Killing Spree (38 page)

Ethan glanced down at the tabletop. He wondered what his father would think about having a
queer
for a son. At the same time, he felt awful his dad had died before he’d gotten a chance to talk with him about it.

“I’m not sure Dad would be all that proud,” he muttered finally.

“Sweetie,” she said, squeezing his arm. “Your father knew you a lot better than you think. And he was very happy to have you for a son.”

Ethan felt his stomach tighten. He knew what she was trying to say. His mother wasn’t stupid. She’d been there when Tate and those guys had been taunting him in front of the house on Wednesday afternoon. She’d been there earlier tonight when Ruth’s friend had practically said,
“You’re gay.”
His mother knew. And she was still there—for him.

“Mom, I think I might be gay,” he said quietly. “In fact, I’m pretty sure of it.”

“I know, honey,” she whispered. Her eyes filled with tears, but she smiled. “And I have a pretty good idea how hard that was for you to tell me.”

“And Dad knew?” he asked.

His mother nodded, and then hugged him. “My word, Ethan,” he heard her whisper. “You certainly have grown up today, haven’t you?”

From the edge of the ravine, he watched them through a pair of binoculars. They were sitting at the kitchen table, talking. Gillian suddenly hugged her kid. After a few moments, somebody must have said something funny, because they both started laughing.

It was a very tender, sweet scene, this moment between mother and son.

If things were going according to his plan, Gillian would leave in a few hours to identify her husband’s body in Missoula, Montana. He’d expected her to travel alone. In fact, he’d counted on it. He needed to separate them, so he could get to the son.

He studied them some more, and smiled. Yes, it was a very sweet scene at the kitchen table. In fact, the writer in him would call this mother-son moment
bittersweet
.

After all, neither of them knew this was their last night together.

“You’re the expert,” Gillian said. “Does it look like it’s been washed off recently?”

She and Ruth were in the cellar, standing in front of the unfinished wall where some garden tools hung from nails. Ruth handed Gillian her coffee-to-go from the Top Pot, and then shined a flashlight on the sickle. She carefully examined the blade.

“He washed it off, all right,” Ruth murmured. She took back her coffee container and had a sip. “There’s no dirt or rust. But I bet they’ll still find traces of blood on there. They always do.”

In
Flowers for Her Grave
, the killer had used a sickle to hack up a woman in her kitchen. Gillian had figured that was how Vicki had been murdered. It had occurred to her last night—along with all the other thoughts racing through her head—that her copycat might have borrowed the weapon from the duplex’s cellar.

“I’ll have our boys in blue bag this very carefully,” Ruth said, switching off the flashlight. “Good thing you thought of it. I was locked down here for fifteen minutes yesterday and it never occurred to me—idiot that I am.”

The search warrant papers had gone through, and the investigating team was due to arrive any minute. Two patrol cars had already shown up. The cops had put up some barricades outside the duplex and cordoned off the backyard with yellow Crime Scene tape. Ruth had already told them that they might find a body buried in the ravine.

Ethan was still asleep. He’d had an emotionally draining, long, late night. Gillian had stayed up talking with him until nearly four o’clock. She’d told Ruth about Ethan’s not-so-startling revelation. “No wonder he’s sleeping through all this,” Ruth had said. “That’s quite a lot for a fourteen-year-old to unload. You know, I’ve been on the receiving end of a lot of prejudice and ignorance from people I don’t give a damn about. But I never had to sit down with
my parents
and tell them, ‘Hey, I’m black. Are you still going to love me?’ Anyway, good for him.”

They emerged from the little cellar with its broken door, and then came up the cement steps. Gillian glanced at the yellow tape looped around tree trunks, sectioning off part of the ravine. “I know you’d like to stick it out for the Grand Guignol finale,” she said. “But Ethan was fond of Vicki. I don’t want him seeing her excavated from our backyard. Could you take him to your place—sometime before they bring up her body?”

“No sweat. We’ll come pick you up at the airport this afternoon. I’ll call you on your cell if they find anything. And Lynn Voorhees is still trying to track down Rick Slaughter. I’ll keep you posted on that too.”

“Thanks, Ruth. Thanks for everything.”

