Killing Spree (21 page)

He squirmed in the passenger seat. “Mom, please—”

“Ethan, I…” She hesitated. “Honey, if you ever want to talk about it, I’ll listen. I’ll understand. Okay?”

“Fine,” he said, nodding a few more times than necessary. “The windshield’s clearing up. Can we go now?”

Before pulling away from the curb, Gillian checked the rearview mirror. Through the semi-fogged rear window, she saw someone standing on the street about ten feet behind the car. He wore a stocking cap pulled down to his eyebrows—and sunglasses. The collar of his windbreaker was turned up to cover his mouth. He swayed from side to side—as if keeping rhythm with a slow tune. It was a creepy little dance. Though his body was moving, his gaze seemed locked on her and Ethan. The collar of his windbreaker dipped down for a moment, and she could see his mouth. He was grinning.

Gillian let out a gasp.

“What is it?” Ethan asked.

Gillian swiveled around in her seat. The rear window was still clouded with condensation in spots. The strange man with the sunglasses wasn’t behind them anymore.

Baffled, Gillian glanced out Ethan’s window—and her window, and at the side mirror. She took another look at the street in back of them. She didn’t see the man anywhere. He’d vanished.

“What’s wrong?” Ethan asked.

Gillian quickly pressed a switch by the gear shift between them. All the doors automatically locked. “Nothing,” she said. “I—thought I saw someone.” She took one more look in the rearview mirror, and then slowly pulled away from the curb.

“Huh.” Ethan gave her a wary half smile. “Someone we know?”

Gillian eyed the road ahead. Her heart was still racing.

“Maybe,” she murmured under her breath.

He slowed down when he spotted the hitchhiker standing at the roadside on International Boulevard south of Sea-Tac Airport.

Instead of taking the Interstate back from Ethan Tanner’s school in Seattle, he’d driven down the boulevard, where he was more likely to come across some hitchhikers. It couldn’t be just any hitchhiker either. This person had to be a particular type, and finding him depended a lot on luck and timing.

So far this afternoon, his timing had been on the mark. He’d watched Gillian pick up her son. She’d been driving her friend Ruth Langford’s car, the same old Toyota Camry Ruth had two years ago. He’d parked half a block behind Gillian on the other side of the street from Ethan’s school. Then he’d waited for just the right moment to emerge from his car. He’d stepped up behind the Toyota for only a few seconds, but he was almost certain she’d seen him. Those sudden jerky movements of her head as she turned in the driver’s seat had given her away.

He’d ducked in front of a parked SUV, and continued to watch her. Gillian had kept glancing around. He’d imagined her telling the kid, “
I just saw him a second ago
….”

All she’d caught was a glimpse of him, and that had been his plan. He’d wanted her to know he was near. He controlled the flow of information. Feeding her bits and pieces of knowledge was part of the thrill.

The stocking cap and sunglasses were now beside him on the passenger seat. He reached over and tossed them in the back. He had to make room for his passenger.

Visibility from inside his car was questionable. The rain had stopped, but it was getting dark. The hitchhiker wore a backpack and a ski jacket. He was about six feet tall with a medium build.

Pulling over to the shoulder, the driver reached over and unlocked the passenger door. He glanced in the rearview mirror, and smiled. His prey was hurrying toward the passenger side of the car. The door opened. “Looks like it’s going to start raining again,” the hitchhiker said. “Lucky for me you stopped.”

“You can throw your stuff on the backseat.”

The hitchhiker complied, then climbed into the car. Up close, he looked younger, maybe in his early twenties. He had dark brown hair and a narrow face with a slightly weak chin. He looked a bit like a farm boy.

“Where are you headed?” asked the driver.

“Portland.” He shut the door and buckled his seat belt. “I’m Andy, by the way.”

“Well, I can take you all the way to the end, Andy,” the driver said. He glanced in his rearview mirror, then pulled onto the road again. “My name is Barry,” he said, eyes on the road. “Barry Tanner.”

“Ruth gave me the lowdown on what’s been happening,” Lynn Voorhees said, picking at the fries left on her plate. Ruth’s police lieutenant friend was about forty-five, with a robust figure and a careworn face. Her mousy-brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and she wore jeans with a Seattle Seahawks sweatshirt.

She had to talk loudly over Elton John’s “Crocodile Rock” on the jukebox, and all the chatter from the Friday night crowd at O’Reilly’s Pizza & Burger Emporium. Framed travel posters decorated the brick walls, and plastic red-and-white checkered tablecloths covered the tables. Gillian and Ruth shared a six-top by the window with Lieutenant Voorhees. At the end of the meal the lieutenant had started talking about her hysterectomy. Ethan and Lynn’s fifteen-year-old daughter, Jodi, had taken that as their cue to head for the pinball machine and video games near the door. The waitress still hadn’t taken away the dirty plates or the pizza pans.

