Stay of Execution (19 page)

 

Chapter Fifty-­Seven

J
ULIA SAT CROSS-­LEGGED
in the middle of the bed, her hands wrapped around her cell phone and a notebook filled with questions in her lap. She pushed the button illuminating the screen. One fifty-­four a.m. Spradlin would call in a few moments. She leaned back against the pillows and scrolled through the texts she'd received and sent in the last few hours.

10:15 p.m.   
Have you read the diaries?

10:25 p.m.   
Half, maybe more but not all of them yet.

10:26 p.m.   
Finish them now. It's important.

What was the point? What could possibly be in those diaries that was so important? Exhausted, she was tired of playing his cat-­and-­mouse games. She'd spent most of the last two days on the story of the murders, picking up the diaries in free moments. Still, she'd learned nothing more than young Leo was still angry with his mother over something she'd kept hidden from him. Mrs. Spradlin had begun tiptoeing around her own son. Julia disliked them both. She didn't want to read the diaries. She wanted a scotch and a hot bath.

10:35 p.m.   
Why don't you tell me what you want me to know?

10:36 p.m.   
Read. Please!!!

She'd rolled her eyes at first, then looked at the text again. He wasn't just telling her to read. He was begging. She'd picked up the diary. Why was it so important to him that she read his mother's diaries? And why now? He had to know what was going on at the campus and in town. He had to know the FBI was searching for him. Rumors were all over town.

10:42 p.m.   
I'll read. Where are you?

10:43 p.m.   
Thank you. I'll call you at 2.

And that had been it. She'd finished nearly an hour earlier, although a small part of her wished she'd never started. She checked the time again. One fifty-­nine a.m. Any second, her phone would vibrate. She held the notebook in her lap. It was filled with question after question.

She flinched when the phone buzzed once, then twice.

“Hello?”

“Do you understand now?”

“I . . . I think so.”

“Have you talked to anyone?”

“No.”

“Good. Can we meet?” She didn't answer. “It's important that I speak to you. Only you.”

Julia shivered. Norm had been more right than he realized. This was the story of the year—­maybe the decade. Her fingers had been itching for the last hour. If she wrote the story well, she could win a prize. If she lived to write it.

“Where? When?”

“I'm in a cabin about forty miles outside of town. Do you have a pen?”

When he ended the call, Julia sat motionless, the phone still in her hand. She shivered again, her skin clammy. She must be out of her mind. The realization of what she had just agreed to sank in. She would meet with a killer. She knew it at midnight, the words in the diary leaving no room for doubt. He was not an innocent man, unjustly convicted. No, he was guilty. She took deep breaths to steady her nerves. The story was the thing. He'd promised she would get the story, the whole story. He'd also promised she would be safe. She wasn't stupid. She was well aware the carrot he was dangling was a dangerous one, but still . . .

An hour passed. Two hours. Three hours. She rose stiffly from the bed and gathered the diaries into a pile. From her bag, she pulled out the large manila envelope with her name scrawled across the front and slid the books inside the envelope. She opened her spiral notebook to a fresh page and wrote a message. “These books were given to me by Leo Spradlin of his own free will. They were the property of his mother and should now be used as evidence.” Before she could change her mind, she signed her name and added the notebook to the envelope. She dressed and filled her bag with a fresh notebook, pens, and her tape recorder. Goose bumps covered her arms in spite of the heater she'd turned on during the night.

She picked up the envelope and sealed it with tape. With a large, black marker, she crossed out her name and wrote another: Detective Michael Cancini. The journals and her notes were the only insurance she had, especially if anything happened to her. She sat down, her head bowed. If she didn't go, things would get worse. More girls would surely die. If she did go, she might be next. What if this was a trick? What if everything he said was part of another plan, one she didn't want to contemplate? Her heart thumped under her clothes.

