Killing Spree (2 page)

MEET THE AUTHOR!
read the sign by the desk at the front of the Barnes & Noble store in Woodinville, Washington.
GILLIAN McBRIDE signs copies of her new thriller, BLACK RIBBONS: A MAGGIE DARE MYSTERY!

The author photo on the sign showed a beautiful, haughty-looking woman who could have passed for twenty-five. Gillian hated the photo, but her agent and editor were crazy about it. “The picture says, ‘I’m savvy, I’m smart, and I have a best-seller-in-the-making here,’” her agent, Eve, had told her.

“I think it says, ‘I’m smug, I’m arrogant, and I have absolutely no interests beyond myself, my hair, and what I’m wearing,’” Gillian had countered.

To the photographer’s credit, he had taken about ten years off Gillian’s age (she was thirty-seven), and he’d erased scores of freckles from her face (they came with being a redhead). But he’d failed to capture Gillian’s warmth and vulnerability. The woman seated at the desk, behind a stack of books, looked like the nice, down-to-earth, slightly older sister to that smug ice princess in the author photo.

Gillian wore a lavender silk blouse and black pants. Her shoulder-length, tawny hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and she kept a smile fixed on her face.

Some authors had throngs of rabid fans at their signings, roped-off lines of people around the store impatiently waiting for a brief moment with their favorite scribe. Gillian wasn’t one of those authors. She’d been sitting at the desk for over ninety minutes and had sold eight books so far. She’d had one fan show up—a very nice, middle-aged woman named Stella who had read all five of Gillian’s previous thrillers and e-mailed her once in a while. Stella had chatted with her for about ten minutes, but had to rush off to meet a friend. Then Gillian was by herself again. “I’m sorry, I’ve never heard of you,” was what people usually said when they stopped by her table to check out one of her books. But most people didn’t stop at all. They passed by her table and avoided eye contact—as if she were some panhandler on the street.

So Gillian sat there, forcing a smile, and wondering if anybody saw the desperation on her face. It was like eating alone at a fancy restaurant. She felt onstage—and very pathetic. She’d done these author signings dozens of times before, and knew the score.
Just keep smiling.

That was what Gillian told herself as she dealt with this new potential customer, a woman in her early twenties with a ratty, brown pullover sweater, blond hair, and heavy eye makeup. She was on her cell phone as she approached Gillian’s desk. She glanced at
Black Ribbons
, then quickly put it down again. “No way, not if you’re gonna get fucking drunk again tonight,” she said into the phone. She picked up another one of Gillian’s books, and scowled at the back cover. “You do so,” the young woman continued on her cell phone. “Why the fuck should I even plan on doing anything, if you’re gonna be drunk most of the time? I mean it, you have a problem. I’m fucking serious….”

The blonde went through all six of Gillian’s books, barely looking at them. Gillian wondered how many times this cell phone woman said
fuck
during a given day. She felt like The Invisible Author. Finally, she started drumming her fingers on the desktop and stared up at the girl.

“Well, maybe I need to rethink our relationship,” the blonde was saying into her phone. She suddenly glared at Gillian. “Would you mind your own fucking business? Jesus!” She wandered away from the table. “No, I wasn’t talking to you,” she grumbled into her cell phone. “There’s this stupid woman in the bookstore….”

If I was in a relationship with you, sister, I’d be getting drunk every night too!
Gillian wanted to yell at the woman. But she said nothing, and kept smiling.

She saw someone else approaching.

“Are you the author?” asked a middle-aged woman with a stiff-looking helmet of black hair. She adjusted her glasses and picked up a copy of
Black Ribbons
. “I read three books a week. I haven’t heard of you.”

“Well, I’m Gillian, and—readers like you are my favorite kind of people.” She held out her hand, but the woman was studying the back of Gillian’s book. Gillian slipped her hand back under the table.

“Black Ribbons: A Maggie Dare Mystery,”
the woman muttered. “What’s this about anyway?”

“Well, Maggie Dare is a seventy-year-old retired police detective,” Gillian explained. “She’s a ‘very tough old broad.’ This is my second mystery-thriller with Maggie. This time, Maggie’s investigating a series of murders in Western Washington.” The woman said nothing, so Gillian continued. “Um, each time this particular killer abducts a new victim, he ties a black ribbon around a nearby tree, post, or landmark. And the body is always found twenty-four hours later—with a ribbon around the neck, in a pretty bow. It’s not quite as grisly as it sounds. It’s more suspenseful than gory.”

The woman frowned. She put the book down on the table as if it were someone else’s used Kleenex. “I don’t think I care for that at all.”

Gillian kept smiling.

“What about this one?” the woman asked, picking up another book.

“That’s
Killing Legend
, my first. It came out two years ago.”

“What’s the plot?” she asked, scrutinizing the back cover. “I don’t understand the title.”

“Well, instead of a living legend, this man is a
Killing Legend
. I was inspired by the rumors after James Dean’s death. People claimed he was still alive, but so horribly disfigured by the auto accident that he’d faked his demise. Anyway, in my book, this
legend
is a sexy leading man, an overnight sensation in movies. And everyone thinks he’s dead after a car accident. So now, he’s preying on all the people who made his life hell on his way to the top of the Hollywood heap. There’s show business mixed with murder, plus a little—”

Gillian stopped as she noticed the woman shaking her head again. She had that same sour look on her face as she plopped the book down. “I hate stories set in Hollywood.”

Gillian nodded. “Yes, well, it’s not everyone’s taste,” she said lamely.

