Killer Within (9 page)

Chapter
Twenty

THERE’S A NEW GIRL IN
group therapy, and she’s droning on and on about her sorrowful self. Beside me sits Tommy, and I can tell he’s bored as well. Five minutes in I catch him totally zoned out and figure that’s my green light to do the same. I tune the girl out and allow my thoughts to drift as I indulge my fantasies. . . .

I crouch in the darkness, my breathing steady and calm, my pulse fluttering in anticipation. The deviant I’m following knows I’m here, and his own breathing quickens as his pounding heart echoes in the night around us. I stand to my full height and step from the shadows to see his eyes widen in realization that I’m here for him. I take my Taser out, raise it, and—

Tommy nudges me. “Lane,” he whispers.

I blink, glance around the group, and see every eye focused on me. “Yes?”

“It needs to be unanimous,” the counselor says. “We all know we’ve lost a loved one, but we’ve yet to share
how
we lost that loved one. It needs to be unanimous,” he repeats. “Everyone’s agreed to share but you.”

“Oh.” I glance over to Tommy. Why I glance at him, I’m not entirely sure. “Okay.”
Mine was murdered.
This is what I’ll say and spare the details.

The girl a few seats to my left starts. She lost her mom to breast cancer. The guy beside her lost his twin brother in a swimming accident. Guy beside him lost his grandfather to a heart attack. And on around the circle it goes.

When it’s Tommy’s turn, he quietly starts, “My sister was a preschool teacher. She was the Decapitator’s last victim.”

I sit up in my chair.
What?

He continues, “Well, that’s not true. The last victim was an FBI woman.” Then that’s all he says.

I know it’s my turn, but all I seem able to do is replay his words:

She was the Decapitator’s last victim.

Tommy gives me another nudge, indicating I need to go.

I turn and look him straight in the eyes. “My mother was that FBI woman.”

Everyone in the room gasps. So much for me sparing details.

The counselor finishes out the meeting, and although I don’t look at Tommy again, I
know
he’s staring at me. I imagine he wants to get out of here as much as I do. The counselor dismisses us and I beeline for my Jeep.

He had to have known who I am. Everyone at school knows who my mom was and how she died. Then again, he doesn’t go to my school. But it was heavily covered by the media. How could he not know who I am?

My sister was a preschool teacher. She was the Decapitator’s last victim.
Her hands and feet were delivered in a cooler. I watched the video of her death. A video my mother sent me.

My parents killed his sister. They cut her into pieces. They enjoyed it. Oh my God. I’ve got to get out of here.

“Lane?” Tommy stops me.

I spin and look him square in his confused eyes. “How could you not tell me?”

He takes a tiny step back. “That means you’re the niece of the Decapitator. Your uncle murdered my sister.”

As the story goes. “How could you not tell me?” I repeat.

“And also murdered your mother,” he continues, obviously working things through in his mind. “I didn’t know. After my sister died, I couldn’t take it. It was killing me. I ended up leaving and staying with some family in New York. I knew there was an FBI woman, but I didn’t know she was your mother.”

I don’t know what to do, what to say, and so I just stare
into his perplexed eyes and . . . I honestly don’t know if I believe him.

Tommy blows out a breath and runs his fingers through his blond hair. “I need to go. I need to think through all this.”

That’s probably a good idea.

On a second thought, he turns back. “Just when I think I’m getting better . . .”

Getting better. I never thought of myself as getting better, as something needing to be cured. I am who I am. I only need to perfect the details of dealing with that.

“Are you
blaming
me?” I ask. Because it sure sounds like he is.

Tommy shakes his head. “Your uncle violently murdered my sister. It’s a lot to take in.” He swings his leg over his bike, gives it a crank, and is gone.

It
is
a lot to take in. I thought I’d found a new friend in Tommy, but I’m not entirely sure we can be friends with this between us now. If the situation was reversed, if his uncle killed my sister, I probably wouldn’t want anything to do with him either.

Chapter
Twenty-One

ALL THE WAY HOME I
think about Tommy, j_d_l, Marji, and where all this started—with my mother—which circles my brain around to the mysterious key that I have yet to identify.

I need Reggie’s help. As soon as I get to my room I pull up the scanned image, send it to her, and then call her.