She stood and clutched the envelope to her chest. It held the biggest story of her career, of her life. It held the truth. Her fingers prickled and she rubbed them absently on her pants. She had to go. She locked the envelope in the safe and took one more look around the room. There was nothing else she could do. She opened the door. He had promised.

 

Chapter Fifty-­Eight

H
E PULLED THE
dark curtain aside, peeking out the window. A gunmetal haze hung low over the ground. He sighed. Winter weather would be coming soon. Letting the curtain fall, he rose from the bed and dressed quickly. It was Sunday, the almighty day designated for worship and reflection. The good ­people of Little Springs would put on their Sunday best and shuffle off to church ser­vices. They would sing and hold their Bibles and nod when the preacher told them they were sinners. The man grunted. What God? He hadn't believed in that for longer than he could remember.

He studied his reflection, squinting to make out his features in the shadows. He dared not turn on a light and give any sign of his location. It had been years since he'd needed his safe place, and it was best to lie low. He'd need to keep his senses sharp.

He picked up a cell phone from the table and flipped to the pictures. The first photo showed the blonde, her hair streaked with blood, her long, muscular limbs limp and lifeless. She wasn't so damn bouncy anymore. There were two more of her, then four of the second girl. His heart pounded as he scrolled through them one by one. He knew it was stupid to have taken the pictures and even dumber to have kept them, but he couldn't help it. He looked at the last picture. It was the girl from the coffee shop. Blurry and taken from a distance, the photo could not mask the girl's pluck or beauty. His loins stirred. He sensed something different about her. She wasn't like the others, didn't easily fit a type. She wasn't a sorority girl or an academic. She seemed bright, and she had a handful of friends. But she was more complicated, wasn't she? He imagined she wanted independence—­not only from her family but from what was expected. Oh, how he would love to wipe that insolent look off her pretty face.

He'd expected her to evacuate like the others. Spotting her had felt like a sign. She'd walked several blocks, then backtracked, changing direction more than once. She was smarter than most. He'd give her that, but it wouldn't save her. Did she think she was safe? Did she have a young person's misguided confidence in her own immortality? It didn't matter. She would learn no one lives forever. Death always finds you, one way or another. He breathed a sigh of satisfaction. For the girl from the coffee shop, that day was coming.

He left the darkness of the room and went into the bathroom, where he'd covered the window with a large, black plastic bag. A nightlight provided the only illumination. He filled the bathtub and scrolled through the pictures one more time, lingering on the photo of the girl from the coffee shop. He tossed the phone into the water and watched it sink. There could be no loose ends.

It would be finished soon. One more girl, and the hysteria would be unstoppable. A moment of melancholy washed over him. He would miss the girls. It would hurt like hell, but that's how it had to be. He'd suffered through withdrawal before, and he would have to do it again. The memory of this girl and the others would have to last. If only he could stop time and make it last forever.

This girl would be his final prize, and Julia something altogether different. He liked her. She meant well, but she was nosy, like any reporter—­always asking questions. At first, she'd been easy to manipulate, her ambition and desperation to get the story obvious. He'd fed her tidbits, and she'd taken it all. But the two dead girls had made her wary. She was a problem now. It was a damn shame. He'd have to use her hunger to succeed to trap her and destroy her. A smile crept across his face. Two bitches. It was going to be a good day.

 

Chapter Fifty-­Nine

J
ULIA STEPPED OUT
of the hotel. A fog had risen during the night and hovered over the road like a veil, blurring the light of the streetlamps. The horn of a distant train sounded. The air blew cold, and she pulled her jacket tight across her chest. Glancing at her watch, she knew it would take close to an hour to reach Spradlin. By then, she hoped the sun would be up and the gray skies gone.

She took her time. It wasn't too late to change her mind. She still had enough for a great story. No one would blame her. Norm would understand. He always did. She bit her lip. Yes, he would understand, and he wouldn't say a word. But she'd see the look in his eyes. Norm would know she wasn't willing to take the big risks for the big stories. He'd try to hide his disappointment. He'd tell her she'd done the right thing, but he wouldn't mean it. Spradlin had promised her details—­everything. The diaries weren't enough. They were hearsay at best. Norm was a newspaperman and Julia knew how it worked. Without the big story, she'd be relegated to fluffy articles about cute dogs for the rest of her life or be forced to quit the paper. No thanks.

