Killing Spree
Authors: Kevin O'Brien
Tags: #Murder, #Serial murders, #Fiction, #Psychological, #Women authors, #Suspense, #Thrillers, #Suspense Fiction, #Serial Murderers
Vicki was baffled by the note someone had typed on her computer. Why were they pretending to be her? It didn’t make any sense.
The stove light flickered on in the kitchen. It was an old stove and the light always blinked a few times whenever she first turned it on. Vicki swiveled around and noticed a plastic tarp covering her kitchen floor. “Honey, is that you? What are you doing there?”
Warily, she moved toward the kitchen, where she saw a shadow sweep across the wall. “Did you write that note on my computer?”
“Uh-huh,” he replied.
“Why? What’s going on?”
He didn’t answer.
Heading into the kitchen, Vicki stepped onto the tarp. It was slippery and she glanced down at the floor for a second. When she looked up again, she saw a figure coming toward her. She reeled back, but the plastic sheet slid beneath her feet and she started to lose her balance.
The last thing she saw was the garden sickle coming down at her….
ONLY SON
THE NEXT TO DIE
MAKE THEM CRY
WATCH THEM DIE
LEFT FOR DEAD
THE LAST VICTIM
KILLING SPREE
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
ILLING
S
PREE
Pinnacle Books
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
This book is for Lolita Annear and her family,
Judy, Sue, Jeff, Tammy, and my wonderful friend, Dan…
And for a terrific guy, Rich “Slip” Annear (1929–2005)
My dear pal, Cate Goethals, once told me that a good friend is someone who brings out the best in you. I think the same can be said of a good editor. John Scognamiglio is tops in both categories. Many thanks to John, and my other friends at Kensington Books, especially the marvelous Mr. Doug Mendini, whose generosity never ceases to amaze me; and Janice Rossi, who designed the deliciously creepy book cover.
A huge thank-you goes to my literary guardian angels, Meg Ruley and Christina Hogrebe, and the rest of the gang at the Jane Rotrosen Agency.
Thanks to my friends and fellow writers who read parts of this book and helped me so much with their feedback. Cate Goethals, Dan Monda, David Massengill, Soyon Im, and Garth Stein all poured hours of work into this book. I’m very grateful for their generosity, talent, and friendship.
I’d also like to thank my friends and the many booksellers who have gone out of their way to push my books and give me their encouragement, support, and friendship: Lloyd Adalist, Dan Annear & Chuck Rank, Marlys Bourm, Terry & Judine Brooks, Tiffany Caruso, Jim & Barbara Church, Anna Cottle & Mary Alice Kier, Ruthanne Devlin, Paul Dwoskin, Tom Goodwin, Cathy Johnson, Ed & Sue Kelly, Tina Kim, David Korabik, Jim Munchel, Tony Myers, Sheila Rosen, John Saul & Michael Sack, Chad Schlund; Bill, JB, Tammy, and the gang at Seattle Mystery Book Store; Dan, Doug & Ann Stutesman; George & Sheila Stydahar; Marc Von Borstel, Michael Wells & the gang at Bailey/Coy Books.
Thanks also to The Friends of Mystery in Portland, Oregon, for giving their Spotted Owl Award to my last book. What an honor!
A very special thank-you to Tommy Dreiling.
Finally, all my love and gratitude to my family.
All the crazies were out tonight
.
What did he expect? It was Halloween, and the streets of Greenwich Village overflowed with people—drunk, laughing, screaming people, all in their stupid costumes. Tonight he’d seen a husky, bearded man in a nurse’s dress and cap; an attractive couple (and boy, didn’t they know it) as Adam and Eve, wearing strategically placed fig leaves and nothing else; and innumerable gay guys dressed up as characters out of
The Wizard of Oz
.
Amid the partyers, one person stood out to him. Wearing thick glasses and a rather nerdish cardigan sweater, the young man walked down the street alone, his hands shoved in his pants pockets. He seemed timid and detached. Strapped around his stomach was what looked like six sticks of dynamite and an alarm clock. Only a few people seemed to notice him, and when they did, they laughed. But it was nervous laughter.
Greg felt a bit like that lonely nerd, like a human time bomb about to go off. If he didn’t get out of the Village soon, he was going to explode.