“What about this one?” the woman asked, picking up another book.

Are you for real? Did you come here to torture me?

Gillian kept smiling and explained the plot of her second thriller,
Highway Hypnosis
. It was a very creepy tale of a former surgeon who turned killing hitchhikers into big business. He sold the victims’ identities on the black market—as well as their internal organs.

That wasn’t Old Sourpuss’s cup of tea either, Gillian could tell. The woman shook her head and clicked her tongue against her teeth. But before Gillian could thank her for stopping by, the lady sighed and picked up another one of her books. “What’s
this
about?” she pressed, waving a copy of
The Mark of Death
.

Now it was Gillian making a face and shaking her head. “Oh, I don’t think you’d like it. My books aren’t for everyone. But thanks for stopping by.” She felt as if she were trying to
break up
with her and let her down gently:
This isn’t working out. It’s not you, it’s me and my books. We’re not a good fit. Move on—please…

The woman scowled at the back cover of
The Mark of Death
for another moment, then she set the book back down on the desk. “You’re right,” she said. “This one doesn’t look very interesting either. So—where’s the Travel section?”

Fifteen minutes later, Gillian was walking across the mini-mall’s parking lot. The events coordinator and a clerk had bought copies of
Black Ribbons
, and she’d signed them. Pity purchases, most likely. But she was grateful just the same. They’d asked her to come back when the next book was released, God bless them.

She’d signed at this particular store twice before—on Saturday afternoons. This was her first night signing here, and she hadn’t realized until now that the rest of the mini-mall shut down early. All the other storefronts were dark.

Gillian hiked up the collar to her trench coat as she made her way toward an opening in a row of trees at the far end of the lot. The bus stop was on the other side of those trees.

She still had a few minutes to catch the 8:40 bus to Seattle. At one time, Gillian had owned a car, but not anymore. She’d been forced to sell her Saturn two years ago. Immediately afterward, the man who had made her sell it beat her so severely she’d had bruises on her face, back, and arms for over two weeks.

But Gillian didn’t want to think about that right now. Even though the problem hadn’t quite gone away, she didn’t want to dwell on it. Not tonight.

She had a bus to catch—then a transfer and another forty-minute ride back to Seattle. It was a hell of a long trip merely to sell eleven books, but that came with being a
medium-selling
author. She glanced back at the bookstore. Maybe for the next book signing she would drive herself here, and find a line of people actually waiting for her.
Oh, dream on, Gillian.

The wind howled. Leaves and debris scattered across the parking lot pavement. It was a cold, damp November night, and Gillian could see her breath. There were fewer cars around the farther she moved away from the bookstore. It was also darker at this end of the lot. The opening in the line of trees was just ahead.

Gillian thought she heard something behind her—a clicking noise or footsteps. She looked over her shoulder, and didn’t see anyone. One of the floodlights above was sputtering. Maybe that was what made the strange noise.

As she turned around again, Gillian saw a minivan slowly pull into the lot. Its headlights swept across her, blinding her for a moment. The vehicle headed toward the bookstore, but then it pulled a U-turn. Once again, those headlights were in her eyes.

Then they went off.

The minivan pulled up alongside her. Gillian veered away from it, and picked up her pace. But she didn’t break into a run. She didn’t want them to think she was scared. There was no one else around. She couldn’t see the driver—or anyone inside the car. But the way the minivan inched alongside her, she could tell the driver was looking at her.

Gillian carried a little canister of pepper spray in her purse, but it always took forever to find
anything
in that satchel. With a shaky hand, she frantically dug into the bag and groped around for the pepper spray. She kept walking toward that opening in the trees, and pretended to ignore the minivan just a few feet away from her. She could hear traffic noise on the other side of the trees up ahead. But would anyone hear her if she screamed?

The minivan picked up speed, then stopped between her and the trees at the edge of the lot.

Gillian stopped too. Suddenly, she couldn’t move. Her feet froze up and became rooted to the pavement. She stared at the driver’s door as it opened.

A tall, gangly man climbed out of the front. The baseball cap he wore cast a shadow over most of his face, so all she could see was his unshaven jaw and a crooked smile. His denim jacket was slightly askew; he had his right arm in the sleeve and the other in a cast. The left side of the jacket was draped over his shoulder, half-covering the bandaged arm.

Gillian thought about Ted Bundy. That was one of his ploys. He sometimes approached his victims with one arm in a cast—and a friendly smile.

Gillian kept searching for the pepper spray in her purse. It was too dark to see anything in the bag, and when she looked up, he was coming toward her. She backed away.

“Pardon me,” the man called. “Mind if I talk to you for a minute?”

Staring at the man, Gillian took another step back. She thought she felt the pepper spray canister at the bottom of her bag.

“Aren’t you Gillian McBride, the author?”

She said nothing.

“I recognized you. Is it too late for an autograph?” He hoisted his bandaged arm. “Think you might sign my cast?”

Gillian hesitated. She heard another door click open, and she glanced over at the minivan. A young girl—about twelve, with a ski jacket and her hair in pigtails—jumped out of the passenger side. “Is it her, Dad?”

Gillian let out a little sigh. As the girl came up to her father’s side, Gillian noticed a well-worn copy of
Black Ribbons
in her hand.

“The wife is a big fan of yours,” the man explained. “She’s home with the flu, otherwise she’d be here. You really scared her with this new book.”

A hand over her heart, Gillian cracked a smile. “Well, tell your wife you got even with me tonight.”