The Bedroom Killer (13 page)

CHAPTER 27

John woke to the sound of bacon sizzling in a frying pan and the warm smell wafting through the bedroom doorway. He sat up and surveyed the room, forcing his mind to remember where he was. The smell of bacon—
how long had it been?

At least a year.

He threw the covers off
, noticed the wet spot on the sheet, and ran his hand through his hair.
God, what a night.
He felt at once drained, yet at the same time, so alive. He reached up with his hand and touched the bandage remembering he'd winced in pain when his face was hit or grabbed during the passion of sex. That was the best way to describe it.

Passionate.

He rolled off the bed and planted his bare feet on the wooden floor, pulled his clothes on, and ambled out of the bedroom to the kitchen where he found Megan flipping strips of bacon with one hand, and a cup of coffee in the other. Another pan held scrambled eggs. She wore a long nightshirt that barely covered her well-rounded butt. Her hair was mussed up and like the night before, from the angle that she was standing, he could make out her left nipple pushing against the shirt. He stood there watching her, trying to let it all sink in. When she turned and saw him, the smile that peeled across her lovely face was enough to make him smile back.

How long
?

At least a year.

If asked at that moment what he was smiling about, he couldn't really say. It was more than just,
I had sex again.
Because that's all it was…sex. But it felt like so much more.

"Good morning,"
John said.

"Good morning
. I hope you like bacon and eggs."

"I'll eat anything
. I'm starved."

"I know.
” Megan giggled. "I'm sorry, that was bad."

John could only smile and nod his head.

"Sit. Coffee?"

"Black,"
John said.

Megan poured him a cup and brought it to the table
. She reached her hand around the side of his head and pulled him to her breast. John reached his hand around her leg, and gave her butt cheek a slow squeeze. They stayed like that for a long time, not saying a word. Megan finally pulled away, turned, and filled two plates with eggs and bacon. She placed the plate in front of John, seated herself next to him, and lifted a fork full of egg and slipped it into his mouth. He chewed and swallowed while they both stared into each other's eyes, smiling silly smiles.

After they finished breakfast
, John asked Megan more questions about the killer and the evidence. Thirty minutes later she called an end to the interrogation, and they made love one more time right there in the kitchen, then they showered, making love in the shower, and dressed and agreed to meet again soon.

On his drive home
, John could not help wondering why he had let it all happen. Was it a one-night stand? If they were going to meet again, could he even call it a one-night stand? What would Megan call it? Better yet, what would Detective Ash call it? He knew what Danny would call it.

Crazy
.

Stupid
.

But Danny didn't understand what motivated John now
. He finally had a reason for getting up in the morning. He knew it was crazy, but as he thought about it, John realized he was not sorry. The sex was some of the best he'd ever had. But it was more than that. He didn't know how to describe it. He felt normal again. Or almost normal. He was scared at first, who wouldn't be, but he soon let go of his fears and let his animal instincts take over, and once that happened, the night was all about a celebration of skin on skin.

***

Megan drove the fifteen miles to the department with nothing more than Dr. John Randall on her mind. Traffic was heavy as usual, but that gave her more time to think about the night before and held the real world at bay even longer. She'd checked her cell phone messages on the way to her car, one from Bell, and one from her kid sister Melanie, who wanted to know if she, her husband, and daughter Brittney could stay at her place a couple days on their way to San Diego.

Hell no
.

She called Melanie back on the way into work and said, in so many words,
“You're not bringing Brittney anywhere near this town.
I'm not going to stare into her dead eyes. Just head straight to San Diego and I'll come by your hotel to visit, if time permits.
Megan hated having to say that, but she saw no other way.

She loved her niece…but no way.

CHAPTER 28

After leaving Megan's place
, John went home to shave, shower, and grab some clean clothes. He wrote down as much as he could remember from their discussions the night before. As he wrote, he felt the momentum that Megan described in an investigation—as witnesses are interviewed and one thing leads to another and the evidence builds. Although he didn't have much evidence, he still felt the momentum and he knew he couldn't just sit in his house and think about things, which is why he grabbed his keys and ran out the front door.