She picked up her pace and walked toward the rental car she had parked around the corner. Off Main Street, darkness and close fog enveloped her. A few streetlamps dotted the streets, though not enough to make a difference. The buildings seemed larger and more imposing in the pre-­dawn hours. She walked faster to the compact car. Fumbling with the keys, her hands shook as she opened the door. Sliding quickly into the seat, she immediately hit the lock button. She laid her head on the steering wheel and counted to ten until she'd stopped shaking. What was she trying to prove? This was crazy.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket, and she pulled it out with shaking fingers. Another text from Spradlin.

Are you on your way?

She looked out into the darkness. The fog moved across the road, evaporating with each passing minute. The moon glowed, its welcome light cutting through the dark. She exhaled. With steadier hands, she typed her response.

Leaving now.

He answered immediately.

Don't be scared. I'm waiting for you.

She said the words out loud once, twice. “Don't be scared. I'm waiting for you.” She turned the key in the ignition, flicking on the headlights. She whispered his words again. “Don't be scared. Don't be scared.” She picked up her phone, scrolling quickly through her contacts. She typed out a message to Norm.

Meeting Spradlin. If you don't hear from me by eleven, find Cancini, and tell him to open the safe in my room.

She hesitated, her fingers poised over the keypad. Norm was a good friend, a loyal friend. No matter what, he should know that.

Don't mean to scare you, but want to tell you I love you. Hope to see you soon.

Fingers trembling, she hit send. One way or the other, the truth would be told. Shivering, she turned on the heat, latched her seat belt, and pressed her foot to the gas. It was time to prove what she was made of. “Don't be scared.”

 

Chapter Sixty

C
ANCINI SAT UP,
running his hands through his short, spiky hair. He wasn't sure how long he'd slept, maybe a ­couple of hours, maybe more. It didn't matter. Slipping out of bed, he took a five-­minute shower, dressed, and answered the door for room ser­vice. Moving to the desk where he'd left his notebook, he sipped steaming coffee. He reread several pages, his mind racing. The notes were nothing more than stories, unsubstantiated rumors, yet the detective was convinced they meant something. Sexual harassment was nothing new, but was it true? He rubbed his temples, brows furrowed. The old reporter was right. Even if the rumors were true, what did it have to with now? What did any of it have to do with the murders of the last few days? Or the ones from decades earlier? He shook his head. He was getting ahead of himself. He needed to know the truth first.

Finished with the pot of coffee, he shoved the notebook in his jacket pocket. He had an appointment with the professor on campus, the one the old reporter had told him about. Retired, the man still lived in the same faculty housing he'd lived in for nearly forty years. Cancini considered telling Talbot about the meeting, then thought better of it. His friend didn't need the headache. It was better to leave the FBI out of it until he had facts.

Talbot intercepted Cancini in the lobby. “We have a lead on Spradlin.”

“Ah. I guess that explains why you're here so early.”

“Three independent callers on the tip line say they saw him two days ago in Martinsville. That's about an hour from here to the west. He was buying cases of water and lots of canned food.”

“Supplies.”

“That's what it looks like. I sent a team to interview the storeowners, see if anyone remembers which way he went. I've got an APB out on his truck for half the state and into West Virginia.”

The two men walked through the lobby. Cancini stopped at a coffee stand, buying two fresh cups. He handed one to Talbot. “Full-­blown APB? I thought you just wanted to talk to him.”

The FBI man sipped the scalding coffee. His eyes swept over the quiet lobby, ignoring the question. “I've been trying to call you since last night.”

“My phone was off.”

“Bullshit.”

Cancini appraised his old friend. They stood for a moment, each holding their cups, saying nothing.

