The Serial Killer's Wife (11 page)

Van nodded at Harlan to untie her.
 

She rubbed her wrists and ankles, glaring back at Van. “How did you know my real name?”
 

“Well,” Van said, “there’s sort of a funny story involved in all that.”
 

As it turned out, Van, among everything else, had a fascination with serial killers. Though he said he knew it sounded vulgar, it was really quite innocent. Just as men followed sports and women collected shoes, Van liked to study the psyche of killers.
 

“Just like snowflakes, no two serial killers are alike. They’re disturbed, obviously, but in many ways they’re also brilliant.”
 

He showed her his collection. It was in a room just off his office, an overlarge closet she had always known without being told was off limits. Books and DVDs of serial killers filled shelves. Trading cards with the pictures of serial killers on the front and their stats—where they were born, where they went to school, how many people they murdered, what murder weapon they used—were protected in thick plastic sleeves and stored in shoe boxes. There were even items supposedly owned by serial killers, such as a letter from Ted Bundy written to Van when Van was young and his fascination began to grow. Van wouldn’t let her read the letter but said it wasn’t anything too bad, just the man talking about his time in prison. He sounded, Van said, rather normal.
 

Elizabeth said, “You knew who I was the moment you saw me, didn’t you?”
 

Van admitted that he had. The reason he wanted her to come work for him was because he wanted to help her and her son, but also—selfishly—he wanted to learn more about Edward Piccioni. There hadn’t been many serial killers recently who had gotten so much attention. Van wanted to know what the man was like. What kind of cereal he liked to eat, what type of television programs he liked to watch, the type of shoes he wore. Everything.
 

Elizabeth said, “I think it’s time Thomas and I left.”
 

Van said he didn’t blame her. He was sorry if she felt lied to but he knew if he had come right out with the truth to begin with he would have scared her off.
 

“I can help you,” he said. “Start a new life, I mean. As you’ve probably figured out, I’m not what you would call an honest citizen. I do have certain connections that could benefit you.”
 

She asked him what he was talking about.
 

“How much savings would you say you had in your bank account before you left?”
 

Elizabeth shrugged. “Maybe thirty thousand.”
 

“And that money is probably still sitting there. It’s not going anywhere. Your husband certainly can’t do much about it. Well, until legal fees are paid for, but I’ve always said screw the lawyers.”
 

Van explained that he knew a couple computer-savvy individuals who could hack into her account, clean out the money, transfer it to a number of offshore banks. The money would be bounced from account to account to account where it would eventually disappear. The authorities would never be able to trace it.
 

“And where would it go?” she asked.
 

“Half to you, half to me and my people for our troubles.”
 

She let only a few seconds pass before she nodded and said, “Do it.”
 

A week later he produced a duffel bag full of old twenties and fifties as well as new identification for both her and Thomas.
 

“From now on your name will be Sarah Walter. And your son here will be Matthew Walter.”
 

She stared down at the birth certificates, the social security cards. “What happened to them?”
 

“Don’t worry about it. Let’s just say that where they are now they won’t be needing them.”
 

She swallowed, tried holding back tears. “Thank you.”
 

“Don’t thank me. But, Elizabeth—I mean, Sarah?”
 

She looked up at him.
 

“It’s been nice knowing you. I wish I hadn’t lied to you but I’m sure you can understand by now why I did what I did. And ...” He sighed. “And, well, after everything you’ve told me about your husband—truthfully, he doesn’t sound like a killer to me.”
 

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
 

“No.” He placed a hand on her arm. “It’s supposed to remind you that he’s human, just like you.”
 

She embraced him and Harlan, thanked them for everything. They both took Thomas—now Matthew—and kissed his forehead.
 

“Where should I go now?” she asked.
 

“That’s up to you. But, Sarah?” How strange Van was able to say that name like it was really hers.
 

“Yes?”
 

“Do me a favor and promise me that you won’t ever come back here. Not that I wouldn’t love to see you, but if you ever came back here I’ll know something terrible has happened, and I don’t want that to ever happen. Okay?”
 

She promised.

CHAPTER 22

“N
O
IDEA
?”
 

“None.”
 

“You haven’t noticed anything suspicious in the past week? The past month?”
 

Elizabeth leaned forward in her seat. “If there was anything suspicious I would have noticed it immediately. You know that.”
 

“So this whole thing”—Van waved his hand in the air—“came out of nowhere this afternoon.”
 

“Just like I told you, yes.”
 

Van still sat behind his desk, slouched now, his elbows on the armrests and his hands folded in front of his face. He was still a handsome man, tall and broad shouldered. While Harlan stood off to the side, while Todd sat on the leather couch by the door, while Elizabeth sat right here in the middle of the room, Van stared back at her with his dark, intelligent eyes.
 

“So why did you come here?”
 

“You know why.”
 

“I don’t.”
 

“We need help.”
 

“That’s obvious.”
 

“I can’t go to the police with this. Cain said he would”—Elizabeth swallowed—“do something bad if we did that.”
 

“Of course he would say that.”
 

“You think he’s bluffing?”
 

Van sat another moment with a thoughtful look on his face, then shook his head. “No, I don’t. But tell me—what do you
want
?”
 

“For starters, weapons would be nice.”
 

“Weapons aren’t a problem. Harlan?”
 

