Killer Instinct (9 page)

Chapter
Twenty

FOUR BUCHOLD PLACE CONSUMES MY
every thought the entire next day at school. I look the address up and get nowhere. I check Google Maps, but the trees prohibit an accurate satellite image. My natural inclination is to ask Reggie for help, and so I pick up the phone.

“Yo. Everything work out okay with that Lynn Hoppman information?”

Sometimes I forget she’s in Massachusetts and not privy to local news. I quickly give her the rundown.

“Wow. How crazy. I’m so glad my information helped.”

“Me too. Hey, listen, do you have time to look something up for me?”

“Sure. What’s up?”

“I was looking through an old scrapbook”—I start the lie—“and saw an envelope marked with an address in Herndon, Virginia. I looked it up and can’t really figure out who lives or lived there. Mind doing some digging?”

“Why don’t you just ask your mom?”

“She’s so busy with work,” I say. “I don’t want to bother her. Listen, if you don’t have time, it’s really no big deal. . . .”

“Please, you know I’m the queen of multitasking. I always have time. I’ll look it up. It’s probably some old relative or something.”

“Probably.”

We hang up; I text Reggie the address and start making a mental list. Taser. Zip ties. Gloves. Ski mask. Cargo pants. Tranquilizer.

Tranquilizer. I’ll have to stop by Patch and Paw and steal some. I’ll wait until six o’clock. That’s when the shift changes—people come and go, and I’ll be least likely to be noticed in the stockroom.

“Hey, Slim.”

I snap out of my zone and look up at the president of the science club passing me by in the cafeteria. I give him a nod, go to dump my garbage, and see Zach sitting off by himself.

His hunched shoulders, drooped head, and picking-at-his-food demeanor have me walking toward him.

I sit down beside him but don’t say a word.

He doesn’t even spare me a glance. “I almost tipped up a bottle of rum last night,” he admits.

My heart sinks. “Zach,” I start.

“It’s not because of you, so don’t go feeling guilty or anything.” He pushes his lunch tray away. “My ex-girlfriend, Belinda, and I used to get drunk together.
All
the time. When I voluntarily went into rehab, it’s like it offended her or something. She visited me once, doing the ‘good girlfriend’ thing, and then never came back.”

I don’t know what to say, so I focus on being a good listener.

“I learned a lot about myself in rehab. What’s healthy. What’s not. Anyway, I broke up with her, and let’s just say she’s not the nicest of drunks. What she did to your Jeep is a very small portion of what she’s capable of. She’s the reason why I chose not to go back to private school.”

He lets out a laugh that holds no amusement. “And she used to be the nicest girl.”

I can take care of her,
I almost suggest, but instead I ask, “When did you notice she had a dark side?”

He finally glances over at me. “Hm. I’ve never thought about her as ‘dark.’ ”

I ignore that. “Do you think she was born dark, or do you think she became dark?”

Zach gives that a lot of consideration. “I think she became dark.”

Or maybe Belinda was born dark and has hidden it well.

• • •

Around six o’clock I stop into Patch and Paw.

“What are you doing here?” the receptionist asks.

“Forgot my travel mug.” I head past her and into the back. The usual stuff is going on—last-minute appointments, people cleaning, others packing up to head home.

I stroll straight into the storage closet and over to the tranquilizers. I don’t hesitate as I reach up and snag a vial. I’m beginning to question the idea of using a sedative to end a person’s life. It’s clean but holds no significance for me.

The serial killers I’ve studied use the same method time and again. A method they not only choose but that chooses them as well.

If I’m meant to be a killer, I’ll find my method. I can’t force it. It has to happen naturally. This I know.

After pocketing the vial, I head back out to my Jeep. Across the parking lot stands Dr. Issa and a dark-haired woman. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but they’re obviously arguing.

She climbs into her white Prius and peels out of the parking lot. Dr. Issa turns and kicks the tire on his Juke. I blink in surprise. I’ve never seen him angry.

He kicks it one more time, turns, catches sight of me, and hesitates.