Talbot spoke first. “Shandling's alibi is solid for the Thompson murder. He's not our copycat.”

“You're sure?”

“Yeah.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Me too. The brass wants this solved yesterday, but they don't want us to smear the governor's name in the process. The truth is, I don't know what I think about Spradlin. The full APB is insurance. Maybe it is some kind of revenge. Who knows? But it doesn't make sense. He's finally free. Why risk it?”

Cancini opened his mouth to comment, then shut it again. There was nothing he could say that Talbot hadn't already thought of, hadn't turned over multiple times in his head.

“Spradlin going underground—­if that's what he's doing—­looks suspicious. It's possible he's going underground to avoid being targeted. ­People around here don't exactly like the man.” Talbot's pale face flushed, and his arms dropped to his sides. His voice cracked when he spoke. “Dammit, Mike. I keep thinking about my daughters. I can't imagine . . . I want whoever did this behind bars. I don't care how many ­people have to be brought in to help on this case. I just want it solved. I want these kids to come back to school and feel safe here.”

Cancini bowed his head, lost in thought. It's what they all wanted. All murder investigations carried with them a certain amount of responsibility, particularly when you identified with the victims, felt the pain of their families. Cancini had met Talbot's two college-­age daughters. It was no wonder the man couldn't sleep at night.

Talbot took a slug of coffee. “I want to catch whoever did this no matter who that someone is. But”—­he stressed the word, looking down at Cancini—­“I cannot arrest a man without any evidence, and no one—­I repeat, no one—­who is even remotely associated with this investigation will so much as make an accusation without real evidence.” He exhaled. “I don't know what good it will do one way or the other, but we'll bring Spradlin in. We have to.”

Cancini respected Talbot, trusted him, but Spradlin had waltzed right out of town in front of all of them. Still, if anyone could find him, it might be Talbot. “What's the plan?”

“My search team will interview the storekeepers. Based on what we learn, we'll start a thorough search, widening the radius five miles at a time. If he's still in that area, we'll find him.”

“In the meantime?”

Talbot tossed his cup in the trash. “In the meantime, we wait.”

Cancini glanced at his watch.

“Going somewhere?” Talbot asked.

Cancini looked at his friend. Talbot would take the fall if Spradlin wasn't found. He would be blamed if another girl was killed. And there was nothing he could do but wait. Talbot needed a break. “I've got an appointment up at the campus. It might amount to nothing, but then again, it might be something.”

“Another wild-­goose chase?”

“Maybe. Probably.”

“What's it about?”

Cancini hesitated only a moment. “Mostly rumors about some stuff that might have been going on before the first rapes. Might be a lead. Might be nothing, but there's a professor who's willing to talk about it.”

“But not connected to the current case?”

“I don't think so,” he said truthfully. “But if we can solve the first set of rapes, maybe we'll find something. I know it doesn't look like it, but somehow, the old and the new cases have to be connected in some way, maybe some way we can't see.”

“That your gut talking?”

Cancini shot a look at Talbot. There was something or someone connecting the cases. He knew it. Gut instinct may not have been exactly right, but it was as good a reason as any. “Something like that.”

They walked together through the oversized double doors of the hotel.

“Still not sold on the copycat theory?” Talbot asked.

It was a logical theory, and Cancini knew it. But too many things bothered him. Spradlin's disappearance. The uncontained violence in the assaults. The rumors. The button. “No. Sorry.”

Talbot scratched his head. “I can't believe I'm going to say this, but hell, I'm not so sold anymore, either.”

Cancini shot a look at Talbot. They'd known each other a long time. He knew Talbot had hoped Shandling was the perp, the copycat. Not because he wanted to be right, but because he wanted it to be over. He was a good cop and a better man. “I'm meeting the professor in a half hour. Want to come?”

The two stepped onto the sidewalk into cool, heavy air. Talbot raised his face to the bleak sky. Dark clouds in the distance promised strong storms later. “Why not?”