Killer Instinct (13 page)

Chapter
Twenty-Nine

FULLY AWARE I’M BREAKING CURFEW
and in no way caring, I park my Jeep down the street from 4 Buchold Place just a few minutes before midnight. Like the last time I was here this late, the street and its few houses sit shadowed, and aside from a car here or there, fairly empty.

In my left cargo pocket sits my Taser. In my right is the tranquilizer gun, already loaded and with the safety on. Zip ties lie in an untangled circle in my back right button flap. Duct tape takes up my calf pocket.

I desperately try to ignore my thumping heart as I go through the motions of wrapping my springy hair into a ponytail and cramming it up inside my ski mask. Preparations, I’m discovering, serve to not only build the anticipation but also provide focus for events about to transpire.

With one last glance around the dark street, I wedge my fingers into my black leather gloves, turn the dome light off in my Jeep, and quietly climb out.

I’m not sure what to expect, but I’m not taking any chances. I
will
use the tranquilizer if I have to. I will use
all
of it without a second thought. This much I’m sure of.

Staying in the shadows and under the enormous oak trees, I silently make my way to the dark house. I ignore my shallow breathing and my rapid pulse, and focus on what is about to happen. I’m either going to meet the Decapitator or he is going to reveal the next body part to me. I can’t see that anything else is going to happen.

I crouch behind a bush and survey the area. Same wet leaves cover the ground as the other day. A slight October breeze rustles through the bushes and the branches of the trees. I catch a faint hint of chimney smoke lingering in the air. It’s not cold enough for a fire.

Carefully I survey the house. Top to bottom. Left to right. And see no movement.

I wait for a sign. Does he want me to come in the front door?

“Stop right there!”

I freeze.

Mom?

“Don’t move!” Her voice resonates from the backyard.

I leave the bush I’m crouched behind and make my way in that direction.

A shot goes off and I plaster myself to the side of the house.
Oh my God!
Was that aimed at me?

Up and down the street, a few lights flip on.

The sound of two people fighting echoes through the night.
Mom?

“Stop!” my mom shouts, and then immediately sucks in air.

I peek around the corner to see her drop to the wet leaves holding her side. From the tree branch above her head dangles the missing arm.

In the moonlight blood glistens off her hand. Has she been shot?

She groans and I don’t hesitate in racing toward her.

She sees me coming and tries to crawl away. I want to speak, I want to tell her it’s going to be okay, but I know I can’t. She’ll recognize my voice. For that matter, she might recognize my body even if it is completely covered.

I come down beside her and reach for her bloody hand. So much blood.

She stops struggling, maybe realizing I’m here to help.

“I’ve been stabbed,” she gasps.

She’s wearing her Kevlar vest, but the knife went up under it.

What are you doing here?
I want to scream.

Sirens pierce the air and I automatically jerk to attention.
I can’t be here!

She grabs my wrist, and in that second I understand she can’t let me go. She doesn’t know who I am, but she knows I have something to do with all this.

I twist from her strong grip and take off into the night.

The sirens get closer, and I know she’ll have help soon.

I climb in my Wrangler and stealthily pull away.

Mom’s been stabbed! I fight every urge in me to go back to her and instead concentrate on driving away. Help will come soon, I reassure myself.

Oh, God, what if he pierced an organ when he stabbed her? She could be dead right now in that backyard, and instead of waiting by her side, I ran.

She may have recognized me!

The Decapitator must have invited us both. He wanted us to meet. Or maybe he intended on getting me caught. What kind of sick game is he playing, stabbing my mother?

I park in the shadows of a nearby playground and watch as an ambulance and cops swarm the neighborhood.

The neighbors probably called when they heard the gunshot. Or maybe Mom’s team was nearby. If the FBI was watching the neighborhood, they probably saw my Jeep pull in. They may have even seen me hiding in the shadows. They’re all going to connect the dots now if they haven’t already. The house. The Decapitator. Me. I don’t know what I’m going to do.

Another siren blares past me and I jerk.

I close my eyes, smothered in guilt. I’m a horrible daughter.

