Killer Instinct (5 page)

Chapter
Ten

THE NEXT NIGHT AT FAMILY
dinner Victor looks straight at Daisy. “
What
is wrong with you? You’ve been moping around this house for a week now.” He looks at the rest of the family. “Hasn’t she?”

They all nod, and so I nod too. Honestly, I haven’t noticed, and truthfully, I really don’t care.

My sister inhales through her nose and lets out a long, I’m-so-weary sigh. I don’t know how Justin and I share her genetics. She’s everything neither one of us has ever been.

“Know that guy Zach?” she begins.

My mom gives Victor a why-did-you-ask look.

He ignores her and turns to Daisy. “Yes, I’ve heard you talk about him.”

Daisy picks at her chicken stir-fry. “He told me he just wants to be friends. And . . . I’m really upset because I think I may have loved him.”

I’ve never been an eye roller, but if I were, this comment would deserve it.

“Friends are good,” my mom diplomatically points out.

Daisy ignores her and looks straight at Victor. “I think he’s emotionally damaged in some way. I think he’s hiding something. I mean, he’s new to our school, but I know his family’s always lived here. So I asked him where he went to school before and he avoided the question. And then I heard he was in a mental institute.”

“Daisy”—my mom gently reprimands her—“you know better than to listen to gossip.”

“Well, why else wouldn’t he like me?” Daisy snaps.

Where do I start?

“Maybe he likes someone else,” my brother innocently suggests.

Daisy’s bottom lip trembles, and I know this is about to turn into a drama fest.

“May I be excused?” I ask, already pushing back from the table and the chicken stir-fry I didn’t finish. Victor does make a nice spicy one.

My mom nods as she checks her vibrating iPhone. “Need to take this,” she tells the family, and disappears into her office.

I take my plate into the kitchen, my ears straining to make out her mumbling, muted voice. I bet anything it’s about the recent severed head and suspected link to those past killings.

I wish I knew how to bug her office. And that thought sends me upstairs to my bedroom and my laptop.
Best way to bug a room
? I type into Google and begin browsing the hundreds of links.

Ugh. This is when Reggie comes in handy. She’s like Google but precise. She can wade through the garbage and pinpoint what’s needed. And so after only ten links I’m already frustrated and pick up my phone.

She answers after four rings. “Yo.”

“I didn’t think you’d pick up.”

“Yeah, I’m eyeballs deep in Athlon versus Duron and the proof of which is . . .”

This is where I typically tune her out. Reggie speaks her own language. As usual I wait patiently, not listening, continuing to click through links.

“So what’s up?” she finally asks.

“What’s the best way to bug a room? I’m researching it right now and honestly just want to get to the point. You know how Google is.”

“What room do you want to bug?”

“My room,” I lie, knowing Reggie won’t have a problem with that.

She laughs. “Why do you want to bug your room?”

I quickly make something up. “Because I think Daisy’s snooping around, and I want to prove it.”

“God, I’m glad I’m an only child.”

Sometimes I wish I were, at least where my sister’s concerned.

“Just do a nanny cam. Easy. Quick. You can buy one pretty much anywhere. They have audio, nonaudio. You can hide it on your bookshelf, in your alarm clock, in a stuffed animal. Yep, nanny cam.”

Nanny cam. Hm. “Thanks, Reg.”

“No, prob.”

I only hope it’s as easy and quick as Reggie says.

Chapter
Eleven

THE VERY NEXT DAY I
purchase a nanny cam hidden in a clock. I choose a popular model that is carried by several major electronics retailers. I pay cash for it, and no one blinks an eye.

At home I put the nanny-cam clock in Mom’s office. Every evening I’ll plan on swapping out the memory card, browsing the recordings on my laptop, and using whatever I can to build my personal file on the Decapitator. I want to know everything I can about his disgusting, warped mind. Some would call it a sick fascination. But it’s my fascination.

I want to know who he is. How he picks his victims. But most importantly, why he does what he does. How long he’s been doing it. What his methods are. What his childhood was like. In fact, I can’t think of anything better than sitting down and having a conversation with a person like that. Just an hour to probe his brain. Discover what made him who he is. See if there are any parallels to my own darkness.

And then I’d remind him about all the innocents he’d harmed. I’d detail their murders for him. I’d make him relive his sins right before I’d make him suffer the same way he made them. It would be the most perfect retribution of all time. But someone of the Decapitator’s caliber is out of my reach right now. He’s something I’ll one day work up to.

And how I’ll look forward to that day.

“You okay?”

I snap out of my fantasizing and over to my mom. “Yes.” I slide her the to-go mug I’ve already made. “I accidentally broke your office clock. I got you a new one and set it up. Sorry about that.”

“Oh, heavens, Lane, that’s fine. You didn’t have to get me a new one.”

“I wanted to.” And bugging her office goes that easy.

“Did some woman’s arm get thrown off a bridge?” Justin pipes up.

Mom chokes on her coffee. “Where did you hear that?”

I tune in. Yes, where did he hear that?

Justin points to the muted morning news where two reporters sit talking. In the upper-right-hand corner of the screen is a tiny picture of the 495 overpass with an animated arm flying off of it.