“We found this key. . . .” I begin weaving my tale when she answers her phone. “It was in Mom’s personal stuff. We can’t figure out what it goes to. Victor said he’s really busy at work and will look into it in a few months. I thought you might be able to help get us there sooner.”

She doesn’t say anything.

“Reg?”

She sighs. “This is it, Lane. I’ll help you with this and then no more. We used to talk about stuff. We used to be
real
friends. But lately all it is with you—if I hear from you at all—is what I can do to help you research something.”

I don’t respond. Neither does she. Seconds tick by, and with each one guilt nestles in. She’s right. I didn’t even bother to say hi. Or ask about MIT. Or see how she’s holding up after Mom. I’m a horrible friend.

“I’m sorry,” I tell her.

“Thanks for apologizing, but I mean it. This is it.”

I’ve never heard her voice so resolute. I’ve really pissed her off. Other than apologizing, which I just did, I don’t know what to do.

“I’ll look into the key and send you what I find. Talk to you later.” With that she clicks off.

I sit and just stare at my phone. I can’t lose Reggie. She’s been my only real friend. What can I do? The only thing is to give it some time and then call her and have a real conversation with her, like we used to.

I go downstairs, and Gramps is in the kitchen prepping the crock pot for tomorrow. This is his last night with us. I try not to show my joy over this wonderful fact as I go to the refrigerator and grab a Coke.

“Coke?” he comments. “You should be drinking milk.”

Milk? What am I, five?
But I take a patient breath, put the Coke back, and grab the milk.

“I have good news,” he announces.

Daisy and Justin turn from the TV, and I hope it’s something along the lines of
I won the lotto and am heading on a world tour!

“I’ve talked to your dad and decided to stay on a little longer than I initially thought.”

Disappointment creeps through my body, but I concentrate extremely hard on curving at least part of my lips into what I hope might pass as a pleased smile.

Justin jumps for joy. “How long?”

Gramps grins. “Thinking a month.”

A month!

Daisy squeals and launches herself across the living room into Gramps’s arms. Justin does the happy dance. I put the milk back, grab that Coke, and head straight up to my room.

Maybe I can move into our tree house. . . . I close my eyes. A month. Okay, I can do this. Just act normal, come and go, interact with him the least amount possible, and keep as low a profile as I can.

I’m in my bedroom the next afternoon, and my phone rings. I check the display. Reggie. I blow out a breath. “Hey.”

“The key is to a locker at the Dunn Loring Metro station.”

No niceties. Just to the point. She really is pissed. “Thank you, Reg. I’ll tell Victor.”

“Why would your mom have a locker at a Metro station?”

The lie comes easily. “She sometimes took that train into DC.” A few seconds go by. I’m not sure how to apologize again, but I have to try. “Reg . . .”

“Listen, I’ve got to go. I’ll talk to you later.” She hangs up, and something deep inside me stitches with sorrow.

She’s not ready to hear my apologies. She’s not ready to have a friendly conversation. I get that and I have to respect it. I’ll call her next week. Surely, she’ll be ready to talk by then.

I slip my coat on, ignore Gramps’s disapproving glare, and drive straight over to the Dunn Loring station.

It’s packed with people just getting off work and in from DC. I find a parking spot all the way in the back and hike it through the freezing cold to the entrance.

As I join the crowd coming and going, I make my way into the dim interior. I have no clue where the lockers are, spend a few minutes looking around, ride the escalator down and then back up, and finally locate them in a corner of the upper floor.

Pulling the key from my pocket, I find 963 in the bottom left, and pause . . . suddenly not so sure anymore.

What am I going to find? Why have a locker if not to conceal something really bad? Why not just have a safety-deposit box?

Because—I imagine—safety-deposit boxes have to have
another name listed in case something like this happens. A death.

Or maybe all that’s in this locker is something she didn’t want to take on the Metro with her, like a bag, and I’m totally overreacting.

Okay.
I nod.
Here goes.

Crouching down, I fit the key in and turn the lock. A small hinged door pops open, and inside sits a box. I slide it out, dying to open it, but knowing I should wait until I’m somewhere private.

I close and lock the door, turn, and immediately sense someone watching me. I stand, looking around the dim interior, scanning faces, searching corners, studying what people carry with them.

Still prickling with awareness, I make my way through the crowded tunnel. As I step outside, I pause to glance one last time over my shoulder and catch someone ducking behind a farecard machine.