I can’t lose my mom.
I can’t.

The ambulance peels out of the neighborhood, sirens blaring. Blaring sirens are a good thing. It means she’s still alive. Right?

Mom’s supposed to have backup, a partner at least. She shouldn’t have gone in there by herself. What the hell was she thinking?

None of the cops leave the neighborhood, and I assume they’re scouring every inch of the property. Roadblocks will go up soon. I’ve got to get out of here.

I stow my gear, change out of my clothes, and drive home. I want to go to the hospital but know I can’t. If I do, they’ll know I know. And they’ll want to know
how
I know. I pray Victor is up, but he’s not. Does he know yet? Surely they would’ve called him by now.

I lie awake the whole night, guilt eating me from every angle. I left my mom to protect my own identity. This is all my fault. I should’ve never kept any of this to myself. He threatened me, my family . . . I did what he said and he double-crossed me!

At five a.m. I’m up, waiting, waiting for someone to come tell me everything’s okay.

At six a.m. Victor finds me standing in the kitchen. “You three kids aren’t going to school today.”

A lump forms in my throat. “Why? What’s going on?”

He approaches me, dark circles under his eyes, salt-and-pepper hair standing on end. He pulls me into a hug. “Your mom was stabbed last night. She’s been in surgery for hours.” He takes a deep breath, and I still myself for the worst. “But she’s going to be okay.”

Relief slams into me. I grab on to my dad, and I hold him tighter than I’ve ever held anybody. Tears press my eyes.

“It’s okay,” he whispers.

I nod and, for the first time in my life, let tears fall.

He doesn’t know what to do. He’s never seen me cry. “It’s okay,” he murmurs. “You go ahead and give in.”

I do. Letting tears fall freely. Giving in to the emotion I’ve never experienced before. He holds me tight, slightly rocking me, and I press my face into his chest.

Sometime later I blink and sniff, but he doesn’t lessen his hold, and I realize he’s crying too.

“What’s going on?” Justin’s voice interrupts us.

Slowly we pull apart and look down into his worried little-boy face.

Daisy comes down the stairs. “Who died?” she stupidly jokes.

I push past her and head up to my room. I’m
so
not in the mood for her right now.

In the background I hear Victor telling my brother and sister what he told me. They start crying, and I’m more than pleased that Daisy now knows what an idiot she is.

Later that morning our whole family sits around Mom’s hospital bed. She’s awake, but groggy.

Beside me, Justin hasn’t stopped crying. This is the first time he’s ever seen Mom like this, hooked to beeping equipment, IVs, tubes—defenseless.

It’s the first time any of us have ever seen her less than strong, less than perfect.

Daisy sits across from us, clutching Mom’s hand. It’s the most affection I’ve seen her show Mom in a very long time.

A television hung on the wall is already reporting James Donner is a fraud and the Decapitator is still at large. There’s footage of 4 Buchold Place, roped off now with police tape.

There’s no mention of the Masked Savior. Maybe Mom hasn’t gotten around to telling anybody yet. Or maybe she somehow figured out it’s me. . . .

“Let me talk to Lane,” Mom croaks. “Alone.”

I give Justin a reassuring squeeze.

“Let’s try to eat a little something,” Victor says, and ushers my brother and sister out.

As the door closes, I scoot up beside Mom. “Are you in a lot of pain?”

She shakes her head, but I know she’s lying. She licks her dry lips, and I give her a couple of ice chips to suck on.

Mom closes her eyes and takes a few seconds like she’s gathering her thoughts.

“Lane,” she finally rasps. “You know this happened at Four Buchold Place, right?”

I nod. She must not have recognized me after all.

“Internally, the FBI is focusing on your uncle as the Decapitator.”

Actually hearing the words in an official capacity renders me mute for a second. “What . . . what do you mean, internally?”

“Sometimes when an official announcement is made, it hinders the manhunt more than helps it. You need to be very careful. I have reason to believe the Decapitator, your uncle, is following me and probably you.”

I have reason to believe it too. “What evidence is pointing in his direction?”

“I can’t say. I’m sorry.”