My mom snatches the remote and turns the TV off.

I bet that was her mystery phone call from the other night. Someone on her team calling to report the arm.

She grabs her iPhone and speed-dials a number. “Who the
hell
released . . . ,” she begins, and then slams her office door.

Mom rarely gets upset. This must be a
huge
deal.

• • •

At school during my TA job, Reggie texts me.
CAN U TALK?

I immediately dial her number. “You okay?”

“I had sex.”

“Um . . . okay.” This is surprising. She’s worse than me when it comes to all that social stuff.

“I didn’t know you were seeing someone.”

“I’m not. It was the guy across the hall in my dorm.”

This is why they shouldn’t allow coed dorms,
I want to say, but of course I don’t. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah. It was . . . eh. I’m glad it’s over with. I just wanted somebody to tell, and you’re always the first person I think of.”

That comment softens my heart. “I hear it gets better after the first time.”

“Maybe.” She laughs, but it doesn’t have any humor to it. “Guess it’s your turn now.”

I hate how sad she sounds. “I’m in no hurry.”

“I wasn’t either, but I’m nineteen and feeling a bit behind schedule.”

“Reggie, that’s ridiculous.”

“I know, which makes me even madder. I’m too smart to have those thoughts.”

“Well, don’t do it again unless you want to. Promise?”

She doesn’t answer at first. Then, “Yeah, promise.”

Although Reggie’s never admitted it, I think she secretly wishes she had been born less brilliant. That she had been this normal teen that maybe played sports or did cheer or something instead of having a dazzling mind that tested out of high school at fourteen.

“Anyway, all good with the nanny cam?” She changes subjects.

“All good.” I refocus on the computer screen in front of me with the Decapitator arm story. “Hey, Reg? Can you dig some info up on the Decapitator? He’s a serial killer, and he’s actually in our area right now. Mom’s working the case.”

“You do know your fascination with killers is creepy, right?”

I know she’s joking, but it still tweaks a nerve. “Never mind.”

“No! Of course I’ll dig some stuff up.”

“My mom’s just as fascinated,” I defend myself. “She does it for a living.”

“I know. It’s okay. I’m sorry.”

Neither one of us says anything for a few seconds, and I sign off first. “Bell’s about to ring. Catch you later.”

“Lane—”

I hang up on her. I know she’s sorry she said it. But all day long her comment is all I can think about.
Creepy
. It’s the same word Daisy used. Reggie’s always been the one person I’ve been most honest with. The one person I’ve been most myself with. Maybe we’re at the point in our friendship where that can’t be anymore. Maybe we’re at the stage where we start becoming more ourselves and less dependent on each other’s emotional support.

Maybe . . . but hopefully not. I can’t imagine not having Reggie. The truth is I probably won’t have Reggie anymore if she finds out my true self.

• • •

After school I drop my brother and sister back home and head straight to the Patch and Paw clinic.

“What are you doing here?” Dr. Issa asks. “You’re not on the schedule.”

“Is Corn Chip around?”

Dr. Issa smiles, and my cardiac muscle experiences that massage. It’s interesting; most days my heart simply fills a voided chest cavity. Logically I know it’s in there, but when he smiles I
know
it’s in there. It’s very simple, this attraction I have for him—he’s a vet, he’s smart, he’s nice to me, and he’s hot. Also, we click in this interesting way I’ve never really experienced before. Like there’s this magnetism between us that carries the possibility for a powerful explosion.

“Yes,” Dr. Issa says. “He’s in his usual space.”

When I walk into the boarding facility, Corn Chip’s gray eyebrows come down over his dark eyes like he’s pissed I’ve let so many days go by since our last visit.

“I’m sorry, C-squared,” I apologize as I unlock his cage.

He tries to act indifferent but within seconds gives in to the excitement of seeing me.

This is why I prefer dogs to humans. You’re good to them; they’re good to you. You’re shitty to them, and they’ll get you back sooner or later. Most important, they don’t hold a grudge.

I lead Corn Chip into the side yard and toss the ball with him a couple times. I think he can tell I’m just not into it today. He sniffs around my feet and then sits and focuses his dark eyes up at me.

I squat down and give him a rub on the tips of his ears where I know he likes it the most. Closing his eyes in bliss, he leans in to me. I inhale his wonderful scent: dryer sheets mixed with a big bag of corn chips. His mom picked a great name for him, that’s for sure.

I don’t normally talk to dogs. For that matter I don’t normally talk to humans.

But Corn Chip’s unconditional love and the fact we’re alone in the yard causes me to say, “I don’t know what to do with myself.”
Even Reggie thinks I’m creepy.

Corn Chip stops leaning in to me and looks up like he’s surprised I spoke.

I know it’s not normal that I’d rather be researching the Decapitator than going out on a date. Should I force myself into a more typical mold just to blend in?

“Should I get sex over with like Reggie did?”

The tip of Corn Chip’s scraggly tail vibrates.

I mean, I’ve always understood it in terms of procreation, but other than that, I really don’t care. Frankly, it’s too messy an act. I’d rather keep my bodily fluids to myself.