A few seconds later he gives me a nod, strolls the long way around the lot, and back into Patch and Paw.

I’ve never experienced jealousy before. It has never been an issue for me. But I’m jealous of the dark-haired woman, even if they’ve been arguing. It’s unsettling to admit that to myself. I always considered that emotion beneath my common sense.

• • •

By Friday I still haven’t heard from Reggie about 4 Buchold Place. My day is usual. Morning coffee, school, Daisy heading off for a Friday date, me taking Justin to aikido. Me thinking nonstop about the big event tonight.

By seven p.m. I’m back home. Victor and Mom order pizza. At nine p.m. I ask if I can catch a late movie. They don’t mind as long as I’m home by curfew. But since the Decapitator wants to meet at midnight, I already know I’ll break curfew, which I’ve never done before.

By eleven p.m. I’m sitting down the road from 4 Buchold Place. I know I’m way early, but curiosity has more than won out.

It’s a small redbrick house. Dark. Unkempt. Doesn’t look like anyone’s lived in it for years. But the grass isn’t too high, so obviously someone has.

Large oak trees overwhelm the front, the sides, and the backyard. Their limbs extend out and touch each other to form a canopy over the small property. No wonder Google Maps gave me squat.

Up and down Buchold Place houses similar to this one dot the lots. Some of them are unkempt as well, making number four blend in just fine.

11:15. I check my cell phone. Still nothing from Reggie.

11:30. I pack my cargo pants with my supplies.

11:45. I tuck my hair inside the ski mask.

11:50. I give the dark street one last survey and reach for the door.

My cell chimes. Reggie has the worst timing.

“Better be good,” I answer.

“Four Buchold Place belongs to your father. Your
real
dad, not your stepdad.”

My whole body goes numb. “Reggie, my
real
father is dead.”

“No. He’s not.”

What?

Chapter
Twenty-One

I DON’T GO INTO 4 BUCHOLD
Place at midnight. I turn around and go home. No one even knows I’ve broken curfew.

I don’t know what is waiting for me in number four. What I do know is that my mom lied to me.

The next morning I call Reggie. “Can you hack into my mom’s computer?”

Silence.

I already know the answer. For Reggie, my mom’s off-limits. Sometimes I think she admires and respects Mom more than I do. Reggie and Mom met the same summer we became friends at camp. I think Mom must have sensed Reggie’s sadness, because she gave my friend her e-mail address and told her to message any time. Reggie did about six months later. I don’t have a problem with their surrogate mother/daughter relationship. I know Reggie desperately needs a “real” parent after the crappy upbringing she had.

Reggie interrupts my thoughts. “You know I won’t.”

“I know.” I sigh. “It was worth asking.”

“Just ask her. I’m sure there’s a perfectly logical explanation as to why she’s not told you the truth.”

Reggie’s right. I need to talk to Mom.

The doorbell rings, and I glance at my bedside clock. Who’d be here at eight a.m. on a Saturday morning?

“Lane!” Victor yells up. “For you.”

I hang up with Reggie and go downstairs. There’s a short black girl standing at my door.

“Yes?” I say.

She smiles. “Are you Lane?”

I nod. Obviously or I wouldn’t have been called down.

“I’m Belinda,” she tells me, and waits like I’m supposed to know who she is. “Zach’s girlfriend?” She laughs. “Or ex-girlfriend, I should say.”

The delinquent who keyed my car. Lovely.

The differences between us are almost ridiculous. She is just as short as I am tall, as black as I am white, and all smiles where I am anything but.

Her smile grows even larger. “I wanted to meet you.”

“Why?”

She laughs again. “Any friend of Zach’s is a friend of mine.”

“I don’t want to be your friend.”

Her smile doesn’t falter. “Okay, then. At least we met.”

“That we did,” I agree.

“So, are you and Zach planning on going to the football game?”

Football game? I don’t go to football games. That’s Daisy’s scene. “Listen, I said I don’t want to be your friend.”

“That’s fine, but you can at least be civil and answer my question.”