The guy behind me smacks right into me. “Stupid tourist,” he mutters.

I resist the overwhelming urge to jab my fingers in his eyeballs, and continue moving with the crowd. When I’m free from the horde, I find a place near the bus stop and take a seat on one of the benches in plain sight of the Metro exit.

I stay for an hour, dying to look in the box, but definitely
more interested to see if someone is following me. I make eye contact with every face, searching for a hint of recognition and coming up with nothing. I’ll sit here the whole frigid night if I have to. That person can’t stay in there forever. Unless . . . he or she hopped a train to another station.

That thought is what finally has me standing up and heading to my Jeep.

My cell buzzes. It’s Victor.
COMING HOME FOR DINNER?

YES
, I type back. If anything to keep Gramps off my ass.
I’LL BE THERE IN 20.

Enough time for me to quickly look in the box. I climb in my Jeep, peel the tape off the cardboard, open the flaps, and reach inside.

Chapter
Twenty-Two

THE FIRST PICTURE IS OF
my mom, very pregnant, and my real dad with his hand on her belly. We look like a normal happy little family. Yet we were anything but. A pang of something I can’t quite identify echoes through me. Loss for the happiness we never had. Sorrow for the nightmare they were. Anger over the deceit of it all.

The second picture is of my mom, my real dad, and that same dark-haired lady, who I now know is Marji. They’re sitting in a bar, toasting with beer mugs. I study her face for a second and think of the drawing I have of her.

The next several pictures are of my mom and my real dad having . . . sex. My lip curls in disgust as I look at their naked, intertwined bodies. Who took these pictures?

All the rest are of their kills. All those women. Preschool teachers, just like Tommy’s sister. Innocent. Young.

Bile swells in my throat as I take in my real dad, grinning over a gruesome corpse. Of my mom in action sawing off a hand. And of Marji laughing as she watches. I tear my gaze away, suddenly unable to breathe. Holy God. Marji was part of their killing orgy.

I purposefully don’t look at the other pictures and instead reach for the manila envelope at the bottom. I open it and peek inside to see a stack of stationery notes. They’re in a variety of colors: yellow, blue, pink. . . . I pull one out, noting my hands are shaking, and study the slanted penmanship for a second before I read:

Suzie, I wish you could’ve seen what Lane and I did to my neighbor’s cat today. Only you can appreciate it. I miss you.

I love you. ~Marji

I open my Jeep door, stumble out, and throw up.

Suzie, my mom’s name. And Marji. Oh my God, what did I do to that cat?

“Hey, are you okay?”

I wipe my mouth and glance over my shoulder at an elderly lady standing a cautious distance away. “Yes, ma’am. I’m on my way home.”

She nods and heads off.

I take a few needed seconds to steady myself.

When I’m ready, I get back in my Jeep and dump out the rest of the contents. A mixture of stationery notes and the matching envelopes they originally came in. I note the return address in Richmond and her real name: Marjoream Vega. I look at the postmark and quickly calculate it as fifteen years ago. I would’ve been two. One year before I witnessed the first decapitation. Had this Marji woman been there for that, too?

More important, is she still at this Richmond address?

I make myself look through the other notes. All from Marji to Suzie.

  . . . I saw Junior today.

Remember him? Ha-ha!  . . .

  . . . I bought that property I was

telling you about  . . .

  . . . Too bad Victor’s such a dick  . . .

On they go. Tons of cards with random thoughts in the same slanted writing. I don’t even try to make sense of them.

I put all that aside and look back in the box, where one last envelope sits. This one is white and blue and looks official.
Flipping it over, I note the medical-lab stamp. I open it and slip out a thin sheet of paper.
PATERNITY TEST
is listed in the top right corner, and I quickly scan the random fields. The last line at the bottom jumps out at me, and I catch my breath.

TEST SUBJECT: Daisy Cameron

PATERNAL RESULTS: Seth Leaf

I drive home in a numb haze. I sit through dinner, but I can barely eat. Daisy is my
real
sister. According to the date stamp on the test results, Mom always knew. I don’t get it. Why marry Victor? My gaze trails to him. Does he know? Surely not. I can’t imagine he would’ve stayed with Mom if he knew me and Daisy were both Seth’s daughters.

