Killer Instinct (15 page)

Chapter
Thirty-Three

HUMAN NATURE HAS ALWAYS PERPLEXED
me. People cry even when they don’t know the person they’re crying for.

This is what goes through my mind as I stand amid all the students at school the next day, sad, hugging, and visiting grief counselors over the hands and feet of a woman they didn’t even know.

The Decapitator has broken routine by delivering the cooler to a school. In all the reports I read, he delivers it to a police station. This was a present for me, although no one knows this information but myself. And so I decide to tell my mom. I would tell Victor, but he’s barely around the house anymore.

“A present for you,” my mom states.

“Yes.”

“Why would the Decapitator think that cooler is a present for you?”

“Why would the Decapitator do anything he’s doing? The FBI knows I own Four Buchold. That I witnessed a murder there. And the Decapitator is somehow connected to me. What is the problem with finding him? I’m assuming you all still think it’s my uncle?” Even I can hear the agitation in my tone.

My mom sighs. “It’s not that easy.”

“He’ll be moving on soon. It’ll be next September before he kills again.”

“We know that, Lane. Don’t you think we know that? And I want you to know that Seth and your uncle were in every state when the decapitations occurred.”

This I already know because of Reggie’s information. “So, what, are you saying they were working together?” I immediately recall the video. Maybe it
had
been two people and not just a different camera angle.

“I can’t say anything else.”

I growl. “Then why say anything at all? What about the video? Were you able to open that?”

“I
won’t
say anything else.”

I continue grilling her, even though she’s closed down on me. “Why would they let you investigate all this with my real father and uncle being so closely tied?”

“I was already working the case before we realized all the connections. It doesn’t matter; a true FBI professional can compartmentalize and focus.”

“Is that why you went off half-cocked and got pulled from the case?”

“That’s enough,” she snaps at me. “I am still your mother, and you will speak to me with respect.” With that she disappears into her office and slams the door.

I stand for several solid seconds, fuming at that closed door. I would love to go in there and fire back at her.

A movement in my peripheral vision has me whipping around.

Daisy holds her hands up. “Easy.”

I get right in her face instead. “I swear to God, if you mess with me, I will—”

Her eyes widen. “I won’t mess with you. I promise.”

I take a step back and turn away. As much as I can’t stand my sister, I don’t have the right to take this out on her. This is my shit. Not hers.

“I . . . I was hungry and thought I’d make spaghetti for everyone. That’s all.”

I nod but don’t look at her, and after several minutes of hearing her move around in the kitchen, I go to help.

I can’t remember the last time Daisy and I made dinner together. What kind of sisters are we? Basically, we’re strangers living in the same house. When all this is over, I should make more of an effort with her. Try to find some common ground. I mean, does she think I like not liking her?

“I wish this whole thing would go away,” she grumbles later into her spaghetti.

“Cramping your style?”

She looks up at me and laughs. “Something like that.”

I smile back. It’s been so long since she and I have been friends.

“I know we don’t know that lady, that teacher who died, but . . . will you go to the memorial service with me tomorrow?”

I hadn’t planned on it, but the fact Daisy just asked me has me answering, “Sure.”

“Do you think he’ll deliver something to my school?” Justin whispers.

Daisy and I shoot each other a glance, and in that second it strikes me how much my depravity has affected my younger brother. I don’t know why the Decapitator has chosen me. If he
is
my uncle, being his niece can’t be the sole reason. I would think there’s got to be something else.

What I do know is that if I had given everything over to the FBI from the start, he would be caught by now.

And my younger brother, who I love more than anybody, wouldn’t be sitting here sad, worried about horrible things like body parts.

Daisy reaches over and tenderly strokes his cheek. “Of course not. It’s all over now.”

It’s not, though.

That night Justin’s nightmare wakes the whole house. I lie in bed, listening to him scream, listening to my parents run into his room, listening to him cry.

