The Holiday Killer (8 page)

The doctor nodded, scribbling on his paper. He set the notes aside, taking his glasses off to clean the lenses. "Do you regret it? Shooting Windsor, that is."

"I didn't regret it the first three dozen times you asked, remember?" she asked with a sarcastic smile. "I got a pedophile off the streets, and the Holiday Killer slayings stopped. Parents everywhere were thanking me as I left that courtroom."

"Do you think your son would have been proud of you?"

Liz's mood snapped. The doctor knew better than to mention Jamie. "I've had enough people throwing my son at me, as though they're expecting it to force me into regret," she said, looking him in the eye. "I believe my son would have been proud that his mother caught his killer, and happy I kept him from hurting anyone else."

Donahue rubbed at his eyes and put his glasses back on, sitting back in his chair. "Tell me about the inquest, Liz, and what came after."

"You know what came after, Samuel," she said, lifting a hand to show the three stumps where her fingers had once been. The dismissive gesture under laid her frustration at the question that plagued her daily. "It was all over the news. We don't need to cover that."

"But we do, Liz," he said, glancing around them. "It's the reason you're here, after all. These sessions won't end until you get what's troubling you off your chest and begin the recovery process."

Liz glared at him, her whole right hand rubbing her barely existent left. "I'm fine, Samuel," she snapped, tucking her hands under her arms and refusing to think about what had led to the loss of those fingers. "I don't need to vent."

"Liz," he interrupted, leaning back and looking thoughtful, "you need to get it out, like Jamie's death. You need to tell me what happened to mangle you so badly, physically and emotionally."

She rubbed at her nose—what was left of it—and leaned back, watching him. With a resigned sigh, she began to speak.

*

Five years earlier

Liz flicked the television off in disgust and threw the remote on the couch. She sank down into the cushions, her head in her hands, and rubbed at her face.

This was meant to be her new start, but it looked more like a repeat of yesterday. Already, the news was flashing her image across the screen, along with the caption 'First day back for killer cop. Are we safe?' Liz felt sick to her stomach looking at the black TV screen. She really wasn't feeling well, and didn't think she would be up to spending the day patrolling the streets and beating her adoring fans off with a stick.

This was going to be damn near impossible.

She glanced at the wall and groaned when she realized what time it was.

"Phil," she called, grabbing her keys off the coffee table, "I'm off. Dinner's in the oven cooking, already. Don't forget to turn it in a few hours."

"No problem, chief," he said with a smile, standing in the doorway in his overalls, getting ready to head into the shop. "Dinner will be done and ready to eat by the time you finish your shift."

Liz smiled and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. Something had been off between them since she'd killed Windsor.

No, that was wrong. Since Jamie had been killed, almost twelve months ago.

They were managing to survive, through almost six months of marriage counseling, but she wasn't sure that was what Phil was doing—surviving. There was still something wrong about him, but she couldn't work out what it was. He was distant and unaffectionate, unless they were in a session. If she didn't know him as well as she did, she would have thought he was cheating on her.

She passed that morning's strange feeling off as nerves, though, and grabbed her jacket as she headed for the door.

"Love you," she called out as she opened the door, more from habit than anything else.

"Love you too," he returned from the kitchen, where the kettle was whistling for attention. "Be safe."

Liz shut the door behind her and took a deep breath, slowly turning to face the street. There were no reporters waiting to bombard her with stupid questions, but there wasn't a single kid riding up and down the street, either. She shrugged it off, heading for her car, only to realize she'd left her keys on the coffee table.

Phil sauntered out of the kitchen when she went back into the house, watching her with a smile. "Forget something?" he asked as she crouched on the ground near the coffee table, to better grab the keys that had fallen underneath.

"Nope," she said, holding them up. "I'm actually going this time."

"No rush," he said with a smile, giving her another quick kiss. "Good luck. The reporters are starting to sneak around the back, though, so I suggest you make a break for your car."

Liz cursed as she shut the door behind her, realizing Phil was right. A crowd three deep had already gathered around her car, ready to catch her. She squared her shoulders and stepped into the melee, pushing them away from her.

"Detective, how does it feel to be reinstated to the force after being on leave for nine months, in the wake of that terrible chain of events near the Docklands?" one of the reporters asked, shoving a microphone in her face.

"It feels good to know that if you don't piss off, I can arrest your asses for assault, harassment, or causing a public nuisance." She looked the reporter in the eye. "And, at the moment, every one of you is trespassing on private land. So you have until I turn the ignition over to get out of here, before you spend a couple of days in jail, Helena," she said sweetly, directing her words at the woman who'd asked first. "That's all you're getting, so run with it."

The reporters looked at each other, as though unsure whether or not she was serious. She hopped into her car and had time to crack the window for some clean air before the first reporter decided not to chance it.

Liz smiled at the mass exodus she had inspired with her words and started the engine. She took off down the street while the reporters and cameramen gathered around her front gate, swapping memory sticks or something—Liz wasn't interested enough to find out.

The ride to the station was relatively uneventful, as was the trip up to her office. She sat down in her chair, ready to do some work, but was interrupted by a young woman in uniform, carrying a stack of paperwork.

"Welcome back, Liz," she said with a smile, placing the paperwork on the edge of her desk. "As you can see, work has continued on without you. The boys upstairs would like you to sign all the relevant places in these release files and send them back up to Records. Lee will take it from there." Her blonde hair glinting in the light. "Let me know if you need help."

"I will. Thanks, Brenda."

