A Soul To Steal (The Sanheim Chronicles, Book One) (30 page)

“What happened? Why didn’t they blame you?”

“Holden happened,” he said. “He showed up with a lawyer and scared the shit out of them. He got them to seal the records on Carrie’s death, too. She was listed as a victim of Lord Halloween, but he convinced the police to keep where the body was found as confidential. He said it was about protecting information that only the killer would know, but I knew better. It was about protecting his precious paper.”

“And after that?”

“By then, all hell had broken loose anyway,” Anderson said. “The town banned Halloween, trick or treating, you name it. They would have agreed to any demand from Lord Halloween, if he had asked. And I just followed the story. Ethan finally gave me free rein to write about the impact on the town, speculation as to the killer’s motives, everything. Lord Halloween was happy with me. He wanted chaos and I gave it to him. I couldn’t write about the letters, but I wrote enough. There was sufficient information to characterize the killer and I did it.”

“So he let you live?” Kate asked. “You did what he wanted and he let you live.”

“Oh no,” Anderson said. “With him, there is always something beneath the surface. He set up a final test. You read the hint he gave already; pull no punches. That was about the police, but I pulled no punches with everyone. I am surprised Laurence let me publish it—certainly Ethan was pissed as soon as it came out, so he apparently didn’t know anything about it. Go find it in the archives. It was the best piece I have ever written—a sum up of the murders, the town’s reaction, the paper’s involvement, and the killer himself. And I let everyone have it.

“‘When we give in to madmen, we lose the most vital part of ourselves. And we have given in to Lord Halloween. We have panicked, turned on each other and lost our way. In a time when we should be united against fear, we have let it run rampant, divided ourselves and given terror a free hand. This man—and that is all he is or will ever be—is a thief. He has robbed us of our safety, our piece of mind and our faith in each other. He has stolen our very soul. And we have let him do this. Where we should stand firm and fast, we have wilted. Where there should be resolve, there was cowardice. For that, we bear some responsibility.’”

“Sounds like Lord Halloween would have loved it,” Quinn said.

But Anderson wasn’t finished yet.

“‘But I do not forget who holds the most responsibility for this month that will never end. It is the man who calls himself Lord Halloween. He preys on the weak, feeds on fear and lurks in the shadows. He does this under the illusion it makes him powerful. It makes him nothing. He is a phantom and nothing more. True, he has held a mirror to our faces and we have been found wanting.

“‘But if we have given into fear, so has he. He could have played a part in this world, but he has chosen to hide in it. He strikes at us because there are things he doesn’t understand: love, compassion and empathy. They have always been alien to him. He mocks them with his actions, but the truth is something he must know: he envies us. We experience feelings he can’t know or express and he hates us for them. He is a creature to be pitied, not feared. He is alone in this world and always will be. When we pick up the pieces of our lives, we will go on loving, caring and empathizing. We can hope we will learn from this miserable experience and stand stronger against the things that would tear us apart. He, however, will be by himself, lost in a world he cannot fathom.

“’I do not fear you Lord Halloween, I fear what you have wrought in us. One day we may bring you to justice, but if we do not, do not think it has not already been meted out. You have been judged and found unworthy.’”

“Damn,” Kate said.

“You should have been dead man walking.”

“I expected it,” Anderson said. “That was published on Oct. 31. And I went home and waited for him to strike. I wasn’t going to make it easy. I had bought a shotgun and I sat in a corner of the room where no one could sneak up on me through a window or anything else. I didn’t answer the phone, I wasn’t going to be baited outside. I just waited. It never occurred to me that he would let me live. Why should he? I had called him out. I had told him who he really was. I had struck him with the only weapon I have, the only one that ever matters: the pen.”

“And you remember it word for word?”

“I took a long time to write it,” he replied.

“What happened?” Quinn asked.

“At about midnight exactly, a letter was pushed through my door. I watched it come through, but I didn’t move. I assumed it was a trick. I would get up, read the letter and he would somehow sneak in behind me. So I sat there for six more hours. I could hear the birds in the trees and dawn was coming. And I thought, ‘What does it matter now? He’ll get me in the end anyway.’ And I got up and read the letter.”

“He let you live,” Kate said.

“Yes. I realize now it was his way of saying goodbye. He told me in no uncertain terms to get lost, but he also said he was letting me go. I didn’t fully believe him, but I suppose the fact that I am still here means he was serious.”

“Why?”

Anderson
got up and paced around the room.

“You’ve seen the letter,” Anderson said. “I gave it to Laurence, whom I know kept copies. He kept copies on all of Lord Halloween’s victims.”

“Why?” Kate asked.

Anderson
shook his head.

“Laurence was once a reporter, too,” he said. “It was a good story. A good journalist keeps all his notes. I’m assuming he gave you those letters from Lord Halloween. I know the police didn’t.”

“I wouldn’t say he
gave
them to us…” Quinn said.

Anderson
smiled wanly.

“I didn’t feel any relief when I got the letter,” he said. “Not then and not now. I had been let go. I didn’t escape, he had simply chosen to let me live. And I thought about Carrie a lot. About how she died. I also did what he wanted: I left. I knew then that he was going to lay low. My death would have looked like an accident, but he would have found a way to kill me. So I packed up, handed in my resignation and moved west.”