“No, I can’t. Good-bye.” I close the door in her face.

“She seems nice,” Victor cautiously comments.

“Don’t let that act fool you.”

“You could’ve been a little friendlier.”

I flip the lock on our door. “Have you seen my keyed Jeep?”

He nods.

“She did that.”

He sighs. “What’s her name? I’m going to call her parents.”

“Please let me handle this. Trust me?”

He doesn’t immediately respond. Then, “Okay. I’ll give you thirty days. If she hasn’t made right her wrongs, I’m contacting her parents. Fair?”

“Fair.” This is the good thing about my parents. They really
do
trust me.

Daisy comes down the stairs dressed in her cheerleading warm-ups. “Who’s the chick?”

I go to the coffee. “Friend of Zach’s.”

“What’s she want with you?”

“To say hi.”

Victor grabs his keys. “Let’s go, Daisy.”

I pour milk into my mug as he and my sister head out to her Saturday cheerleading camp.

Mom comes downstairs. “Morning.”

“Good morning.” I take my first sip and watch her putter around the kitchen.

How to bring up my real dad circles around in my brain. I can’t ask her about 4 Buchold Place because then I’ll have to explain how I know about the address. And what am I supposed to say?

Mom, the Decapitator has been communicating with me, and I think he wanted to meet me last night at Four Buchold Place?

“Tell me about Dad,” I say instead, giving her a chance to come clean with the lie. “My
real
dad.”

She doesn’t miss an FBI-trained beat. “Why do you ask?”

“Been studying about family trees in school,” I say. “And it got me thinking. . . .”

Mom opens the bacon and starts laying it out on the skillet. “We met in the marines at Quantico. I got pregnant with you. We never married. Before I even had a chance to tell him I was pregnant, he was killed while kayaking.”

These are all the things she’s told me before. “Mom, every time I bring him up, you tell me the exact same things. Please give me some solid details.”

Mom grabs tongs and turns to me. “He was handsome. Intelligent. Liked to play golf. Dry sense of humor. Quiet man. Tall. Red hair.”

“What attracted you to him?”

Mom smiles. “Great listener. True listener. One of those people who look deeply into your eyes and absorb every word you’re saying.”

I sip some more. “How did you all wind up together?”

Mom goes back to the bacon and flips a few. A bit of grease pops out. “He’d recently lost his dad, and I’d broken up with a boyfriend. We comforted each other. He had to go home to deal with family stuff and never came back. I found out later about the kayaking accident.”

“He’s buried in Oregon, right?”
More important, are you sure he’s actually dead and buried?

“Yes, in Oregon, next to his parents.”

Oregon . . . Wait a minute, that’s where one of the decapitations occurred. “Did you both live on base?”
Come on, Mom, mention 4 Buchold Place.

“We had separate places.”

“And he had no other family, right?”

“Right.” Mom’s cell conveniently buzzes and she checks it. “Watch the bacon for me,” she tells me, and heads to her office.

Worst-case scenario: My real dad is alive, is the Decapitator, and wants to meet me.

Best-case scenario: My real dad is dead, someone else is the Decapitator, and I’m normal.

I spent my whole life thinking something in the environment made me into who I am, but if my real dad is the Decapitator, then I inherited this darkness in me.

Oh. My. God.

ANY LUCK W/ MOM?
Reggie interrupts my panicked thought.

NO.

SORRY, BUT I’M NOT HACKING HER PC!

I KNOW . . .

WANT ME 2 DIG INTO DAD?
she offers.

YES,
I immediately type back. Clearly, it’s the only way I’m going to find something out.

I turn the heat down on the bacon and stand for a second, digesting:
If my real dad is the Decapitator, then I inherited this darkness in me.
I can’t quite wrap my brain around that enormous thought. This changes everything I’ve ever thought about myself.

My mom charges out of her office and straight over to the TV. She flips it on, and scrolling across the bottom is:

DECAPITATOR CAUGHT. DETAILS TO FOLLOW.

Wait a minute! What?

