Kill Me Once (36 page)

Snuggled together on the couch, they closed their eyes and fell asleep in each other’s arms with Oreo curled up at their feet.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX

Nathan breathed a deep sigh of relief right before he fell asleep. She was still alive. At least for now. Thank God for small favours.

As he slowly drifted away, the narrator of the audiobook continued the list of notorious serial killers in his mind. These ones were from all around the globe.

‘Cayetano Santos Gordino. “The Big-Eared Midget” from Argentina killed four children in 1912 before dying in prison in 1944.

‘Paul Denyer. “The Frankston Serial Killer” from Australia murdered three women in a Melbourne suburb in 1993.

‘Robert Succo. This Italian madman murdered at least five people, including his own parents.’

Nathan hit the stop button in his mind. It was enough for tonight, and it had ended fittingly. Shit, he hadn’t seen his own parents in
years
.

Tomorrow morning he’d finally remedy that little situation once and for all.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN

When the phone rang at six o’clock the next morning, Eric freed his arm from beneath Dana to answer it. After a moment, he handed it over. ‘Bill Krugman,’ he said.

Dana removed a silver hoop earring and sleepily brushed a strand of hair out of her eyes before placing the receiver to her ear. ‘Hello?’

‘Dana,’ Krugman said, sounding so alert she was sure he’d been up for hours already. ‘Feeling any better?’

‘Much. What’s up?’

‘Good. Well, we’re over at the office now. Can you meet us here in an hour?’

‘Of course. Make any decisions yet?’

‘As a matter of fact, I have. I’m going over to check out an apartment in Rocky River. Apparently Crawford, the killer – hell, I hate thinking it could be him – anyway, he was staying there while impersonating the Son of Sam. You and Jeremy Brown are going down to West Virginia.’

Dana stifled a yawn. ‘West Virginia? What’s down there?’

‘Appalachia is down there.’

‘So?’

Krugman paused. ‘We received a letter from our killer last night, Agent Whitestone. It had a return address on it.’

Dana sat up straighter on the couch. ‘What did the letter say?’

Krugman cleared his throat. ‘It didn’t say anything, but Liza Alloway’s chopped-off fingers were stuffed inside.’

‘Was there any DNA?’

‘Nope. Not a trace. Get on the road as soon as you can.’

PART V

RESHAPING JOHN WAYNE GACY AND
REDEEMING NATHAN STIEDOWE

CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT

Nathan logged onto his Yahoo! Messenger account and looked at his ‘Buddies’ list.

His target was online, just like he always seemed to be. It was so goddamn irritating how some people had no lives.

He laughed and pecked a message into the chat box. The irony was just too delicious. Pretty soon, this guy really
wouldn’t
have a life.

Almost instantaneously, his message popped up in the guise of his online persona with the accompanying chime.

C-townTop: hey big guy. what’s up?

The response came less than ten seconds later.

LkwoodBtm: Not much. You?

C-townTop: just horny, as usual

LkwoodBtm: I hear ya. So when are we getting together to take care of that little problem of yours?

C-townTop: little?

LkwoodBtm: LOL. Sorry about that. So when are we getting together to take care of that BIG THROBBING problem of yours?

C-townTop: the sooner the better

LkwoodBtm: How about tonight?

C-townTop: mmm. sounds good. i really want to stick something in you

LkwoodBtm: Sounds hot.

C-townTop: good

LkwoodBtm: And you promise you’ll stick something in me?

C-townTop: i will. but it might hurt a little

LkwoodBtm: Don’t threaten me with a good time!

C-townTop: it’s not a threat

LkwoodBtm: What is it?

C-townTop: that’s a promise too

Nathan leaned back in his chair and closed the chat box. Eighty-six per cent of the world’s serial killers were heterosexual – and he liked the ladies every bit as much as the next guy, of course – but the time had come for him to take a walk on the wild side. Time to try out the gay thing to see what all the fuss was about.

He laughed again when the chords of ‘Lola’ by The Kinks suddenly echoed in his mind.