The first thing to hit John's
memory as he rounded the corner of Date Avenue, for the second time in four days, was the sound of the gunshot. He could still hear the echo, like a ghost sound forever bouncing off the car interior, just loud enough for John's ear to pick up. It seemed to grow louder as he approached his former home. Most of his hearing had returned, but he suspected he had some permanent hearing loss.

John's old neighborhood
had grown up without him. He'd only been gone a little more than a year, but looking around, it was as if he'd been gone ten. He recognized the street, yet it was not his anymore. Now he was a visitor on the same street where he used to live—where he'd once planned to go on living, and this thought brought his loneliness back. He'd have to learn to handle it for now.

Golden brown
maple leaves laid scattered across the yards, having fallen from the trees that had grown-up with the neighborhood. The trees held less than a dozen leaves, giving off a spindly-legged, spider-like profile against the bleak grey sky. Paulette loved seeing the leaves turn and had more than once suggested they go east to see what she called
the real thing
. John pulled up to the same spot where he'd parked that night and then, at the last second decided against it, and pulled forward in front of Berry and Tina's house. But he didn't recognize the cars in the driveway.

Maybe they've moved
.

He switched off the engine, turned around inside his loaner car, and looked back.
It was quiet. He opened his door, stepped out and onto the sidewalk, and peered up and down the street. Someone was walking their dog on the other side, away from him.
Good.
John didn't want to say hi to anyone. He looked down into the gutter and spotted a piece of glass from his car window as if it was left there, just for him to find. Left there—he felt sure—to remind him of what he did, who it affected, and how his life had changed all over again by something that was out of his control. A car passed by and John watched as it turned the same corner as the killer had just a few days ago.

Where was
the killer now?

Planning his next killing
?

John turned and walked up the sidewalk toward the Sharp residence
—a sidewalk he'd walked so many times before. He turned up the walk and stopped at the bottom of the porch steps. He peered up at the screen door, then down at the rolled up hose.
Was that the same hose?
Looked like it. The same crabgrass stretched out from the front planter like so many yellowish green octopus legs. It still taunted him.
Welcome back. I'm still here. Where you been?
As he stared at the crabgrass, his eyes shifted slightly to the right and he could see them. One thumb, a middle finger…a pinky. He pushed the crabgrass away with his right foot and exposed two tiny handprints—with
Trevor 2005
written in the concrete.

"Oh
, my God!" someone yelled.

John
lurched backward. It was Karen Sharp. Her voice had the same shrill sound he'd heard, or partially heard, the night she was bashing his head in.

"What are you doing here
?" she asked from behind the screen door. John didn't even hear the front door open.

"I asked you a question
? Why are you here?" The tone in her voice suggested to John that he'd better have a really good answer. But he didn't.

She's the one with the bat
was all he could think of.

"I
…I wanted to talk to you," he said.

"What in the world would you have to say to me?"

"I'm sorry."

"You're sorry?"

"I'm sorry for what happened to you…and for being here. And I'd like to ask you some questions."

"Mister
, I've been answering questions the last week. I'm all out of answers."

For no reason that he could explain, John glanced up at the shingle on the right corner of the roof, still hanging out of place
. Paulette, being the more finicky one, had kept at him to get that fixed.
Just pull it down or go up there and straighten it out
. But he never did…and there it was, still.

I should have fixed that
, he thought
.

"You should leave now," said Karen
.

John's attention came back to Karen and he struggled to remember what he'd said last
. He glanced down again at Trevor's handprint. He shifted to one side and pointed with the toe of his shoe.

"This is my son."

Karen eyed him sideways through the screen door and noticed he was pointing at the handprints. A moment passed, then she said, "Rachel used to put her hand in his and wondered where he was, how old he was now. She once made an imprint with some clay, then made a mold out of sand and turned it into a candle.”

John smiled at the image of Trevor's hand glowing from candle light.

"I want to help find the person who…I want to help find him."

"Why?" Karen asked impatiently.

"I owe it to you."

"You don't owe me anything, except to leave me alone,
Dr. Randall."