He sleeps with them, as does Daisy, and I stay right in my bed, laden with guilt.

• • •

The next day at school goes the same way with grief counselors and all, and after dinner Daisy and I leave for the memorial service.

“I’ve never been to a funeral,” she whispers as we park outside the church.

I give her a bolstering look that I myself don’t even feel.

“I heard they waited for all her body parts to have the memorial service. Isn’t that sad?”

Yes, it’s very sad.

We enter the packed place, and I have to admit there are more people here than I expected.

As I take a seat next to Daisy and look around, it occurs to me how many people come to these things to support the family.

Sure the congregation is full of kids from our school, here, I’m sure, like Daisy. Not because they knew the preschool teacher, but because the tragedy brought them in, and because this happened to someone in our community. And then there are those here, I’m sure, out of some weird fascination.

But the majority is adults—friends of the family, people they probably work with, extended relatives.

Up front sits a large portrait of a smiling woman. Staring at the picture, I can see how the Decapitator had been drawn to her pretty sweetness. It’s curious how portraits come across so innocent.

On a wall in our house our parents have school pictures of each of us kids. They update them every year. Justin’s always grinning, Daisy’s got a pretty smile, and my expression remains blank. I wonder what people think of those when they see them. They probably think I’m the “difficult” child.

The service progresses, people speak, someone sings. When the whole thing is over, we head outside to see news crews camped out.

Of course I didn’t know this woman, but I experience a flash of aggravation at their presence.

“What was it like to finally have her hands and feet delivered?” An obnoxious reporter gets right in the victim’s family’s face.

A woman around my mom’s age crumbles, and a man angrily shoves the camera. “Have some respect.”

As Daisy and I climb into my keyed Wrangler, I look up and see Dr. Issa across the church parking lot. He’s looking right at me.

I give him an acknowledging wave, and he returns that with a nod before climbing in his Juke and pulling away. I wonder if he knew the preschool teacher and that’s why he’s here.

• • •

Later that night I go into Daisy’s room to see how she’s doing—something I haven’t done in a very long time—and she’s not there.

I look around upstairs and then head down. “Justin, seen Daisy?”

He doesn’t even bother glancing up from his coloring books. “Nope.”

I try her phone next. Its musical ring echoes from upstairs. I head up and into her room just as it stops playing. I dial again and locate it under the dress she wore to the memorial service.

Daisy never goes anywhere without her cell.

A chilly breeze races across my skin, and I glance over to her open window. A tiny slit is the only sign it’s been opened and not reclosed all the way.

I walk over, lift it up, and stick my head out. The rolled fire escape ladder Victor makes us keep in our rooms dangles down the side of the house.

Unbelievable. This is not the time for her to take off with one of her many guys.

West was the last one’s name, and so I find him in our student directory and dial his number. “This is Lane, Daisy’s sister.”

“Oh, hey, Slim.”

I don’t even know this guy. “Is she with you?”

“No, she’s at that girl’s funeral.”

No, she’s not. “You guys are still together, right?” I never know with her. “She wouldn’t be with someone else?”

“She better
not
be with someone else,” he fires back.

I take a patient breath. “Don’t worry about it. I’m looking for her. That’s all.”

“Try her phone.”

A real genius, this one. “Thanks, I’ll do that. Tell her to call me if you two talk.”

I click off and start going through the student directory, calling all her cheerleading friends.

An hour later I’ve gotten nowhere.

“Be back in a sec,” I tell Justin as I head to the front door.

Across the street sits our FBI guy. He’s staring right at me, like he thinks I’m going to run or something. He should’ve been staring this way at Daisy while she shimmied out the back.

I take a few steps toward him, and my phone vibrates. Sliding my hand across the screen, I unlock it and a video pops up.

Zach. Strapped to a table. Shaking. Naked. Gagged. Eyes wide with fear. The message below says:

TELL ANYONE AND HE DIES.

