to himself,” Quinn said.

“And Lord Halloween lived for that,” Kate said. “Anderson is a key to this puzzle. There is no doubt about it. Either he is Lord Halloween, or there is something very specific he wanted from Anderson.”

But Quinn remembered something he couldn’t quite place. Hadn’t someone told him to look “for the victim that still lives?” For the life of him, however, he couldn’t place who had told him that. He had a hunch that Fillmore wasn’t the killer, however.

“Either way, it sounds like a field trip is in order,” Quinn said.

“Agreed,” she said. “You have weekend plans?”

“I do now.”

*****

After dinner, Quinn prepared to walk her home again.

“I need to stop by work first,” she said as they got outside. It was just around the corner from the restaurant.

“You’ll be back there again tomorrow,” he said.

“I know, but I left some stuff I wanted to read over tonight,” she said. “Fillmore still sounds familiar to me. I want to look at some of my research and see if I’ve come across the name before.”

They arrived at the
Chronicle
and Quinn pulled out his key.

The office was dark and seemed foreboding at night. Neither Quinn nor Kate mentioned it, but both hurried through the reception area, past the advertising section and into the editorial room.

Kate stopped.

“Did you hear something?” she asked.

“You’re kidding, right?” Quinn replied. He looked around. All the offices were dark, lit only by a faint light from the front reception area. “Let’s grab your stuff and get out of here. I don’t want to be more creeped out than I already am.”

They paused a moment, heard nothing and she headed for her desk. She started rustling around.

“Quinn, turn on the light on my desk, will you?” she asked as she opened up her file drawer.

Quinn fumbled for the switch on the desk, found it and flipped on the light.

He glanced at the computer area and saw some print-outs on the left-hand side. There was a post-it note stuck to one.

He picked up the stack.

“Is this it?” he asked. “It looks like you labeled this stack.”

He held up the stack to the light and froze.

The note wasn’t a label.

“I don’t think I labeled it,” she said, shutting the file drawer and looking up at the papers.

“Oh my God,” he said.

She read the note over his shoulder.

“He was here,” she said. “And he knows.”

The post-it note was simple: “See you soon, Trina.”

Both of them looked at each other and then around the office.

“He could still be here,” Quinn said quietly. “We should get out of here. Right now.”

She grabbed his arm and reached into her purse. She pulled out a gun.

“Fuck,” he said. “I didn’t know you…”

She put a finger to her lips and the two carefully moved back toward the front door. They moved slowly, waiting for any sound, and she held the weapon out in front of her. They passed through the advertising section and Quinn thought he saw movement on the side.