I try not to get frustrated. “Does the FBI know I own that house?”

“Of course they do. But they also know you have nothing to do with this.”

If only that were true. “Where was your backup?”

She shakes her head. “He wanted me to come alone.”

“Mom, that’s stupid.” Her machine beeps and I ignore it, watching her lick her dry lips again.

I give her more ice chips.

She sucks. “I’ve done it before, against FBI protocol, and gotten in trouble because of it.”

This is news to me. And . . . doesn’t sound like her at all. “Are you in trouble now?”

“I suspect so. My boss is coming to see me later.”

“Was your team at least somewhere nearby?”
Did they see me?

“You know I can’t divulge details. And you must know your silence is imperative regarding your uncle. We can’t afford to have any leaks.”

I nod, trying to be the patient person I’ve always been but totally consumed by frustration.

With a soft groan she squints against the pain.

I touch her arm. “Can I get you anything?”

“I need to rest.”

“Okay.” I turn to leave.

“Lane?”

I turn back.

“I’ve put a guard on you. On the whole family. For a couple of weeks. I’m not taking any chances.”

“What?”
I can’t have a guard. How in the hell am I supposed to operate with a guard on my ass?

Chapter
Thirty

THE NEXT COUPLE OF DAYS
go by as expected—school and visiting Mom in the hospital.

Our FBI bodyguard is good at his job. I barely know he’s there.

On Wednesday I get a text from a number I don’t recognize.
HOW’D U LIKE ALMOST GETTING CAUGHT?

U SONOFABITCH
, I bang back.
U STABBED MY MOTHER!

AH, AND NOW WE KNOW WHAT FINALLY PENETRATES SLIM’S BARRIER.

I toss my phone on the bed and walk away from it. He knows he’s gotten to me, and I despise that. All these years of thinking I had no family on my real dad’s side, and the one I end up getting turns out to be a serial killer. And to think I’d been at first fascinated with him. . . . He stabbed my mother. I hate my uncle.

I snatch the phone back up and hit call. It rings once and I get the same “cannot be completed as dialed” message that I got before. I don’t know why I bothered calling him back. I knew that would probably happen again.

The next afternoon I get home from the hospital and check the mail. Another small white envelope has been delivered with no return address.

My heart skips as I open up the envelope, already suspecting what I’ll find. I pull out a pieced-together picture, similar to the other he sent, but now with a head, two arms, and a leg. The type below it reads:

ONE LEG TO GO.

I KNOW WHO THE FBI THINKS I AM.

AND THEY’RE WRONG.

MAYBE I’LL TELL YOU WHO I AM.
MAYBE.

GOOD GIRL, KEEPING THIS TO YOURSELF.

I flip the card over, and there’s a picture of my mom sitting in her car talking on her phone. Below the picture is:

LET’S HOPE I DON’T HAVE TO TEACH ANYONE ELSE IN YOUR FAMILY A LESSON.

My jaw clenches as I flip the card back over and scan the lines again.
I know who the FBI thinks I am.
How does my uncle know that? Or maybe he doesn’t and he’s just playing with me. Either way we’ll see how much of a
good girl
he thinks I am when I bust his ass.

I use the next couple of days to chart out his fourteen-year killing spree, starting with the woman I watched get stabbed to death.

I pick up the phone and call Reggie. “I know I said I didn’t want you doing anything else with the Decapitator, but that bastard stabbed my mom.”

“Oh, I’ve already been digging.” Reggie really is a good and loyal friend.

“Okay. Couple of questions: Can you tell me where my real father has been over the past fourteen years in the month of September? Can you tell me where his brother, my uncle, has been? Can you tell me if either one of them was connected in any way to the women who have died, including that initial murder I witnessed? Finally, can you tell me who’s been on and off the FBI task force over the past fourteen years? Specifically, Victor. I know he’s traveled to many of the states where the killings occurred.”

“Your stepdad. You don’t think—”

“I’m not discounting anything. I’m on a warpath, and everyone connected to this in any way is game. I’ve lost all trust.”

Through the phone I hear Reggie typing. “It’s going to take me some time to put all this together.”