Chapter
Thirty-Four

I HEAD BACK INSIDE THE
house and straight up to my room. I take a seat at my desk and pull up the fifteen-second video of Zach on my phone. Like the other one, there is no sound.

I stare at his shaking body and my muscles tense. Watching the other video had mesmerized me. Watching this one terrifies me. Zach means a lot to me. More than I ever realized.

Closing my eyes, I inhale one long, cleansing breath and let it out slow.

My eyes reopen and I focus on the room he is in. I’m absolutely sure it’s not 4 Buchold Place.

On my laptop I try to bring up the other video, but the link is still expired. From my memory it is the identical room. Wherever my uncle killed that woman, he is now holding Zach. And the fact he’s allowing me to watch Zach’s video more than once—it’s like he’s toying with me.

I dial Reggie. “Other than Four Buchold Place, did my real father or uncle own anything else?”

“Just a sec.” I hear her clicking her keyboard. “Doesn’t look like it.”

“How about did they live anyplace else near here?”

“No, that’s the only address that shows up for them in your area.”

I sit back. Focus. Think.
In my area . . .
“How about outside the area? Like Maryland?”

She click, click, clicks. “Sorry, no.”

“Okay.”

A knock sounds on my door, and my mom sticks her head in. “Wanted you to know I’m home. But only for a minute.”

“Hang on,” I tell Reggie, and focus back on my mom.

“Dad’s still at the office, and I’m heading back there, actually.”

“I thought you got pulled off the case?”

“I did. But there are other investigations I’m manning.”

“Were you all ever able to open that video?”

Her expression softens. “I’m so sorry you had to see that.”

My pulse quickens. “You
were
able to pull it up?”

“Yes, and I’m so sorry you had to see it,” she repeats.

I’m dying to ask her how they got the video to relaunch but of course can’t. “Did it help?” I ask instead.

“It has. They’ve been able to figure out a lot of things we were unsure of.”

Like what—where the kill room is? Where Zach is? “Mom—”

Tell anyone and he dies.

“Yes?”

I want to tell her about Zach. I want to get her help. But I know I can’t. Zach will die if I don’t do what the Decapitator wants. “Nothing,” I mumble.

Some awkward seconds pass.

“Thank you”—she breaks the awkwardness—“for listening to me. For not keeping more information from me. I should’ve told you that earlier.”

“Sure.” At least I’ve earned back a teeny bit of her trust. Which will all be gone again as soon as she realizes I’m keeping Zach a secret.

“Okay, I have to go back. I only came home to grab some files.” She nods to my phone. “And you have a conversation to finish.” She gives me a slight wave and closes my door behind her.

I go back to Reggie. “Sorry about that. So what did you find?”

“Well, when you said Maryland, a bell dinged in my head. I remember your mom talking about Gaithersburg, Maryland, and how you all lived there before moving to McLean.”

The memory hits me. “That’s right. I’d forgotten all about that. I think I was in second grade when we moved.”

“Anyway, your stepdad still owns the house.”

“What? Why?”

“He rents it out.”

“Who’s in it right now?”

“No one. It’s been empty for a few months.”

I grab a pen and paper and notice my hands are shaking. I ignore them and focus. “Give me the address.”

We hang up, and someone knocks on my door. “Lane?”

Daisy?
I swing the door open and pull my sister into a hug. “Where the hell have you been?”

It takes her a second to realize we’re hugging. “The tree house.”

I pull back. “Do
not
leave this house. Got me?”

“Sorry,” she mumbles, and it occurs to me that a week ago she would’ve cussed me out over that demand. “I’m going to be in my room,” she says, and shuffles off.

I watch her for a second, completely elated and overcome by the fact she’s fine. After she closes her bedroom door, I close my own, open my window, and go out the same way Daisy did—down the retractable ladder.

I sprint through our side yard to where my Jeep is parked along the curb and plug the Maryland address into my GPS.
Hang on, Zach. Hang on. . . .