Jodi was skinny, with spiky mink-colored hair, and a stud in her right nostril. During dinner, she’d rolled her eyes at everything her mother had said, and done little to disguise the fact that she hated every minute of being there.

Apparently, Lynn Voorhees was divorced, and her ex-husband had custody of Jodi. This was the mother and daughter’s “alternate weekend” together. Gillian didn’t know much else about Lynn, except that she’d had a hysterectomy last year, she’d been in law enforcement for two decades, and Ruth had briefed her on the “copycat” killings.

“So—we have three murders in three different cities,” Lynn continued, smearing a limp fry in some ketchup on the side of her plate. “And each murder is similar to a death scene in one of your novels. I’m sorry to say I haven’t read any of your thrillers, Gillian—”

“Well, you should,” Ruth cut in. “They’re damn good, honey.”

Lynn ate her fry. “I’ll get around to them when I get a life.” She sighed. “Anyway, Gillian, I understand someone has made it his job to notify you about these murders as they occur. Obviously, trying to track down this ‘Hester’ in Great Falls, Montana, is a dead end.” She turned to Ruth and grinned. “I know half the guys on the force think you’re crazy, Ruth. Just wait until I tell them you had an imaginary friend. Ha!”

Gillian didn’t laugh. Ruth just shook her head and sipped her beer.

“Oh, lighten up,” Lynn said, munching on another fry. “Now, about your friend in Chicago, tell her to have the cops there check her phone records.”

Gillian nodded. “I’ll call her tonight.”

“As for this bogus note from your agent,” Lynn said. “The envelope was from the agency, but you say no one there sent it. Do you know if anyone has been by the agency recently? Maybe someone helped himself to a few envelopes off a secretary’s desk. Have they had any temps or people coming in for job interviews in the last few weeks?”

Gillian shrugged. “They have people going in and out of there all the time—editors, other writers, delivery people. It would be tough to pinpoint one particular visitor. And for all we know, this guy could have gone there and helped himself to some envelopes five or six months ago.”

Lieutenant Voorhees chuckled. “You really have this guy thinking ahead, don’t you?”

“But that’s what he does,” Gillian replied. “He’s a planner. That’s obvious. He plots everything out in advance. He thinks like a writer. He’s figured out all the action ahead of time. He knows his characters and how they will react. Look at this ‘Hester’ business he pulled on Ruth.” Gillian turned to her friend. “‘Hester’ first contacted you—what—a month ago?”

“More like five weeks,” Ruth replied, frowning.

“That’s how far in advance he knew he was going to mutilate some poor hitchhiker and dump the body in Montana. Do you know who he reminds me of?”

Frowning, Lynn shook her head.

“He’s just like the Schoolgirl Killer,” Gillian said. “Remember how the police determined that he’d bought all their ‘school’ clothes—including the saddle shoes—long before he abducted and killed them? The clothes and shoes were always a perfect fit, too. That’s what I mean about him planning ahead.”

Voorhees shoved her unfinished plate away, then sighed. “So are you implying that your copycat killer might have pulled off the Schoolgirl Murders as well? What? Do you think Boyd Farrow rose from the dead and started murdering people again? Or are you saying he had a disciple?”

“I think the police might have arrested the wrong man,” Gillian replied.

“Gill, that case is closed,” Ruth said. “The killings stopped once they arrested Boyd Farrow.”

“Well, as long as you brought it up, Gillian,” Voorhees sighed. “Some of the statements you made to the press at the time of the Schoolgirl Murders factor heavily into how my friends on the police force feel about this ‘copycat’ business, Gillian. I consulted a colleague about it. Right away, my friend asked me, “Doesn’t she have a new book out? Is this some kind of publicity stunt?” I know it’s been almost two years, but that newspaper article about you—”

“I was misquoted,” Gillian interrupted. “There’s hardly any truth to—”

“I know,” Voorhees cut in, tiredly waving her hand at Gillian. “Ruth told me. But the truth is you were critical of the police investigation of the Schoolgirl Murders. And hearing you talk tonight, it sounds like you still feel that way. Do you really think we arrested the wrong man?”

“It’s possible.” Gillian frowned at Ruth’s friend. “So the police won’t do anything to help me because of some stupid newspaper article two years ago?”