“I know. And . . . I’d also like to know if I personally am connected to any of the fourteen women.”

“What do you mean? Like, related?”

“Yeah, or anything else.”

“Okay, I’ll send things as I find them.” With that, Reggie clicks off.

I pace my room, thinking through everything. Why would the Decapitator be contacting me personally if I don’t have some sort of stake in all this?

Unless he thinks I saw him all those years ago, and he has to get rid of me as I’m the only eyewitness. So why lure me back to 4 Buchold? Is it his sick attempt at completing the killing cycle?

Or maybe he’s after the whole family because my parents are on the investigative team.

Perhaps—and this is way out there—he fully intended to have me watch him all those years ago in order to make me into his successor.

Why, though, would he want a successor?

Reggie calls back. “There’s no proof your father took you all those years ago. Everyone naturally assumed it since you were found at Four Buchold Place. He kidnaps you, you’re found covered in blood, and no one thinks he committed that murder. It doesn’t make sense. Something’s off.”

Something’s
way
off. “I thought you said the reports noted he was questioned.”

“They did. It’s almost like the reports have been doctored or mistyped, or someone filed one and then someone else filed another. It’s like there’s—”

“Someone working on the inside.” Like Victor.

“Exactly.”

“So it could’ve been anyone who took me. Mom told me Seth and his brother both lived there.”

“You’re thinking your uncle might have kidnapped you?”

“It’s possible.” I pace across my bedroom. “Reggie, I honestly don’t know. Just when I think I might have it figured out, I get confused again.”

“Something else you should know. Your mom said your real father signed over rights to you, right?”

I stop pacing. “Let me guess. That’s a lie.”

Reggie sighs. “Sorry, Lane.”

I promise you that’s the last bit of information I kept from you. I promise.
Mom’s words come back to me, and I shake my head. Unbelievable.

I click off with Reggie and go straight downstairs to Mom’s office. Victor’s sitting at her desk. I don’t even bother saying hi. “When did you adopt me?”

He looks up from the computer. “When you were three. Why?”

“Can I see the paperwork?”

“What’s this all about?”

“I was looking through the paperwork that came from the law firm,” I lie. “My real father never signed over rights to me. Mom said he did.”

He takes off his reading glasses. “Your Mom and I—”

“Just tell me the truth,” I demand.

“Lane . . .”

I’ve never lost my temper with him. I’ve never taken that tone. It surprises me, too.

“I understand you’re upset,” he calmly responds. “Please know every decision we’ve made has been in your best interest.”

I’m so sick of hearing that. “How is it in my best interest to continually lie to me?”

Victor pauses and I can see it all over his face. Guilt. Love. Exhaustion. Confusion. I want to understand, really I do, but I need honesty. Now.

“You’re correct. Your real father never signed away rights to you. But that doesn’t make you any less my daughter.” He reaches for me. “I raised you. You
are
my own.”

I ignore the tenderness that sparks inside me. “Why didn’t he sign away rights to me?”

Victor takes my hand. “He said he wanted to. We spent years sending him paperwork only to have it returned undeliverable. Eventually we lost track of him altogether.” He squeezes my fingers. “We can talk to Mom more about this when she gets out of the hospital if you want.”

“I don’t want to talk to Mom.”

“Lane,” he softly reprimands me. “Don’t say that.”

I don’t respond as I stand in front him, no deflation at all in my frustration.

He lets go of my hand. “You have any more questions, you come to me. I’ll be straight up with you.”

I nod, even though deep down I know there’s more. But, and I never thought I’d think this, in this moment I trust Victor more than my mom.

My past has scarred me for the future, and I have to be able to trust someone with that. The truth of the matter is, both my parents are trained liars. I can’t trust either one.

• • •

“The woman you saw get stabbed to death was your preschool teacher,” Reggie tells me.

I pull into Patch and Paw for my Saturday shift. No wonder I’d been clinging to her hand in the picture. “And the FBI hasn’t worked this out?”