Driving a cab in New York on Halloween night was pure torture.
Greg prayed that his next fare would take him to another part of town, far away from this crazy place. He planned to put one more hour on the meter before going home to his dumpy studio apartment so he could memorize an audition piece for tomorrow. It was a commercial for allergy medication, and he desperately wanted the job. Greg was living a cliché: the struggling thirtysomething actor by day and cabdriver by night. He’d convinced himself two years ago that driving a taxi would give him a chance to study people and better develop his craft. Huh, what a crock. After a few months, the only thing he’d learned was that there were some real jerks in the world.
And a lot of them had come out tonight.
Greg spotted the couple, waving at him from the corner of Hudson and Charles. The guy was dressed up as Zorro—with the cape, hat, mask, and the sword. The girl had gotten dolled up in a Spanish dancer outfit—a yellow dress with black lace, an elaborate headdress, and castanets. Approaching them, he heard her clicking those castanets and giggling. He saw her pretty face light up as he pulled toward the curb. She smiled.
Greg let out a grateful sigh. She looked like an angel.
She had long, light brown hair and a creamy complexion. The sexy-slutty señorita outfit looked so absurd on such a fresh-faced, sweet woman. He guessed she was in her late twenties. The way she weaved a bit, he could tell she was slightly drunk.
“Oh, thanks so much for stopping!” she gushed, climbing into the backseat with her masked boyfriend. “The last two taxis just sailed by—”
“1017 West Thirty-seventh,” barked Zorro, interrupting her.
Greg set the meter, then glanced at them in the rearview mirror.
The girl’s eyes met his as she settled back in the seat and buckled her seat belt. She grinned and clicked her castanets once more. “Hola! And Happy Halloween. How come you’re not wearing a costume?” She worked the castanets again.
“Cut that shit out,” Zorro grumbled.
“Huh, grouch,” she muttered, slipping the castanets into her little black purse. She gave Zorro a playful pout, then cleared her throat and called to Greg. “I’m having the best time! This is my third night in New York, and I love it! I don’t ever want to go back to Portland.” She raised her voice as if making a declaration. “I want to live in New York City and write best-sellers!” She laughed, then tapped Greg on the shoulder. “I’m getting a book published next month—my first. I’m an author.”
“Congratulations,” Greg said. “What kind of book is it? Will it—”
“You don’t need to make friends with the driver, dopey,” the man interrupted. He pulled her toward him. “Come here.” He kissed her neck and cupped a black-gloved hand over her breast.
She squirmed a bit. Greg noticed her looking at him in the mirror. She seemed embarrassed at the way her boyfriend was pawing her. “Quit,” she whispered.
“You fucking love it,” the masked man replied, pulling away from her for only a moment. He shut the Plexiglas divider between the front and backseat. Then he started fondling her again.
From what Greg could see, she didn’t seem to
fucking love it.
She tried to laugh and push the man away, but his hands and mouth were all over her. Greg saw her wincing. Her eyes connected with his. She seemed to plead for some kind of intervention. The man started to climb on top of her.
Greg had put up with couples fornicating in the back of his taxi before. But in all those cases, the women had seemed pretty damn willing. He could tell this woman wasn’t the type. No, not at all. This guy was humiliating her.
Greg thought about stopping the cab, opening the back door, and throwing Zorro out on his ass.
A car horn blared, and Greg suddenly realized he’d drifted into oncoming traffic. He swerved the taxi back into his lane.
He felt someone kick the back of his seat, and heard a muffled cry. Greg checked the mirror again. “Shit,” he muttered under his breath.
She wasn’t resisting anymore. Zorro was on top of her, and one of her legs had wrapped around him. She clutched at the back of his cape. She had her eyes closed, but her mouth was open and her lips slid along his neck.
Greg was so disappointed in her. For a crazy moment, he’d felt a connection with this sweet, fresh-faced young woman from Portland. He’d even thought he could
rescue
her. But now, she was letting this asshole screw her in the back of his taxi. And she seemed to be having a swell time of it.
Frowning, Greg stared at the road ahead. Through the Plexiglas divider, he could hear muffled moaning back there. But thank God, the traffic and street noise mostly drowned her out. He didn’t want to listen to her in the throes of ecstasy. He just wanted to get them the hell out of his cab. Jerks.