Corn Chip looks beyond me. I stand and turn to see Dr. Issa behind me.
Should I get sex over with like Reggie did?

Oh no. He heard me say that.

He starts to move back—“Sorry”—and I step right up and kiss him.

Dr. Issa immediately breaks contact. “Uh-uh—”

I turn away from his red face and whistle for Corn Chip. I can’t believe I just kissed Dr. Issa. What is wrong with me? I don’t do things like that.

I tune in to myself and realize I’m actually embarrassed. I can’t remember the last time that happened. Embarrassment isn’t an emotion that normally occurs for me.

As quickly as I can, I tuck Corn Chip into his cage and hightail it out to my Jeep. I crank the engine, and as I pull away, I touch my fingers to my lips.

Did I really just kiss Dr. Issa?

Chapter
Twelve

IN MY ROOM LATE THAT
night I pull up the nanny-cam footage, programmed to only record when there’s movement in the office.

I see my mom looking at several pictures of the decapitated head and several more of the actual arm, not the one they showed on the news.

I freeze-frame the arm pictures and zoom in. Like the head, the same neatly cut skin marks the shoulder where a knife sliced it. I don’t imagine it’s a regular old butcher knife. Clean skin like that would take a sword of some sort.

Mom looks at a report next, but I can’t make out the details. I’ll see if it’s in her briefcase later. I pull up Word and type in some questions:

1. How is the Decapitator preserving the parts?

2. How was the arm thrown off the bridge? By a pedestrian? From a vehicle?

3. How was the victim picked?

4. What is the significance about the month of September being the kill month?

5. Who is leaking all this to the media?

6. Why a whole year in between kills?

Someone knocks on my door, and I minimize my screen. “Come in.”

My mom peeks her head in. “This came for you.” She tosses me a tiny, flat envelope.

“Thanks.”

“You doing okay, Lane?”

“Sure. Why?”
Have I been acting weird?

She smiles. “No reason. You’re always so quiet, stoic. I feel like I take your happiness for granted.” She laughs. “Your sister wears her emotions on her sleeve and you do everything but. I have to do my mom job and check in with you.”

“I’m good. Really.”

She studies me for a long, thoughtful second. “You’re so much like your father. I wish you could’ve known him.”

“Me too,” I agree, feeling the sadness I always get when she brings him up. He died before I was born, but Mom’s always had nothing but good things to say about him. He’d been a decorated marine who died tragically while kayaking. His father, my grandfather, had been a pastor. His mother, my grandmother, a stay-at-home mom. They both passed before he’d even turned twenty, and when my father died, it had ended that family line. Well, except for me.

My mom chuckles a little, like her thoughts had wandered off too, into another time. “Well, anyway, I love you, Lane.”

“I love you, too.”

She nods to the envelope. “Who’s that from?”

I give it a quick glance. “Reggie.” Although I doubt it is. But Reggie has been and always will be a justifiable, parent-friendly name that requires no additional response.

Mom smiles. “Good night, then.”

She leaves, and I look at the envelope, type-addressed to me with no return address. I tear it open and pull out a white card.

On it is glued a picture of the decapitated head, a picture of the severed arm, and a new one of a leg. Across the bottom is typed:

THIS IS A PRESENT.

TELL ANYONE AND I
WILL
HURT YOU.

I swallow as I read the typed words again. This is from the Decapitator. Oh my God. He knows me. He knows where I live. He probably knows I’ve been researching him.

My hand shakes as I take in the pictures of the body parts and the words again. If he knows where I live, he knows I have a family. He’s got to know my mom is the FBI lead.

This is a present.
Why would he be sending me a present?

A very tiny arrow in the bottom right corner catches my attention then and has me flipping the card over. On the back is a small picture of me coming out of school and below that is typed:

I KNOW EVERYTHING ABOUT YOU.

My shaking hand transforms to a full-on wobble, and I put the picture down. I close my eyes and sit for second, trying to regain equilibrium. I inhale a deep breath and blow it out slow. My heart thumps an unusually deep rhythm, and it distracts me for a few seconds. I tune in to it and realize I’m definitely scared, but I’m also excited. Yes, thrilled, in fact, to have been contacted personally by a real-life serial killer.

Tell anyone and I
will
hurt you.
I believe him. Of course I believe him. Hurt
me
personally, hurt me by going after my family, or both? He’s certainly capable of it all.

I’ve researched nearly every killer out there, and there’s a reason for everything they do. There’s a reason he’s contacted me. Perhaps to kill me, but my instincts say no. It’s more likely he wants my mom. He’s picked the wrong disturbed daughter if that’s his plan.

I open my eyes, more calm now, and pick the picture back up. As far as I know, he hasn’t publicly revealed the leg yet.

All are shrink-wrapped, which answers my previous preservation question. I bring the paper closer to my eyes and study it. Grotesque. I’m repulsed, but I’m also drawn in. Mesmerized. Curious of the facts and details just like I’d been with the Weasel.

As I study the picture, my mind narrows to three main questions:

Why send this to me?

How does the killer know I’ve been researching him?

And what does he want me to do with this?