“I’m sure they have. But why would they tell you? Lane, your mom still doesn’t know that you know about the murder you witnessed in that room. She saw you freak when you two visited Four Buchold. I’m sure if she knew I sent you that picture, she would’ve told you more details.”

I doubt that. “Of course the woman I saw get killed was a preschool teacher. I can’t believe I didn’t think of that. That is the Decapitator’s modus operandi.”

“You can’t think of everything.”

“And the other women throughout the years? Am I connected to them in any way?”

“Not that I can see,” Reggie answers. “As far as Seth and your uncle, it’s hit or miss. The two of them are like ghosts. They’re hard to track. They move around, sometimes together, sometimes separate. They seem to operate on cash only.”

I turn my Jeep off. “Any connection to the women?”

“Just the first one being your teacher. None of the others, though. You’re right about your stepdad. He’s been on the investigative team for years.”

“Longer than my mom?”

“Yes.”

“How did I not know this? I feel like we’ve gotten nowhere.”

“You don’t think your stepdad is involved in some capacity other than investigative, do you?”

I sigh. “I don’t know what to think. I’m frustrated. I’m confused. And I’m irritated as all hell. At this point I just want the Decapitator to come up and introduce himself to me.”

“Lane, don’t say that. A serial killer introducing himself? Please don’t say that. I’m worried enough about you and your family as it is.”

“You know I’m not being serious,” I say to soothe her, even though I am.

Neither one of us says anything for a couple of seconds.

“Lane, promise me you’ll be careful.”

“I promise.” And I will be careful, in my own distinctive way.

We click off and I head inside.

“How’s your mom?” Dr. Issa asks before I even set my stuff down.

“Fine. She comes home today.” Everyone knows Mom’s the lead investigator on the case. She’s on the news frequently.

And everyone knows if she doesn’t solve it soon, it’ll be another year before the Decapitator strikes again and gives everyone another chance to catch him.

I pick up the work list, fully aware Dr. Issa is still standing, looking at me.

I turn. “Did you need something else?”

“Just . . . just wondering if you’ve talked to Zach.”

“I’m not your brother’s keeper,” I snap.

Dr. Issa blinks in surprise.

I’m surprised too. I’ve lost my control more in the last few days than I have in my whole life.

“I know you’re not my brother’s keeper,” he quietly responds. “I won’t bring it up again.”

With that, he’s gone. I don’t normally experience guilt about anything, but I do right now. Dr. Issa doesn’t deserve my ire.

One thing is for sure. I’ve got to get back in control. It’s the only way I know how to effectively function.

• • •

On my way home I swing by Giant to get a box of tampons, and see Zach standing in front of an ABC liquor store.

What the hell?

I don’t get out of my Jeep and instead park and watch. He stands there for several good solid minutes and then opens the door and walks right inside.

What is he doing? There’s no way they’ll sell him liquor.

Time ticks by, and I continue watching the door, waiting, waiting . . . Several people come and go and still no Zach.

I open my Jeep and jump out. I’m going in after him. He’s making a huge mistake. I don’t know what’s driven him in there, but he’s going to regret it, big time.

The door opens and he strolls right out, no bags in hand. He catches sight of me standing in the middle of the parking lot, staring back at him. I do the only thing I can do. I lift my hand and wave.

He walks right toward me, and as I watch him approach, I make my mind up not to say a word. He knows I saw him. He should be the one to speak. Or not. It’s not like he owes me an explanation.

“Busted.” He laughs a little.

“What were you doing in there?” So much for me not saying anything.

“I do that sometimes. Go inside. Walk the aisles. It’s reinforcing. It’s challenging. My counselor at rehab suggested that, actually.”

“Oh. Well . . .”

“Were you worried?”

I think about that but don’t immediately answer. And I don’t bother reminding him he said he doesn’t want to be friends.

He smiles—“Thanks”—and reaches out, surprising us both, and clasps my hand. The contact only lasts for a quick squeeze, and then he releases it. “See you at school.” And with that, he turns and walks away.

I stand for a second watching his back. I like Zach. Seeing him nearly throw everything away makes me realize I like him more than I thought. Now what am I going to do about that?