Spider's Web (21 page)

She looked at him curiously. He was fifty-ish, his hair white, his skin a pale pink, his eyes beaming happily around. If Santa Claus had had a cousin, he’d have looked like George. She wasn’t sure how much he knew, but he wasn’t entirely ignorant. The flower shop hadn’t really been looking for extra hands, and George somehow knew Captain Bailey. Had Captain Bailey told him she was a cop? Did he know she was bait?

They finished organizing the display and walked back inside. She was sweeping the floor when the door was flung open. Without her even realizing it, her hand went to her side, where she typically kept her Glock while on duty. But there was no gun there. Her heart pounded as a young man entered the store, walked over, and asked what kind of flowers were best to say
I’m sorry
.

The anticipation and fear were driving her out of her mind. She wished the killer would strike already.

All day, Pauline had been dreading the moment the apartment door would open. She’d called in sick that morning, knowing she was in no shape to work. When the door finally opened, she was nearly relieved. The waiting game was over.

Mitchell walked inside, his face deep in thought, his forehead in the constant frown that had been her companion for the past month. It had been even worse for the past week, ever since his sister started acting as bait for the serial killer. He was constantly tense, snapping at her for no good reason, occasionally staring into nothing, ignoring her completely.

“Hey,” he said distractedly, as he saw her standing in their living room. “Sorry I’m so late.”

He was, in fact, comparatively early. It was only half past nine in the evening. He usually came home after midnight these days, crawling into bed beside her while she was already asleep.

He appeared to notice her face. Her red eyes, swollen from endless crying.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, worry and care in his voice, and his concern nearly shattered her to bits. He walked forward to hold her, and she took a small step back, raising her hands. He stopped, puzzled.

“I’m leaving,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

She could see the incomprehension on his face, his brain trying to parse the information in a way that would not mean what it actually meant. Perhaps she was quitting work. Or perhaps she was leaving for a short trip to Paris, would be back within a week.

“I don’t think we should be together,” she added, to dispel the confusion. Bring in the hurt. “We’re too different, Mitchell. It won’t work.”

“But it is working,” he said.

“No,” she said. “It isn’t. Not for me.”

He seemed completely stunned and, not for the first time, she wondered how someone who tracked criminals for his living, deciphering the smallest clues, could be so blatantly blind.

“I don’t understand,” he said. “We should talk about this.”

She shook her head, her throat clenched tight, the words refusing to come out. It was too late to talk. Yes, she should have talked, a month ago, or three weeks ago, when she had realized that she wasn’t happy anymore, that she hadn’t really been happy for a long time. But he was never there; he was always at work, chasing the serial killer, and she’d been left alone with her thoughts. And when they did talk lately… it was always about the case. Every conversation they had, tainted by grisly murders, panty-sniffing perverts, hookers, drug dealers, domestic abuse. She had been innocent once, had truly believed that people had beauty within them. But innocence and ignorance apparently went hand in hand, and now she felt and knew different.

“Pauline,” he said. “I love you. I want to make this work.”

His eyes were so sad and hurt. Not the sadness everyone thought they saw in him, the sadness he claimed was a product of eyebrow maintenance. Real sadness. His entire face crumpled in true loss. And she nearly relented, nearly said okay, maybe they should go to couples therapy, try to spend more time together.

But it was too late, wasn’t it? There was a third entity hovering above this conversation. Someone else.

She had met Paul at work. He came for a standard check, his teeth perfect and white. He began flirting with her, and asked her name. When she’d told him, he burst out laughing, said there was no point in talking further. They couldn’t possibly hook up. A couple named Paul and Pauline should not, under any circumstances, be a thing. She loved the way he laughed, the way he joked about everything, taking nothing too seriously. She had never thought of herself as someone who could be unfaithful, but with Paul it became clear that it was about to happen despite her self-perception. And she’d made a decision.

“It won’t work,” she told Mitchell, a tear trickling down her cheek. It was a wonder there were any of those left. She’d been crying the entire day, as she scrolled through their pictures on her laptop, as she packed, as she tried to write half a dozen letters that would explain how she felt, crumpling up the paper each time.

His face changed, the ever-sorrowful eyes narrowing angrily, his jaw clenching hard.

“Fine,” he said. “Fuck off, then.”

And she did.

Chapter Nineteen

The hot shower after a workout was probably Janice Hewitt’s favorite time of the day. The sensation of the powerful torrent of steaming water on her exhausted muscles easily surpassed any other earthly joy. This was why she typically showered for twenty minutes, and sometimes—when the day was really tough—even half an hour.

But every shower had to end eventually. She sadly turned off the water and stepped out, wrapping herself with a towel. She walked to the bedroom and approached the bed, where she had prepared a clean set of clothes beforehand. On the nightstand, her phone was blinking; she picked it up and glanced at it, her hand already reaching out to pick up her underwear.

Her hand froze in mid-air.

There was a message from an unknown number waiting for her. It was an image of a large chainsaw placed on a small table. Underneath, three words.
See you soon
.

She glanced around her, her heart beating wildly. The bedroom door was ajar, and through it she could see into the corridor. She moved aside, pressing her back to the wall so as to see the entirety of the corridor. There was no movement. She looked at the image again, making sure she had seen correctly, then dialed 911.

The call didn’t go through. She tried again, achieving the same result. Something was wrong with her phone.

Her breath was shaking slightly as she slowly crept out of the bedroom, down the corridor, to the front door. Her eyes kept glancing around, searching for any sign of movement. Her entire body was tense, ready to bolt. She reached the main door and peeped through the peephole. She could see the hallway of the apartment building. It was empty. She hesitated for a minute, then unlocked the door, and pulled it.