She snatches her purse up, making it more than obvious she’s irritated. “I swear, you’d think with me being the lead on this case someone would contact me
before
it hits the news.”

“Maybe you should sleep at headquarters until this is all over. So you don’t miss anything else.”

“That’s not a half-bad idea.” She motions to the bacon. “Got that? I won’t be home till late.”

I nod. “Justin and I’ll be fine.”

She races out and I turn back to the TV.
This can’t be. How does this even make sense?

Chapter
Twenty-Two

BY MONDAY IT’S ALL OVER
the news.

DECAPITATOR CAUGHT!

His name is James Donner. He is from Alaska. He is sixty-five years old and works as a traveling plumber. He has proof he lived in each state where the serial decapitations occurred.

He commits the crimes only once a year in September to mourn the loss of his wife, who was brutally murdered by a man who hacked her up with a knife.

His wife had been blond and worked as a preschool teacher. This, of course, explains how James picks his victims.

He’s textbook.

Too perfect if you ask me.

The question from every reporter:
Why turn yourself in now?

James Donner’s response:
It was time.

Personally I’m just relieved it’s not my real father.

I’ve been researching James Donner pretty much nonstop since he came forward. If he truly is the Decapitator, then I should be connected to him in some way. Otherwise why send me the messages?

And why when I look at his image don’t I sense some sort of link?

I’m dying to know what my mom thinks. What the FBI thinks.

The girl sitting beside me redirects my attention when I hear her say, “You know all those flyers that were hanging up for the missing cocker spaniel? I heard the guy that took it is that disturbed dude. He lives a few blocks over. What’s his name?”

“Marco? Ugh. He’s awful.”

I tune in to their conversation. We have a substitute today in AP English, and she’s letting us do pretty much whatever.

“He went to school here,” the first girl says.

“Didn’t he get expelled?” the second girl asks.

Marco. I remember him. Senior when I was a sophomore.
Did
get expelled for bringing a knife on campus. I thought he was in jail for mistreatment of animals. Clearly, I thought wrong.

“He carved some weird Nazi symbol in the cocker spaniel’s back.”

The second girl gasps. “A swastika? Is the dog okay?”

“Poor thing had to have stitches.”

I’d hunt Marco down and kill him if he did that to Corn Chip.

“And then,” the first girl goes on, “did you hear what he did to that cat?”

Second girl groans. “No.”

“Cut off its tail.”

“No!” second girl cries.

First girl shakes her head. “Slim remembers him. Don’t ya, Slim?”

I nod. “I do.”

First girl laughs. “Didn’t your sister go out with him?”

God, I hope not. “Don’t think so.”

“Well,” second girl chimes in, “someone needs to carve a swastika in
his
back. Let
him
see how it feels.”

The bell rings and everyone files out. I go to my locker and grab my things.
Marco Morales
. I make a mental note as the familiar craving crawls just below my skin. I’m going to find out where this guy lives. Yes, I’m
definitely
going to find out about this guy.

“Hey, you.” Zach comes up beside me.

“Hey.”

“Wanted to let you know I talked to my ex-girlfriend, and she’s not going to give you any more problems.”

I don’t bother telling him she came to my house. “Okay.”

“So, we good?”

“We’re good.” We’ve always “been good” as far as I’m concerned, but whatever he needs to hear, I guess.

I close my locker and spin the lock. Zach follows me out to student parking, and I immediately notice the temp has changed throughout the day to a cooler breeze.

“Kind of anticlimactic with that Donner guy turning himself in, huh?”

I’ll say.

Daisy comes up beside us, holding hands with her latest. “West is going to take me home,” she tells me, glancing at Zach and snuggling into West like she’s trying to make Zach jealous.

After you provide him with your outstanding fellatio services?
I want to ask, but nod my head instead. On a thought, I stop her. “Hey, did you date a Marco?”

She fakes a blush. “No.”

Not that she’d tell me if she did, at least not in front of the guys. Daisy’s the queen of making guys think she’s innocent.

West tugs her hand, and they head off in one direction. Zach gives me a wave and heads off in another, and I go toward my Jeep.