Gillian glanced at her wristwatch: 7:25. Ruth had arranged for an off-duty policeman friend to drive her to Sea-Tac, and then see her onto the plane. He was due in five minutes. It felt strange going to the airport to catch a flight—and not having a suitcase with her. She was wearing a black sweater and gray slacks for her “reunion” with Barry.

“Ruth, I need to ask you something, and I want you to be your usual blunt self with your answer.”

“Go ahead,” Ruth said over her coffee container.

“Did you have any idea Barry was seeing Jennifer Gilderhoff?”

“Honey, I was clueless. I don’t think anyone in the class knew either. But now that you’ve brought it up, I’ll tell you something that’s been sticking in my craw since you told me last night about Jennifer’s extracurricular activities. What did this Sal character say Jennifer’s reason was for hiring him to look for Barry?”

“Closure,” Gillian said, with a roll of the eyes.

Frowning, Ruth nodded. “Yeah, my sentiments exactly. Two years after her affair with a married man goes down the toilet, she’s looking for
closure
? Do you buy that?”

Gillian shrugged. “I’m really not sure.”

“Well, knock this around during the plane ride,” Ruth said. “I think the key to this thing is finding out
why
she suddenly hired this guy to find Barry. It wasn’t long after this detective went to work for Jennifer that the killing started.”

She was lying on a four-poster bed with a frilly white canopy. A pair of pink ballet slippers was tied to one of the posts. A stuffed, smiling orange giraffe—about half the size of a body pillow—was lying beside her. Above the bed, a big poster of Orlando Bloom looked over her. Through the lacy curtains, she had a spectacular view of the mountains.

Gillian had fallen asleep in the bedroom of Jason’s eleven-year-old daughter, Annie. She glanced at the alarm clock on the nightstand: 1:50
P.M
. She’d actually slept over an hour. Of course, now Gillian was so groggy, she felt as if a truck had hit her. But she’d needed the nap.

She’d identified Barry’s corpse this morning. In the two years since his disappearance, Gillian had often daydreamed about what it would be like to see Barry again. But she hadn’t allowed herself to imagine this reunion scenario.

She’d tried to brace herself for it on the Seattle-to-Missoula flight. She’d barely slept at all during the trip. And she’d had other concerns. Though she knew Ethan was in good hands with Ruth—and the duplex was surrounded by cops—she couldn’t help worrying. Even with Ruth’s friend, Lynn Voorhees, hot on Rick Slaughter’s trail, she still felt so uncertain.

Any lingering suspicions she had about Jason Hurrell vanished when she saw him waiting for her at the arrival gate in the Missoula airport. He looked so handsome in his brown leather jacket, blue oxford shirt, and khakis. Now that she knew he was Barry’s friend, his overly solicitous behavior the past few days suddenly made more sense. She could let down her guard a little.

They talked in the car on their way to the police station. Jason’s story was quite similar to Barry’s. For years, his wife, Rachel, had put up with his lies, the unexplained absences, the debts, and the shady debt-collectors—until she’d kicked him out of the house. For a while after that, he’d become a stranger to his wife and daughter. The only difference between him and Barry was that Jason had managed to quit gambling and Barry couldn’t. As much as Jason had tried to help his Gamblers Anonymous buddy, Barry couldn’t stay out of the casinos. They’d lost touch until about three weeks ago, when Barry had asked Jason to check on his wife and son for him. He’d wanted Jason to handle it very discreetly.

“So you agreed to fly to Seattle and do this for him?” Gillian asked, incredulous. “To hear you explain it, you weren’t even that close to Barry.”

“Well, see, in most of these Gamblers or Alcoholics Anonymous chapters, there’s always some pain-in-the-ass do-gooder who wants to
save
everyone—whether they want help or not.” Jason kept his eyes on the road while he spoke, but he smiled a little. “And that pain-in-the-ass guy is me. I just had to do what I could. Besides, I knew what Barry was going through. I lost my family too.”

Jason glanced at her for a moment. “Barry never stayed in one place too long. He was hiding out at some motel, and wouldn’t tell me where. He was so afraid someone might connect me to him. But I had an e-mail address so I could write to him. I had a feeling something was wrong when he didn’t respond to my last few e-mails.”

“What about Vicki?” Gillian asked.

“Vicki was Barry’s suggestion. He thought if I ingratiated myself to her, I could get close to you and Ethan without raising any suspicions. It wasn’t hard tracking down Vicki through some friends with the airline. I liked her when I met her. But I hadn’t counted on her becoming so attached to me so quickly.” He sighed. “Are you—sure she’s dead?”