“Officially, we can’t do much, Gillian. Not one of these murders occurred in Seattle or even in Washington State. None of the victims were from the state either. You should be talking to the investigating officers in New York, Chicago, and Billings. But I can pretty much tell you what they’re gonna say.”

“‘Thanks a lot for the tip, now get lost,’” Ruth interjected.

Voorhees nodded.

“I was hoping a word from someone like you might yield a better response from them,” Gillian said glumly. She sipped what was left of her Diet Coke. It was flat and watery. “I think this copycat killer is in Seattle now. I might have even spotted him today, hanging around outside Ethan’s high school. I couldn’t see much of his face, but he scared the hell out of me.”

Gillian glanced over at Ethan—with Jodi by the pinball machine. “I’m worried he’ll come after my son next,” she admitted. “And if something happens to Ethan, I want you to remember I came to you for help. I’ll
make
you remember. I’ll talk to the newspapers about it, and believe me, I’ll see they get the quotes right this time. It’ll make that article from two years ago read like a valentine.”

“All right, all right, chill out,” Voorhees groaned. “I’ll see there’s an extra patrol on your block. And I’ll put in a word to the guys in charge of these homicide investigations. But you need to play ball with us, show you’re willing to cooperate.”

“Cooperate, how?”

“You weren’t very helpful with the police when your husband went missing. And testimony from him could still put away a lot of people in local organized crime. If you have any idea where your husband is—”

“I don’t,” Gillian said, cutting her off. “I’m sorry, I can’t help you. I really have no idea what happened to him.”

The lieutenant sighed. “Well, Ruth said you’ve had some of these hoods hanging around your house lately. They’re expecting Barry Tanner to pay his son a visit on his birthday? I find that very interesting.”

Voorhees took her napkin off her lap, crumpled it up, and tossed it on the table. “You’ll have an extra patrol on your block, all right,” she said. “But I wouldn’t expect any other special favors, Mrs. Tanner.”

“You know what she meant about putting an extra patrol on our block, don’t you?” Gillian whispered to Ruth. They were walking from the restaurant to the car. Ethan had run ahead of them. “They won’t be there to protect us. They just want to see if Barry tries to pay us a visit.”

“I’m really sorry, hon,” Ruth said, shaking her head. “Lynn didn’t tell me this was
Let’s Make a Deal
night. I had no idea she was going to ask you to blow the whistle on Barry.”

“Well, I can hardly ‘blow the whistle’ on him when I don’t know where the hell he is,” Gillian grumbled. “At least it’s nice knowing my status with the Seattle Police as their Public Bitch Number One hasn’t been compromised in the last couple of years.”

“If it’s any help, I have something for you.” Ruth stopped and looked ahead at Ethan, who was now waiting by the car. “After I talked to Lynn today, I phoned another pal on the force. I asked for arrest records on two of your former students, Todd Sorenson and Chase Scott. All I came up with were a couple of traffic tickets for Chase, a possession bust for Todd, three traffic tickets, and an indecent exposure rap for skinny-dipping in the Arboretum. Nothing to write home about.”

Ruth took a piece of paper out of her purse. “But I remembered how you needed new phone numbers for Chase and Todd—as well as Shauna Hendricks. So I got this buddy of mine to go through the Driver’s License Registration files.” She handed the piece of paper to Gillian. “We got two out of three. Chase now lives in Bremerton, and Shauna’s in Bellingham. The addresses are there. I called Directory Assistance, and wrote down the phone numbers for you.”

“God, thanks,” Gillian said, studying Ruth’s notes. “I asked for an update this morning from the school administration office, but I have a feeling the idiot woman there won’t ever be getting back to me. Nothing on Todd Sorenson, huh?”

“Bupkis,” Ruth said. “The most current address my friend could find is the same old one you had—from two years ago. That means, either Todd Sorenson moved out of the state or he’s dead.”

Gillian sighed. “Or maybe he just doesn’t want anyone to know where he is.”

She was still out to dinner with the kid and her black friend. The upstairs neighbor was home—and getting some serious action tonight. He heard her panting and moaning as he crept around outside the duplex. Damn, she was a loud one. But all the love-noise she made assured him that she wasn’t hearing any noise herself. So directly below all that rapture, he went to work on Gillian’s bedroom window. It took a while, but with his switchblade, he managed to jimmy the lock.

The upstairs neighbor wasn’t the only one in this dump who would be seeing some action tonight. He’d made up his mind. Before the evening was through, he would nail Barry Tanner’s wife. Gillian wouldn’t squeal and make all that noise, like her upstairs neighbor. He’d make sure she kept quiet. It wouldn’t be the first time he held a gun on a woman while he did her.