The blonde smiled once more, then vanished back out the door, and Liz sighed and pulled the stack of papers toward her. She was off fieldwork—at least, for a while, so she was stuck processing and filling out paperwork for the foreseeable future. She would have to get used to this new way of starting the day.

*

In a split-second decision, she went out to the parking lot, climbed into the car, and drove home, hoping to spend her lunch hour with Phil. She hadn't realized how much she missed his company until she started thinking about it. She'd spent almost all her time with him since she'd been suspended, and she hadn't thought about how much she liked his company until she spent all day at work, away from him.

Lisa's car was parked in front of the house, but Liz shrugged, pulling into the driveway and climbing out. Her partner was probably inside, having a beer with Phil, waiting for Liz to get home and join them—a ritual she'd completed every Monday since the first month they'd been assigned together.

"What a day," she said, closing the door and leaving her keys on the table by the door. She walked toward the kitchen, surprised to find it empty. "Guys?"

Something creaked upstairs, and Liz looked at the ceiling, frowning. She crept to the stairs and, careful to avoid the creaky step halfway up, made her way to her bedroom.

The door was ajar, giving Liz a sliver of view. She crept up to it, peeking through the gap toward her bed, already feeling the hurt and anger boiling in her chest.

There, in the middle of a passionate embrace, were Phil and Lisa.

She shoved the door open, letting it bounce off the wall behind it.

"What the
fuck,
Phil?"

"Oh, shit!" Lisa gasped, tumbling off the bed with the sheets tangled around her feet.

"Liz? What are you doing home?"

"Telling you I'm filing for divorce this afternoon.
Fuck you,
Phil." She spun on her heel and strode toward the front door, taking the stairs down two at a time.

I should have known, how could I have been so stupid! God, I'm blind to the shit going on around me, this is fucking ridiculous—

"Liz! Liz, wait!"

God fucking dammit, how could he do this to us? To Jamie? Our son was murdered and instead of opening up to me, he finds someone else to screw!

Phil barreled down the stairs, grabbing her hand as she snatched her keys off the end table.

"Fuck off," she threatened, leveling her shaking gun at his forehead. He stopped moving, watching her closely. "Don't come near me ever again. I want you out of my house by the time I get home."

He lifted his hands, clearly trying to placate her. "Liz, please—"

"No, your ass didn't pay a cent toward this property. Go live at the shop for all I care, just get out. I don't want you here anymore, we're done."

Lisa appeared at the top of the hall, buck-ass naked, but vanished back into the bedroom almost as quickly.

Liz turned on her heel and slammed the front door closed behind her, fighting back tears.

How could he do this? You know what, Liz? Forget him. He's done, he's gone, you're over it. He and Lisa can have a brand new life with a pony, for all you care. Okay?

She climbed into her cruiser, threw the gun into the passenger seat, and took off, heading for Dockhouse Cemetery.

Thoughts whirled through her mind—things she could have said, could have done.
I could have tried harder, I could have done so much… No, fuck him, Liz. It's his fault, not yours. He's a lying, cheating piece of shit, and she's no better.

She stopped the car, climbed out, and stumbled toward her son's grave.

Jamie's site was well maintained, with no grass marring the dirt, and only a bouquet of flowers gathered in front of his headstone, left there by Liz the afternoon before. She fell to her knees in front of his marker, resting her forehead on the cold stone as she began to cry. This was her safe place, where she came to work things out, to think and to feel closer to her son.

In her pocket, her phone went off once, twice, and then three times, but she ignored it. She curled up into a ball, leaning against the stone, tears running down her cheeks.

"How could I have been so stupid?" she demanded of the air, rubbing at her chilly arms. "How could I not know something was going on? God, why did I trust him?" she asked the sky, curling up a little tighter. "It's not like this is the first time he's done this…"

Hours later, the cold of the coming winter night forced her to retreat to her car, where she rolled up on the back seat with a picnic blanket to cover her. She sobbed and slept intermittently until a knock on her window woke her.

"Ma'am? Ma'am, you can't park here," the man said, gently rapping on her window. "We're about to close the gates."

"Good," she mumbled, curling up tighter. "Just leave me here. I'll look after your graveyard for you."

"Liz!" Bill was the next thing she saw, towering over her, with his booming voice of authority threatening to wake her completely. She rolled over, looking at him with bleary eyes. "What the hell are you doing out here?"

"I could ask you the same thing," she muttered, rubbing at her eyes and sitting up. "The groundskeeper called you, didn't he?"

"He didn't trust you to look after the place on your own, so he called the cops." Bill stepped back as she opened the door. "With the description, I figured it was you. We couldn't work out what happened to you after you left at lunchtime. We were starting to get worried, actually."

"Phil called you, too, didn't he?" She stretched, rubbing at her neck. "As far as I'm concerned, that asshole can go jump off a cliff."

"What did he do this time?"

"He's been fucking Lisa, that's what he did this time. I came home for lunch and they were going at it like rabbits. I walked in on them."

Bill sighed, opening the door of the car and offering a hug. She climbed out of the cruiser and hugged him tightly, crying into his shoulder.

He waved off the cops behind him, who had their hands on their holsters. "Liz, you need to talk to someone about this. You can fool the captain and a judge, but you're not fooling me. You're not coping, and you haven't been coping for a long time, not since Jamie died."

"The court appointed me a psychiatrist," she muttered, yawning and pulling her jacket tighter against the cold.

"Then use him. You've been talking to him about Jamie, and he declared you safe for work, but you need to tell him everything—not just what you think he wants to hear."