“I’m waiting for Ruth to call with confirmation.”

“Jesus,” he whispered. “I feel awful about how I treated Vicki. I mean, I
used
her. What’s worse, I think she knew—once I met you—I think she knew I had feelings for you.”

Gillian stared at him. She had no idea what to say. She’d been fighting an attraction to Jason ever since she’d set eyes on him. She suddenly felt embarrassed. “I’m not sure we should be talking about this right now,” she murmured.

He took his eyes off the road for a moment, and shook his head at her. “I’m sorry. But I want you to know I didn’t do all this just for Barry. After I met you and Ethan, I began to care about you both.”

“Well, thank you, Jason,” she said, unable to look at him.

“I should tell you what the police have so far. They got some of Barry’s things from the hotel room. But his wallet and laptop were both missing. I’m guessing the killer got away with those. Even with his wallet missing, the cops are still calling Barry’s death an accident. I’ve kept my mouth shut about the homicide angle. Unless you want to spend the night here in Missoula, I suggest you do the same thing—for now at least. But it’s your call, Gillian.”

She dreaded the idea of answering questions all night at the Missoula police headquarters when she could be back home in Seattle with Ethan. It made more sense to wait until she returned home to contact the Missoula police about the copycat killings. After that, they could work it out with the Seattle police, as well as the authorities in Billings, Chicago, and New York. Maybe by then, they would have already arrested Rick Slaughter.

“I think we should keep our mouths shut,” she finally replied.

“You should know what to expect, Gillian,” he said solemnly. “Of course, Barry doesn’t look the same. He’s kind of—bloated. He was in that pool for two hours before they found him….”

Though Jason had tried to prepare her, it was still a shock to see her dead husband. A cop stood by her in a dark little alcove on the second floor of police headquarters. The closet-like area had a wide picture window looking into another room, brightly lit with a platform at one end, and lines indicating feet and inches on the wall. It was the police lineup room. Apparently, it doubled for identifying victims as well as suspects.

Directly on the other side of that window, a thin college-age man in a white coat stood beside a gurney. If not for the glass partition, Gillian could almost reach out and touch what was under a white sheet on the gurney. The cop at her side pressed an intercom button. “We’re ready, Clay,” he said.

The young man peeled back the sheet.

Gillian stared at Barry’s once-handsome face. Jason was right. He looked bloated. His complexion was splotchy—almost purple in spots. Someone had slipped a surgeon’s cap over his hair. Gillian figured they were trying to cover up the gash. She nodded. “Yes, that’s my husband,” she whispered.
Now, cover him…please cover him up.

“Thank you, Clay,” the cop said.

The young man quickly pulled the sheet over Barry’s face again.

Yes, thank you, Clay
, Gillian thought. But when she stared at the white sheet and the outline of Barry’s body on that gurney, it broke her heart. How could he look so small? The man who had shared her bed for sixteen years had seemed so much taller.

She didn’t want to cry in the police station. Gillian managed to keep it together until she and Jason stepped outside and headed for his car. He was opening the door for her when she let out a sharp cry, and then burst into tears. Jason wrapped his arms around her. “I’m sorry, Gillian,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

She just clung to him and sobbed.

It wasn’t exactly a
good cry
. She felt utterly miserable afterward. Her head throbbed, her eyes were stinging, and her throat felt raw. She went through several Kleenexes in the car. That was when Jason suggested she come by his house to have something to eat—and perhaps take a nap before catching her flight back to Seattle. He would be flying back with her.

He lived in a ranch house on a cul-de-sac with a dozen other middle-income family homes. It looked like a development from the late nineties. For a single man’s home, the place was surprisingly neat and well-furnished.

Jason had made her a grilled cheese sandwich. Then he’d shown her into his daughter’s room and pulled an extra blanket out of the closet for her. Gillian hadn’t expected to fall asleep.

Now that she was awake, she didn’t want to get up. She didn’t want to move. She lay back on Annie Hurrell’s comfortable bed, beside her stuffed giraffe, and under the gaze of Orlando Bloom.

But then her cell phone went off.

Startled, Gillian climbed off the bed and went to the desk chair, where she’d left her trench coat and purse. She dug the phone out of her bag and clicked it on. “Yes, hello?”