Across my uneaten meatloaf, Daisy catches my eye.
Everything okay?
she mouths, and I nod. She has their evil blood running in her, too. Wait. Did they ever do anything to her, make her participate, make her watch like they did me?
Train
her?

Nausea waves through me, and my throat closes together. Oh, God no. Please no.

“Lane?”

I glance over at Victor. “I don’t feel well,” I say, and run for the downstairs bathroom, where I lose what little I have left in my stomach.

Daisy.
She’s so opposite from me. Outgoing to my not.
Happy to my stoic. At least now she is. Before Mom died, she was so mean. Always poking at me. Lying at school. Manipulating her friends and boys. Is that all, though? Does she keep secrets like I do? Does she have another life that none of us know about?

I groan. Not Daisy. Not my little sister.

Victor pushes the bathroom door open. “Sweetheart, are you sick? What’s wrong?”

I take the ginger ale he’s holding out and gulp some down. “I think I ate something bad at lunch. I threw up earlier, too.”

“Go on upstairs and get in bed. I’ll bring you some toast later.”

“Okay.” As I pass by the dining room, I give my family a small smile. Daisy is all I think about the rest of the night. I pick through every memory, analyzing them, looking for similarities in me.

What I come up with is that Daisy used to have this dark side to her, but it was all on the outside, whereas mine stays inside and secretive. I want to talk to her, but I don’t want to set off any alarm bells. So I’ll watch. Carefully watch. I’ll steer her in the correct path. The path
I
have not chosen, but I’ll make sure she does.

During my library TA job I look her up. Marjoream Vega from Richmond, Virginia. Sure enough, she’s still at the same
address. I don’t write it down. I know it by heart. I
will
be paying her a visit.

She’s the last link to the decapitations. If I have to kill her, I will. I have no qualms about that. But I need to know exactly how she was involved.

I do my Patch and Paw shift after school, and when it’s over I go straight to the cremation room. I have to protect my family. I crank the gas flames, open the door, and toss the box from the locker inside.
This is big enough to put a body in.
That thought floats through my mind and surprises me. I give the furnace another look. Yes, it is big enough for a human body. If I ever need it.

I tuck that away for later and focus back on the box and my (and Daisy’s) disturbing legacy.

“What are you burning?” Dr. Issa asks.

“Stuff I want to forget,” I honestly tell him.

Through the fireproof glass I watch the pictures melt into a sick puddle. It was all a game to the three of them. Some twisted, horrible game.

“You okay?” he quietly asks.

His question. His tender voice causes tears to unexpectedly press my eyes. But I don’t turn and let him see them. Instead I just nod my head.

A few quiet seconds pass and I hear him click the door, shutting us in the tiny room. “As you already know,” he begins,
“Zach and I lost our mom several years back. I used to hide in plain sight. Tell everyone I was okay. Frankly, if one more person asked me how I was doing, I thought I might hurt them. I know this is peculiar, but I used to carry around a lock of my mom’s black hair. It’s what I remember most about her. All that hair. Zach turned to alcohol to deal, and I did things I’m not proud of.”

I turn away from the dying flames and bring my wet eyes up to his. “Like what?”

He takes a step closer, putting us just a few inches apart. “I yelled at my dad for not being a good enough father and husband. I slept around. I was mean to Zach when I should’ve been there for him. And . . . some other things.”

There’s this huge emptiness in me and I want to fill it.
Those had been Tommy’s words, and I repeat them now. “You were trying to fill your emptiness.”

“Everyone deals with loss in their own way. You’re going to make mistakes, just like I did. But eventually it will get better. Whatever you do wrong along the way, you have to go back and make amends. Or you’ll never be able to live with yourself.”

“Is that what you did? Made amends?”

He nods. “I’m still making them. Once you’ve hurt people, it’s hard to fully gain their trust again. But closure’s necessary for peace.”

I don’t know how to make amends. All I know how to do is
right the wrongs and trust in some cosmic way that my actions will negate my questionable ways.

Do I want to hurt the people I care most about? No, but I think it’s inevitable. In the meantime I’ll do everything I can to protect my family from the secrets, because any single one of them would crush those I love.

Closure for peace.
My gut latches on to that statement. It makes logical sense. I thought I had closure when I purged myself of my mom’s things. But now there’s Marji.

She’s a link I need to sever.