“Why didn’t you go further away?” Kate asked.

“The same reason you came back,” Anderson said. “Because you are never really free. Would I be safer in Seattle? Maybe. But I didn’t know who he was and he could find me, I knew that. Anywhere I went, he could show up and take me out. So there was no point in going far away. I sometimes wonder if he did me no favor by letting me live. I still see him everywhere. I don’t trust anyone and the fact that you found me so quickly shows how useless that was. I’m a haunted man, Quinn O’Brion. I don’t need to tell Kate this: she already knows. I’ve been waiting for him to show up for 12 years.”

“Do you know who he is?” Kate asked.

“No,” Anderson answered. “I had theories at some point, but none of them really held together. I will tell you this: whoever he is, he’s connected with your paper.”

Kate nodded.

“Why do you say that?” Quinn asked.

“He chose me,” Anderson replied. “And at first I was arrogant enough to assume it was about me. But it wasn’t. He chose the paper, not the reporter. I find it curious he hasn’t sent letters to either of you—what that means, I don’t know, but it means something. But I think that paper mattered more to him than the
Post
or
New York Times
or any of it—papers, by the way, that did cover his killing spree. I think it was this: I think the
Chronicle
was his hometown paper. I don’t think he went anywhere for 12 years. I think he just laid low. But whoever he is, he knew who you two were long before he started his latest spree. My guess is he knows everyone at the paper.”

“Ethan Holden?” Kate asked. “That’s who you think it is.”

“You’re perceptive, I’ll give you that,” Anderson responded. “Yes, that’s been a particular focal point for me. He’s a bit old to be running all over town killing people, but you can’t rule it out. He shares certain qualities with Lord Halloween: he’s arrogant, cold-blooded and deeply in need of a conscience. He thinks he’s high minded, but he’s not. I watched him encourage Laurence to take stories in certain directions—ones that might sell more papers, but weren’t exactly true either. Nothing overt. Nothing you could stand up and take a stand against.”

This time it was Quinn who was nodding.

“He’s your best candidate,” Kate said. “But are there others?”

Anderson
responded by getting up and walking away again. When he came back, he held a monstrous file in his hand.

“This is it, the Holy Grail,” he said. “As much information as I could collect on everyone. Ethan, Kyle, Buzz, Laurence—even Sheriff Brown is in here. Nothing conclusive on anyone. If you look hard to see if someone’s a murderer, you find all sorts of things that could prove you right. But that doesn’t mean you are. Most people make mistakes and some are even ruthless, but that doesn’t make them killers.”

“You’re giving this to us?” Kate asked.

“It’s yours,” he said. “If Lord Halloween kills you, he’ll find it with you. When he does, he will know who wrote it. If he doesn’t know already you came to see me, he will after that.”

“You want a final showdown,” Quinn said. It wasn’t a question.

“I want it to end,” Anderson said. “I’ve been waiting for 12 years. It’s long enough. I won’t just kill myself—that’s a coward’s way out. And I won’t go down easy. But I’m through waiting. Either you finish him or he finishes me.”

“Thank you for all your help,” Kate said.

“How could I refuse you?” he asked. “I met your mother once, working a crime story. You look stunningly like her—same blue eyes and blond hair. She was beautiful. When I saw her, it was to meet your dad. She knew your dad didn’t like to talk to reporters, but she couldn’t have been nicer to me. I’m sorry for what that man did to her. I’m sorry for what he did to you.”

“I’m going to finish him,” she said. “I’m going to make him pay.”

Kate and Quinn rose to leave. As they were heading out the door, Anderson spoke for a final time.

“Promise me something,” he said. “When you find him, don’t treat him like the monster he wants to be. He gets off on that. He’s just a man. Treat him that way.”

When they were in the car driving away, Quinn turned and asked, “What did that mean? Treat him that way.”

“He meant he wanted us to kill him,” Kate said. “Don’t capture. Don’t wait for the police. If we get a chance, take him down.”

“You think you could?” Quinn asked, but he already knew the answer. He had trouble imagining himself hurting anyone, much less killing them.

“It’s not a matter of could,” she said. “When I find him, I will.”

*****

Kyle paused while cutting onions and waited. He was preparing dinner, but he moved slowly. He kept listening for the scanner to go off.

There would be action again soon—he could feel it. All day he had waited for the call. A new body, a panicked police source, but nothing had come.

He managed to finish making dinner without any unusual scanner activity. He flipped the TV on while he ate.

He turned the channel to find some wrestling, found it and watched it without paying much attention to it. He still had one ear cocked for any squawk of the scanner.

A loud thud came from outside and Kyle jumped out of the chair. God, he was testy, he thought. It was probably just a package being delivered. Still, he weighed possibilities in his mind, decided it was better to be cautious and moved to the kitchen. He picked up the knife on the counter, still moist from chopping onions.

He looked outside the kitchen window and saw nothing. He could wait here, but Kyle preferred action to waiting. If someone was playing a game, let them come. He would be ready.

He walked toward the back patio and slid open the sliding glass door. He moved slowly and quietly. He thought with some irony that this would make a good story. A very good first-person perspective piece.