Lola, L-O-L-A, Lola …

CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE

The region of Appalachia in West Virginia is a land that time has largely forgotten. With its rolling green meadows, crystal-clear blue lakes and an expanse of woodland stretching on for hundreds of miles, it is, at first glance, God’s country.

Jeremy Brown was at the wheel of a rented Chevrolet as the beautiful scenery whizzed by at eighty miles an hour. Dana came awake with a start a moment later.

She turned in her seat and squinted her eyes against the blinding winter sunlight. ‘Sorry about that. I can’t believe I fell asleep.’

He looked over at her and smiled. ‘No problem, kiddo. You needed the rest. Are you sure you’re OK? You had us really worried there for a moment. Thank God for your friend Eric.’

Dana stretched her arms over her head and rolled her neck on her shoulders. ‘Yeah, he’s the best. I’m fine now. Just want to catch this son of a bitch. How much longer until we get there?’

Brown glanced down at the odometer. ‘Twenty more miles until we reach the access road. The cabin’s another mile from there. Apparently it’s not accessible by car, so I’m afraid we’re gonna have to hoof it.’

Twenty minutes later he pulled the car over to the side of the road and popped the trunk. A solitary buzzard circled high in the blue sky above as they shrugged their torsos into bulletproof Kevlar and checked their side arms.

Brown turned to her and handed over the keys. ‘You take them, Dana. I’m notorious for losing these goddamn things.’

A fifteen-minute hike along an overgrown trail brought them to a steep ledge overlooking a ramshackle cabin partially obscured by a stand of enormous oak trees. It was the only dwelling in a ten-mile radius, and one of the trees had recently been cut down. Now it was lying on the snow-covered ground like an enormous felled giant.

Brown shook his head when he saw it. ‘Looks like our man’s something of a lumberjack in addition to his day job of being a deranged serial killer. Very industrious of him, wouldn’t you say?’

Before Dana could answer him, the gunshot-sound of snapping branches sounded fifteen yards to their right. She caught a dark flash of movement out of the corner of her right eye as Brown unholstered his Glock in one fluid motion and whipped it around with his finger twitching over the trigger.

He had an eight-point buck dead in his sights.

‘Jesus Christ,’ he breathed. ‘That scared the living shit out of me.’

He stared at the huge buck, which defiantly stared right back. ‘What do you think, Dana? Should I drop him or what? I think we’re still in season.’

‘And kill Bambi’s dad? I don’t think so.’

Brown smiled at her. ‘You’re too soft for your own good, Whitestone. A real marshmallow softie, but that’s what I love so much about you.’

A moment later the majestic creature lifted its enormous head and gave one derisive snort before suddenly turning and crashing back into the winter woods.

Dana sighed. ‘So are you ready for this or what?’

Brown didn’t answer her. He was looking at something over her right shoulder. ‘What’s that?’ he said.

Dana turned around and followed his gaze. Even from a hundred feet she could make out the front-page headline stripped across the top of a newspaper that had been nailed to a tree.

WEST PARK COUPLE SLAIN; DAUGHTER SURVIVES

Brown started walking toward the tree.

‘Hey, wait up,’ Dana said, her stomach churning with nausea as she followed him through the woods.

Brown pulled the newspaper off the tree. His deep brown eyes narrowed as he read quickly through the article. He looked up at her. ‘Jesus Christ, Dana. Check this shit out.’

Dana could hardly breathe. She looked down at the paper, at the familiar article recounting her parents’ murder in terrible detail. Quick puffs of vapour issued from her mouth. ‘Motherfucker,’ she said.

Brown took back the paper. ‘We could have gotten some useful background information out of this reporter,’ he said. ‘This …’

He paused and ran his eyes over the byline at the top of the article. ‘This Jeremiah Quigley.’

Dana’s heart almost stopped. ‘What did you say?’

Brown frowned. ‘I said we could have gotten some useful background information out of this reporter. This Jeremiah Quigley guy. About your parents’ deaths, I mean.’