I always park at the far end of the lot near the entrance so it’s easy to get out in the afternoons. It’s a long walk but worth it not to have to wait idle in a car line.

As I unlock my Wrangler, a shadow moves, and I glance over my shoulder to see Belinda. She doesn’t even go to school here. What is she doing?

I turn fully to face her. She’s not smiling, and in her gaze I see the
real
Belinda. Dark. Conniving. Controlling. Seeing her sparks a confident, focused energy in me that I welcome.

I’m fully aware the long line of students leaving campus can see us. Maybe she planned it this way. To stir up gossip. This’ll be all over campus tomorrow.
Mysterious girl confronts Slim.

“Maybe I didn’t make myself clear,” she begins. “Stay away from Zach.”

Any friend of Zach’s is a friend of mine, I want to remind her. “You’re officially annoying me,” I say instead.

She moves then, cocking her chest and face in my personal space.

I don’t flinch. I don’t move. But I do curve my lips into an uncustomary smile.

Belinda falters. “What do you think you’re doing,
bitch
?”

“
I’m
not doing anything.
You’re
the one who’s approached me.”

She sucks her teeth and gets right in my personal space again, this time bumping her chest to mine. “What are you going to do about it?”

Really?
“Listen, you don’t know me, but fair warning: You don’t want to mess with me.”

She tilts her head. “You think I’m scared of you?”

You should be,
I want to say, but frankly I’m done. Let her try her piss-poor scare tactics on some other girl. It’s not working on me.

She glances around the parking lot, probably trying to see if anyone’s watching her little show. I wait until she turns back before I calmly trace my finger along the keyed line she made and then climb into my Wrangler. Without a glance in her direction, I crank the engine, put it in first, and do my customary cut in line to exit campus.

I could’ve told her Victor’s going to call her parents if she doesn’t fix my keyed Jeep, but that’s a Daisy move. I like to handle my own problems.

Belinda is annoying me. But not enough to warrant my focus. For now, at least.

After I pick Justin up, we head home. He starts in on his homework, and I go to my room. I check the nanny-cam footage.

“Donner knows about the hands and feet.” Mom is speaking into the phone. “We haven’t released that information yet, but you never know with inside leaks.”

Hands and feet? What about the hands and feet? They’re missing from the arms and legs and get delivered later in a cooler. I know this from the other reports. So what are they talking about?

Mom listens for a minute. “Yes, I think he’s faking that.”

A couple more listening seconds go by and then she responds, “So James Donner is either the real Decapitator or a very knowledgeable fake.”

They move on to discuss something else, and I pull up the pictures I have of the arm thrown off the bridge and the leg from the ice rink. I pull up pictures of his past murders and confirm once again there are no hands or feet. What mysterious detail does James Donner know that I don’t?

I dig into all the information Reggie sent me. I reread every police report from the past murders. It’s always a head first, then an arm, a leg, the other arm, finished by the other leg. He ends by sending the hands and feet to the police department in a special delivery cooler.

Personally, if I was Mr. Donner, I would’ve waited to reveal myself by hand-delivering that cooler.

But I’m not Mr. Donner.

What I want to know is, what’s going to happen to the arm and leg that have yet to be revealed? Maybe James Donner has prearranged their discovery. Or perhaps he’s decided to leave their whereabouts a mystery. And 4 Buchold Place and me. There are too many loose ends here. If he’s the true Decapitator, he’s got to be connected to number four and me. He’s just got to.

As I ponder this, I unload my book bag and mentally switch gears to Marco Morales. Tonight I’ll head over to his address and see what he’s up to. I need a good fix. I need to relieve the unfulfilled tension in me. Taking my frustration out on someone deserving like Marco is the perfect idea. Because I have no problem carving a swastika into his animal-torturing self. And if he had a tail, I’d have no problem cutting off that as well.

Which gives me an idea. . . .

I’m going to find out
exactly
what he’s done to animals, and then . . . I smile. How much will I make him suffer in return?