I jump on 495, and forty-five minutes later I arrive at my childhood house. I park several blocks down and sit for a second, surveying the area. Memories rush back and I reel at their onslaught. Pedaling my bike. Playing in the leaves. Making brownies for a block party.

It’s a cute neighborhood—what my parents would call starter homes. A bike rests against a tree in one yard. A plastic toddler wagon sits upside down on a porch. Halloween lights and decorations blink through front windows.

Kid friendly. Safe. Great place to raise a family. Great place to hide Zach.

No one would guess the Decapitator has him just a few blocks down.

Quickly I slip my cargo pants on over my skinny jeans and pack the pockets with my supplies. I don’t bother with my ski mask—the Decapitator knows what I look like.

The street is well lit, but it’s getting late and no one’s out. Still, there’s no hiding in shadows as I race for my old house and Zach. If someone was to drive by, they’d assume I was out for a late run.

The small Cape Cod is dark, making it seem as if no one lives here. Laughter echoes through my memories, and I have a flash of Daisy racing across the yard, her blond braids flying, Mom chasing her.

This is the house I lived in when I was taken at three years old.

My thoughts trail off as my brain makes connections between Victor and this house—he’s been in all the states where the decapitations occurred, he has the ability to cover up records. He could be in on this whole thing.

I stop for a second and glance around the small yard, tended bushes, tiny porch, rolled-up water hose, and decorative brick walkway. How did the Decapitator get Zach past all this and inside? Surely a neighbor would have seen someone carrying a body indoors. Then again, probably not. The Decapitator’s good. He would know how to get a body inside without stirring suspicion.

I take in the stone birdbath to the left and suddenly, very distinctly, recall our neighbor building it.

Beyond the birdbath and around the corner of the house sits the kitchen door off the driveway. I automatically move toward it, instinct directing me, in the way a person does out of habit.

The front door always got jammed, I remember now, and so we would use the side kitchen door.

I reach for the knob and turn it, not surprised at all to find it unlocked. It swings open, and I stand staring into the dark kitchen.

He’s here. I can
feel
him.

I step over the threshold, close the door behind me, and stand reorienting myself to the place.

A combination of moonlight and light from the streetlamps filters through the blinds and casts an intermittent glow here and there.

I experience a quick flash of Victor standing by the stove, flipping pancakes. This place seems full of nothing but good and happy memories. Now it’ll be full of anything but.

Beyond the kitchen spans the living room and past that the master bedroom. Two smaller ones lie to the left, separated by a bathroom.

Daisy and I shared the farthest one away, and so I head straight there.

A light flickers from the crack beneath the door. The Decapitator’s in there. Zach’s in there, strapped to a table, scared, fighting for what seconds of life he has left.

Zach’s presence, the Decapitator’s presence, they both fill me, overwhelm me in an intense single-mindedness that I welcome. The Decapitator will die for this. I
will
kill him and end his life of terror.

I unbutton my cargo pockets, ready to grab whatever I need, and reach for the doorknob.

With a twist I give it a slight push, and it slowly swings inward.

Large sheets of black plastic cover every inch of the ceiling, walls, and floor. On an examining table in the center lies Zach, unconscious and strapped down.

No one else is in the room. A small lamp sitting on the floor provides the only light.

Crossing the plastic, I go to him and test the canvas straps. I’ll have to cut them off. I take in his slack face, shallow breaths, and pale skin. What has he been drugged with? I glance around the table and underneath it, where the black plastic disappears through a cutout portion of the flooring. This must be the drain I saw on the video. I don’t understand. Did the Decapitator burrow a hole right through the house’s floor? And where does it go to—a drain line of some sort, the septic tank, dirt beneath the house?

In my peripheral vision I catch movement and automatically reach for my Taser. I yank it from my pocket, turn, and freeze.

The Decapitator nods. “Hello, Lane. Welcome.”