It wouldn’t budge. She pulled it harder. Nothing. The door was stuck.

She forced herself to breathe deeply. She had to act quickly, time was moving fast. Her mind whirred, processing the last few minutes. The man who had sent her this message thought she was trapped in the house with her phone disabled. She had to outmaneuver him somehow, and fast. Before he showed up with a chainsaw in hand.

Her laptop! She dashed to the living room. The laptop was there, on the coffee table. It was already on. Wasn’t there a way to contact the police via chat? She was sure there was. Her fingers flew over the keyboard, typing furiously. She entered the Glenmore Park Police Department site and scanned it. There was no chat, only a “Contact Us” link. Damn.

She searched wider, looking for “Police chat USA.” Okay, there were quite a few there. Apparently she could chat with the police in Arlington, Texas. Good enough. She clicked it. The chat window opened.

This is the Arlington police online assistance, how can I help?

She thought for two seconds. She had to get this right.

I live in Glenmore Park, Massachusetts. I just received a message from a murderer, and he’s about to kill me. I am trapped in my home, my phone doesn’t work and the door won’t open. Please help.

She waited for a moment, praying that whoever it was in Arlington would take her seriously.

This is the Arlington, Texas Police chat. We don’t respond to calls from Massachusetts
.

Of course. Nothing was ever easy.
Please
, she typed.
Just call the Glenmore Park PD. Let them know. I can’t reach them. I have no time. He will kill me
.

After a second, the response appeared:
What’s your address?

She breathed in relief. She typed in her address. Then she waited. Something in the house creaked. He was there with her, she was sure of it. She was running out of time.

They’re on their way.

Good. Now it was time to—

A figure dressed in black stepped into the living room, a chainsaw in its hand. Janice screamed and stood up. The towel wrapped around her unfastened and dropped to the floor.

The man with the chainsaw stepped forward.

Officer Neal Fuller was thrilled to realize their patrol car was the first on the scene. All units had been called to a possible attack by the serial killer the press had dubbed The Deadly Messenger. Details were scant, since dispatch hadn’t gotten a lot of information from the caller.

It was an apartment building. Five floors, no elevator, and the slight whiff of pee around the bottom stairs. It all vaguely registered as he dashed up, jumping two stairs at a time, knowing there was no way Markus, his partner, could ever keep up. After all, Neal was twenty-two, fresh from the academy, and in great shape. Markus was forty-three, with a beer gut and a knee that acted up occasionally.

Neal zoomed up the stairs, adrenaline kicking in to help him run faster than he had ever done before. He was breathing heavily as he reached the top floor, and he knew he should wait for backup, but he also knew it was an emergency and there was no time. He rushed to the door and thumped on it.

“Police!” he shouted.

There was a high-pitched scream from inside. Neal tried the door. It was unlocked, but for some reason it wouldn’t budge more than an inch. Something was blocking it.

He took a step back and threw himself at the door. There was the sound of wood splintering, and he felt something give. From inside, a woman shouted for help. He could hear a man shouting something as well. He hit the door again, and the thing burst open. Neal nearly lost his balance as his body kept moving forward into the apartment.

There was a large room on his left. A man, dressed entirely in black and wearing a ski mask, was facing him. Behind the man, Neal could see the screaming woman, naked, cowering on the couch.

Neal’s gun was already aimed directly at the man’s chest.

“Don’t shoot!” the man screamed, his arms in the air. “Don’t shoot!”

Neal’s finger was on the trigger, pressing ever so lightly. He almost fired, already tensing for the gun’s recoil.

“I’m unarmed!” the man shouted. “Don’t shoot!”

“On your knees!” Neal screamed. “Hands above your head! Do it! Now!”

For a moment the man hesitated.

“Now!” Neal shouted again.

The man fell to his knees, raising his hands high above his head and Neal was on him, pushing him to the floor, cuffing his hands behind his back. As he cuffed the man, Neal saw what was lying on the floor: a chainsaw. The sick fuck had been about to kill the woman with a chainsaw. Neal kicked the man, who fell to the floor with a scream. The woman whimpered in fear.

“It’s okay!” Neal told her, trying his best to look only at her face and failing miserably. “We got him!”

The woman fumbled at the floor, where a white towel lay discarded. She clumsily wrapped herself, shaking.

“Please!” she said. “Just get him out of here!” She hid her face in her hands.

Neal realized Markus was standing behind him, ogling the woman.

“Help me out here,” he said, pulling the man to his feet.

“You don’t understand—” the man began.

“Shut up!” Neal shouted, shaking him roughly. “Shut the fuck up!”

They manhandled the man downstairs, ripping the mask from his face in the process. He was young, no more than twenty-five, his forehead sweaty, his face fearful. He tried to talk once again, and Markus shook him roughly. He stayed quiet after that.

Neal grinned at Markus as they dragged the suspect out. He thought of his mother. Perhaps this weekend his family would be talking about Neal, and not about damn Peter and his successful business. This time, Neal would give his mother a reason to be proud.

There was a reporter outside. How the hell had they heard about this already?

“Officer?” The reporter rushed at him. “What happened?”

“We got him,” Neal said, drunk with victory, already imagining the newspaper in his mother’s hands. “We got The Deadly Messenger.”

Chapter Twenty

“There’s something wrong with all this,” Zoe told Mitchell.

He looked at her blankly. His eyes itched from lack of sleep, and he felt disconnected from the whole thing. They’d caught the killer. Yay. All he wanted was to go back home and lie on his bed, staring at the ceiling, like he’d done pretty much the entire previous night. Recalling his past conversations with Pauline, trying to find hints he’d missed, anything that indicated she was about to leave.