"You know who I am?"

"Detective Bell told me all about you. Besides, you've been on the news, you know. I guess I should feel sorry for you, but I can't. Now please leave."

And with that Karen shut
the door and left John standing there. He turned and faced the street, stared at the place where he parked that night, imagined the rain, the killer running, hitting his car, rolling off, and driving way. He felt the bat on his head again, felt the searing pain of the gunshot wound, heard the ringing in his ears…all ganging up on his senses. He was tired of it. He was supposed to be dead. He walked to his car, feeling more determined than ever to catch the man who kept him from killing himself.

CHAPTER 29

"I have to admit John, I really didn't expect that." Dr. Larson said.

Dr. Burt Larson sat
across from John. The office was bathed in warm soothing colors. Bookshelves filled one side of the room. The office was conveniently located across from Greenwood Memorial within a complex of doctors' offices, a dental wing, and a social services branch. Dr. Larson kept his hazel eyes on John and John kept his on Dr. Larson. A face-off between two men—one troubled, one not so much. One lost, the other centered. One feeling his way along no certain path, the other firmly grounded. Dr. Larson understood the sacrifice and hard work that goes into becoming a medical doctor and while he'd met more than his share of blowhards, medical or otherwise, John was the real deal. Honest. Professional. Dedicated.

Dr. Larson
pulled his glasses off his face and clenched them in his teeth, as he stared across the six-foot gap to where John sat. John had arrived a year earlier, sent by Greenwood Memorial, after being told he would have to take leave and see a counselor for his depression. They'd had a weekly meeting over the past twelve months. Every Wednesday at eleven in the morning. For one year. Their last meeting just two days before John's unsuccessful suicide attempt. When John didn't respond to his question, Dr. Larson said, "John…I thought we were making progress."

After a brief moment of silence
, John answered.

"I'm doing fine now."

"Are you?"

"Yes."

"Why did you choose
January tenth?"

"Don't you know?"

"Tell me."

"I felt guilty."

Dr. Larson slipped his glasses back on his nose and wrote the word
guilty
on his memo pad.

"So you're telling me every time you feel a little
—"

"A little?"

"Okay, a lot. Every time you feel a whole world of guilt, you're going to try to kill yourself?"

John still said nothing.

"Do I need to worry about this happening again?" Dr. Larson said.

"I'm doing better now,"
John said.

"Are you?"

"Yes."

"In what way?"

John adjusted himself in his chair and looked down at his hands, nervously rubbing them together. Doctor Larson noted this, and wrote
rubbing hands
in his memo pad, words he had written many times in the first few months of their sessions.

"I have a project," John finally answered.

"A project?"

"Yes."

"What sort of project?"

"Something to keep me busy
. Keep my mind off myself. Like you said, look outward instead of inward. While we're in here, we look inward, while out there…I look outward. That's what I'm doing.”

Dr. Larson wrote the words
Has a project
on his notepad. When he finished he asked, "What sort of project?"

John stayed silent,
as if thinking about the question.

"What sort of project
?" Dr. Larson asked again.

John shifted again
.

"I'd rather not say for now."

"John, we've made tremendous progress, at least I thought we did. Actually I was thinking that our time together might not need to continue or at least be cut back. But now, I can't help you if you don't open up to me."

"I don't need any help with this
," John said, shaking his head.

"I'm not saying you need help with the project,
" Dr. Larson said. "I just want to know how it is keeping you looking outward. You're on extended leave, which means you have a lot of free time on your hands. That can be dangerous."

"It keeps me thinking of other people
," John said.

"Other than Paulette and Trevor?"

John said nothing. His eyes stared off in the distance.

"John?" Dr. Larson
said, hoping to keep the conversation rolling along.

"Yes."

"Other than Paul—"

"Yes, yes
…other than them."

"But you'll tell me if this project doesn't work out?"

"It's working fine. Better than I expected, actually."

Dr. Larson nodded. Wrote something on his pad then looked up and said,
"Are you still keeping a journal?"

Dr. Larson waited for John's answer and for a moment he thought he was about to drift off again

"Yes…I am," John said.