Greg turned onto West Thirty-seventh Street, a block full of little specialty stores with apartments above them. He pulled up in front of the address the guy had given him. It was a travel agency, closed for the night. Was this the right address?
He heard the Plexiglas divider whoosh open behind him. Greg glanced over his shoulder. The pretty brunette numbly stared at him, catching her breath. Zorro had finished with her. “I’m in a hurry,” the guy said. “She’s paying.”
Before Greg could respond, Zorro ducked out of the cab. His black cape billowed as he ran down an alley beside the travel agency. He disappeared into the darkness.
Greg shifted forward in his seat. “That’s eleven-fifty, ma’am,” he grunted. He checked the rearview mirror.
He couldn’t quite read the look in her eyes. She still seemed to be catching her breath. She muttered something back to him, but it was like a whimper. He couldn’t hear her past the rumbling motor.
Then he saw the dark red smudges on the handle to the Plexiglas divider. Zorro had opened it with his gloved hand.
Greg saw that she had tears in her eyes, and she was trembling.
“I’m stabbed,” she whispered. “Dear God…”
He swiveled around. Her hands clutched at the front of her yellow dress with the fancy black lace. The material was slashed across her belly—and drenched with blood.
“Police in Manhattan are searching tonight for a man dressed as Zorro,” the pretty, Asian anchorwoman announced. She wore a tailored black suit, and behind her was a red, bloody
Z,
a grisly take on the Mark of Zorro. “He’s wanted in connection with the stabbing of a twenty-eight-year-old Portland, Oregon, woman. The victim, whose identity is being withheld pending—”
“Her name was Jennifer Gilderhoff,” the man said to the TV. “And she
‘wanted to live in New York City and write best-sellers!’
Huh, poor, sorry bitch.”
“The victim was stabbed in the backseat of a taxicab, during a Halloween celebration in Greenwich Village,” the news anchor continued. “She was rushed to Roosevelt Hospital, where her condition is listed as critical.”
The man stared at the TV screen. “She’s not dead?”
The TV anchor paused for a somber beat. “In Queens tonight, a Halloween prank turned into a four-alarm fire when a group of teenagers—”
He grabbed the remote and switched off the TV. He couldn’t believe Jennifer was still alive. Of course, she wouldn’t be for long. He’d studied surgical procedures recently, and knew those stab wounds he’d made were fatal. She was probably in a coma.
Half-dressed and with his hair still wet from a shower, he wandered over to the honor bar, and poured himself a Scotch.
On the bed, with its hunter-green and maroon paisley spread, his suitcase was open and almost completely packed.
He chilled his drink with a few cubes from the ice bucket. Beside the plastic bucket on the desk was a paperback thriller,
The Mark of Death
by Gillian McBride. He’d been reading a passage from it earlier, and used a postcard to keep his place. He’d received the postcard in the mail several weeks ago. It announced the publication of a book by another author, Jennifer Gilderhoff,
Burning Old Bridesmaids’ Dresses and Other Survival Stories.
The postcard showed the predominantly pink book cover, with a cartoon woman brandishing a cigarette lighter wand.
Considering what he’d done to Jennifer tonight, he figured her lighthearted collection of “chick-lit” stories wouldn’t fare so well commercially. It certainly had to put a damper on a reader’s enjoyment when the author of such cutesy fluff got stabbed to death—or
almost
to death. He didn’t think she’d last out the night.
He sipped his Scotch, and flipped to the page he’d marked with Jennifer’s postcard. He tossed the card aside. Moving toward the bathroom, he read the passage in Gillian McBride’s
The Mark of Death.
He was very, very familiar with it:
Her blood was still warm and wet on his hands as he raced toward the alley beside the beautiful estate. His Zorro cape billowed behind him. He listened to the material flapping in the wind. The masked man felt such a rush of adrenaline. He felt like a superhero….
He stopped in the bathroom doorway, and closed Gillian McBride’s book. He gazed at the bathtub. The water in it had turned pink. His Zorro costume was soaking. After another rinse or two, all the blood would be gone.
He glanced at the book in his hand. “I did it better,” he whispered. “I did it better than you, Gillian.”