“Hi, Mom,” Ethan said. “Have you seen him yet?”

She closed her eyes. “Yes, honey. It’s Dad.”

“I knew it,” Ethan said listlessly. She heard him sigh on the other end of the line. “Are you okay, Mom?”

“I’m hanging in there. How about you? Are
you
okay?”

“Not really,” he said, his voice cracking. “I—I better go….”

Hearing him, Gillian started to cry herself. “Oh, Ethan…”

“Hon?” Ruth got on the phone. “He’ll be all right. He just needs a few minutes by himself. How are you holding up?”

“I was okay until about a minute ago,” she replied with a shaky voice.

“Well, you don’t have to talk. Just listen. They tracked down Rick Slaughter. You can scratch him off the list. He’s been laid up at Valley Medical Center in Renton since late Friday afternoon. He fell off his bicycle on one of the trails down there and shattered his leg in several places. Anyway, he was in surgery on Saturday, which means he couldn’t have killed Vicki or Chase. Unless he had a proxy pulling off those two murders, Rick Slaughter is not our guy.”

Gillian wiped her eyes. She felt numb. If Rick wasn’t the killer, she had no idea who it could be. They’d run out of suspects.

“Are you—alone?” Ruth asked.

“Yes. Why?”

“My pals here would like to talk to Vicki’s boyfriend.”

“Well, I’m sure Jason would be happy to cooperate. He’s coming back with me on the plane.”

There was a silence on the other end. “Ruth? Are you there?”

“Honey, I don’t know about him. Ethan says Jason was in the duplex when he got home around four o’clock yesterday afternoon. For all we know, he might have just finished cleaning up the mess in Vicki’s kitchen. Ethan also said he first spotted Jason standing out by the ravine late Friday night—”

“Ethan was telling the police all this?” Gillian cut in.

“God, no. Ethan wouldn’t want to get him in trouble. He thinks the guy walks on water. No,
I’ve
been pumping it out of Ethan. Anyway, I can’t help thinking Jason might have been down in the ravine Friday, digging a grave.”

“No, you’re way off base, Ruth.”

“They found something that looks like a grave about halfway down the ravine. They’re excavating as we speak. If your copycat planned on killing and burying Vicki on Saturday afternoon, he probably dug the grave ahead of time—like Friday night, while we were out to dinner with Lynn. Didn’t the killer in
Flowers for Her Grave
dig the graves in their gardens ahead of time?”

“Yes, I suppose what you’re saying makes sense. But it isn’t Jason. You don’t know him. He wouldn’t—”

“Where was he on Saturday night when Chase’s car took that dive off the ferry? He told you he’d be at the Loyal Inn. But he wasn’t there. Do
you
know where he was?”

“No, but I’m sure he has a perfectly good explanation.”

“Just the same, do me a favor and give that guy a wide berth. Don’t take any chances with him. Where are you now?”

Gillian hesitated. “I’m at Jason’s.”

“What? For God’s sakes, get out of there—”

“Ruth, I’m fine—”

There was a knock on Annie Hurrell’s bedroom door, then Jason poked his head in. “Oh, you’re awake,” he said. “We should take off for the airport in a few minutes, okay?”

Gillian nodded. “Thanks.”

“Are you talking to Ethan?” he whispered.

“No, it—it’s Ruth. I’ll be ready in a minute, Jason.”

Nodding, he ducked back out and closed the door.

“Ruth, I’m perfectly safe,” she whispered into the phone. “I’ve been napping in his daughter’s bedroom for the last hour. Before that, he was with me all day. We went to the police station together, for God’s sakes.”

“Serial killers
love
hanging out at police stations. I thought you knew that from all your research. They like to see how they’re pulling one over on the cops. It’s a real kick to them. My God, just imagine how he felt driving the wife of his victim to police headquarters so she could identify the body. He was probably lapping it up.”

Gillian didn’t want to hear any more. “We’re headed to the airport, and we’ll see you in about two and a half hours. You’re wrong about Jason. He’s a nice guy.”

“Honey, I know your track record with
nice guys
. I’m telling you to be careful with him. I’ll call you in fifteen minutes. If something’s wrong, mention the weather, okay? Then I’ll phone the Missoula Police. What kind of car does he drive?”