Dana’s world went black. Her vision swam out of focus, then she suddenly felt weightless. Brown caught her just before she completed a face-plant on the forest floor.

‘Whoa,’ he said. ‘Take it easy, Dana. You’re obviously not well enough. I should have per—’

Dana’s brain reeled, unable to process the information she’d just heard. In the hundreds of times she’d read that article, never once had she noticed the reporter’s name. She stumbled again.

‘What’s wrong?’ Brown asked as he steadied her.

Dana took a deep breath and tried to regain her bearings. ‘Quigley is my mother’s maiden name,’ she said hoarsely.

Brown’s jaw nearly hit his chest. ‘But I thought you said you were an only child.’

‘I am.’

‘Jeez.’ Brown toed the ground. ‘I guess that’s something we’ll have to deal with later. Right now we need to get down there and check out that cabin. You OK to do this or what? If not, I’ll do it by myself.’

Dana shook herself. ‘Absolutely not. I’m fine. Let’s go.’

‘OK, Dana, but just be careful, all right? This is some dangerous shit we’re getting into here. Don’t go passing out on me now.’

Dana’s glare was hot enough to burn through six inches of solid steel. ‘I said let’s go,’ she hissed.

Stooped over in a half-crouch, they made their way down the slippery ledge and advanced upon the cabin’s wide porch gallery before ascending the creaking steps in front. Dana squatted at one side of the door and motioned for Brown to do the same at the other. She flicked off the safety on her Glock and gave him the signal to knock.

He popped up without hesitation, banging on the rickety wooden door with one fist. ‘FBI!’ he yelled. ‘Open up! We have a search warrant!’

There was no response. Straining her ears hard, Dana heard the low murmur of voices coming from inside.

Somebody was
definitely
in there.

Brown raised an eyebrow questioningly. Dana nodded back, every muscle in her body tensed and ready for action.

Brown rose to his feet and put all his weight behind the kick. The termite-infested jamb splintered as they rushed inside with their guns drawn.

The smell hit them first, like a hard slap across the face. The stifling heat pouring out of a pot-bellied stove in the middle of the room only intensified the unmistakable stench of decay.

The source of the horrible odour wasn’t hard to trace.

The elderly couple, both frail and well into their seventies, were propped up at the kitchen table, their wrinkled hands solemnly folded in prayer. An open Bible lay between them, its sliver-thin pages splattered with blood.

Their killer had struck from behind, cutting their throats with the bloodstained butcher’s knife that now lay on the table beside the Bible. Dana recognised the precise handwriting on the note under it at once.

LIZZIE BORDEN TOOK AN AXE AND GAVE HER MOTHER FORTY WHACKS. WHEN SHE SAW WHAT SHE HAD DONE, SHE GAVE HER FATHER FORTY-ONE.

A blizzard of black flies buzzed loudly in the cabin. Dana brushed a flurry of them from her eyes and almost gagged when she saw that they’d already laid eggs in the open wounds in the couple’s throats. Hundreds of maggots squirmed in their flesh, madly wriggling over one another in their quest for the tastiest bits.

The voices she’d heard from outside were coming from an old transistor radio, its broken dial set to a Southern Baptist church sermon – an angry preacher raging fire-and-brimstone against the evils of fornication.

Dana flipped her cellphone open to call for backup but the reception was too weak inside the cabin for her to get a signal.

She was about to walk outside and try again when Brown motioned to the only other door in the cabin. Presumably it led into the bedroom. ‘We need to clear that room,’ he said, wrinkling his nose up against the overpowering smell.

Dana nodded and fell into step behind him as they quickly crossed the uneven plank floor. Taking a deep breath, Brown reached out a hand and turned the knob until the lock popped.

The double-barrelled shotgun rigged to a crude pulley system of chicken wire exploded immediately with a tremendous bang, slamming him squarely in the chest and lifting him three feet in the air. The force of the blast tore the black dress shoe off his left foot.