Harlan stepped forward from his place against the wall. He walked toward Elizabeth, withdrawing his gun, turning the gun around in his hand so it was extended to her with the grip out.
 

Elizabeth stared at it for a moment, then said, “I’m not taking that.”
 

“What’s wrong with it?” Van asked.
 

“Nothing’s wrong with it. But it’s Harlan’s.”
 

“You think that’s his only one? Take it.”
 

Elizabeth took the proffered weapon.
 

“Now that that’s out of the way,” Van said, “what are you really here for?”
 

“You know people.”
 

“I know a lot of people.”
 

“I was thinking maybe you would know people who could trace those texts.” She motioned at the BlackBerry on Van’s desk. “Like, find out where the signal is coming from.”
 

Van picked up the BlackBerry, began scrolling through the pictures. Elizabeth had already forced herself to look at them. All of Matthew, all with him tied to that bed. There really wasn’t much difference in any of the pictures except that the bright red glowing digits above his head kept decreasing by one hour.
 

“There’s no guarantee these pictures are even real.”
 

“What do you mean?”
 

“This guy could have already taken one hundred pictures, just changed the time on that countdown clock and snapped away. He keeps sending you pictures every hour, you keep thinking your son is still alive when he’s really not.”
 

This wasn’t what she wanted to hear but she had to admit the thought had crossed her mind.
 

“I spoke with him, though. He’s still alive.”
 

“Eight hours ago he was, yes. When this Cain calls you back, ask to speak to him again. Make him give you proof of life.”
 

Elizabeth was silent, thinking about that morning, what felt like a thousand years ago, packing Matthew’s lunch, pouring him a bowl of cereal, dropping him off at school.
 

Van said, “Those people you mentioned, I might know a couple.”
 

“Where are they?”
 

“Not here.”
 

“Van.”
 

“It’s going to take some time.”
 

“How much time?”
 

“How the hell should I know? Depends on who I can contact first. Maybe an hour. Maybe two.”
 

“We can’t stay here long.”
 

“Yes,” Van said, nodding slowly, his gaze shifting past her at Todd on the couch. “Now let’s run over this again, shall we? This guy—this Cain—wants your husband’s trophies. Which, I’m assuming, are the ring fingers of the last four women he killed. Maybe the rings themselves, too, but I’m guessing this guy is fixated more on the fingers. Fair assessment?”
 

Elizabeth said nothing.
 

“And so this guy, he obviously knows what he’s doing. He’s planned this thing out to the very last detail. Except your boyfriend over there, that wasn’t according to plan.”
 

Behind her she could hear Todd shift on the couch. When he spoke, his voice was strained. “What are you trying to say?”
 

“Me, I’m not trying to say anything. If Elizabeth says you have nothing to do with this, then you have nothing to do with this.”
 

Elizabeth said, “Are you actually insinuating that—”
 

“Look,” Van said, “I just sat here and listened to what you told me. I don’t know what you’ve done in the past three years. I don’t know that man other than his name. So right now, right here, I’m questioning everything. Do you have a problem with that?”
 

The question was directed at Elizabeth but it was Todd who answered, his voice still strained. “I was just bringing her flowers, that’s all. She was in a bad mood and I thought leaving flowers outside her door would cheer her up. If I’d known this was going to happen, I never would have ...”

But he didn’t finish the thought; he didn’t have to. Elizabeth knew very well what he had meant to say, and she couldn’t blame him for it.
 

Van sat silent for a long time, staring back down at the BlackBerry. Finally he nodded and stood up and said, “Elizabeth? I’d like to speak with you alone.”

CHAPTER 23

T
HE
FIRST
THING
Van did when they got to the apartment on the third floor—the same apartment she and Matthew had stayed at when they were last here—was turn and take Elizabeth into an embrace, hold her head to his chest and whisper, “I’m sorry.”
 

She let loose then, the tears from before nothing close to the ones she shed now, her entire body racking with sobs as she took the expensive fabric of his shirt in her fingers and balled her hands into fists.
 

They stood that way for several minutes, Van simply holding her as she cried, until Elizabeth calmed down, wiped her eyes, and stepped back.
 

Van said, “You know what this means, don’t you?”
 

Wiping at another stray tear, Elizabeth nodded.
 

“I can’t even imagine how you’re going to get in to see him.”
 

“I’ll find a way.”
 

“How? You’ve been gone nearly five years. You expect to just show up at the prison asking to see your serial killer husband and they’ll let you in?”
 

“Look, I don’t know how it will happen, but it will happen. It has to.”
 

“You hope.”
 

“I don’t have much else keeping me going right now, Van. My son ...” She looked away, shook her head. “You need to help.”
 

“I am helping. I already sent out an encrypted email to two of those people we spoke about. They’re probably already on their way.”
 

“How long?”
 

“Like I told you, it could be an hour, it could be longer. But the real question you need to ask yourself is what will you do if it works?”
 

“What do you mean?”

“Say we are able to trace where the texts are originating from and determine this guy’s location. What then?”
 

Elizabeth said, “You and Harlan go kill him and bring back my son.”
 

Van smiled. “As much fun as that would be, let’s be realistic here for a second. Say we can’t trace those texts and you’re forced to continue. What if there are no trophies?”
 

“Excuse me?”
 

“Your husband cut off those fingers but what if he didn’t save them? Cain’s doing all of this on the assumption that these things are saved somewhere, somewhere easy to get to. But what if they’re not?”