The Serial Killer's Wife (31 page)

Julia Hogan shouted, “Put down the weapon now!”
 

“Stop right there,” Elizabeth said to Julia. “You’re not going to shoot me.”
 

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”
 

Elizabeth whispered into David Bradford’s ear, “Move toward the car.”
 

He began moving toward the car, Elizabeth behind him. “You’re fucking nuts. What do you think you’re going to do?”
 

“I told you what Clarence told me.”
 

“So you do know where the trophies are?”
 

“Not exactly. But I have an idea.”
 

They stopped at the hood of the car. Elizabeth’s gaze hadn’t left Julia Hogan this entire time.
 

Julia Hogan said, “Let him go.”
 

“You’re not going to shoot me.”
 

“I’m going to count to three.”
 

“You won’t do it.”
 

“One.”
 

David Bradford said, “Just give this up. It’s not going to work.”
 

“Two.”
 

“The gun isn’t even loaded,” Elizabeth said, staring straight back at Julia Hogan, and immediately understanding crossed the woman’s face. Her gaze shifted from Elizabeth to the car. “That’s right. They’re still in the glove box. You—”
 

Julia made a break for it, running straight for the car, assuming Elizabeth wouldn’t fire. She was wrong.
 

Elizabeth held out the gun and fired into the grass just feet away from the female agent. Julia Hogan went motionless at once, her face suddenly pale.
 

“Jesus Christ,” David Bradford shouted.
 

Elizabeth pushed him away toward Julia. She walked backward, around the hood, to the driver’s-side door.
 

“I didn’t want it to be this way.”
 

“Yeah?” Bradford said. “What way did you want it to be?”
 

She balanced the gun on the roof, aimed at the two of them. She set Bradford’s BlackBerry beside it, reached into her pocket and pulled out her own. She dialed the number to Todd’s throwaway. It rang three times before he picked up, and she spoke into it quietly, the rush of traffic behind her hiding her words from the two FBI agents only yards away. When she was done, she disconnected the call, slipped it back into her pocket, and skimmed Bradford’s BlackBerry over the roof to him.
 

“If I come up with anything, I’ll give you a call.”
 

“Wonderful,” Bradford said dryly. He held up the phone. “You know I’m just going to call the state police once you leave. They’ll pull you over within minutes.”
 

“No you won’t. Because deep down inside, you know your son is still alive. And the only way to get him back is through me.”
 

“They’re going to pull you over and arrest your ass and then both of our sons will die.”
 

“Well, then,” she said, opening the door, “I better drive really fast, huh?”
 

And then she was inside, the engine started, her foot on the gas, whipping out onto the highway and leaving the two FBI agents behind.

•
   
•
   
•

S
HE
DIDN
’
T
HAVE
to drive far. She had told Todd where they were most likely going to end up. That it would be a good idea to try to find a midway point between Lanton and Graterford if for some reason she needed to contact him. This happened to be Reading. So after she had called, he started down the highway toward her, and they met halfway in Douglassville at a Wawa Food Market.
 

Elizabeth parked the car around back and slipped into the Prius.
 

Todd did a double take. “
Elizabeth?
”
 

“Come on”—she was leaning forward in her seat, staring out at the road, watching for cops—“let’s go.”
 

“What happened to your clothes? What happened to your
hair
?”
 

“Just drive, Todd.”
 

He silently put the car in gear and got them back out on the road. Elizabeth used the BlackBerry to try Foreman for what felt like the twentieth time and then disconnected the call.
 

“Shit.”
 

“What’s wrong?”
 

“I can’t get hold of Foreman.”
 

“What do you mean?”
 

“He’s not answering his phone. It keeps going straight to voicemail.”
 

“How did things go at the prison? Did you get in? What happened to that FBI agent?”
 

They were all fair questions, each and every one of them, but Elizabeth didn’t answer. Instead she stared out through the window, thinking about Eddie and Matthew and how both of them, in different ways, were sentenced to death.
 

“Elizabeth?” Todd touched her arm. “What’s wrong?”
 

She looked at him, tears threatening, and whispered, “Everything.”

CHAPTER 57

B
Y
THE
TIME
they reached Lanton, two hours had passed, and by the time they reached Foreman’s house (what had once been Elizabeth’s house), another half hour had passed. Todd drove no more than five miles over the posted speed limit, wanting to ensure they didn’t get stopped for speeding. Elizabeth tried calling Foreman every ten minutes, always getting his voicemail. She left a number of messages, each one more frantic than the last, but still he never returned her call.
 

Which meant he had done just like he said and went into hiding. Or the police had picked him up and he was behind bars right now, or in an interview room, being sweated by detectives. There was a chance David Bradford and Julia Hogan had gotten the word out on her, and as Foreman had obviously been her contact, they would have this place watched.
 

Todd dropped her off two blocks from the house. As she walked down the sidewalk, she was aware that most of the people in these houses were the same people who had lived here five years before. Not that she would have recognized many of them or even known their names except for a select few, but they had been here, eating and sleeping and fucking less than a quarter mile away from her, and she wondered how what had happened that Saturday afternoon five years ago had changed their lives. After all, it wasn’t an every day occurrence for the FBI to suddenly show up and arrest someone for being a serial killer. Not on this block. Not in this town. So sure, some would have remembered the incident well, recalling it months if not years later, always a good anecdote at a dinner party or picnic (“Hey, did you know I used to live a block away from a serial killer?”), but by now, how many would remember?
 

Five years ago she had kept a spare key in a magnetic box behind the shrubs just beside the front door, and here it thankfully still was, albeit covered in cobwebs. She let herself in the front door, looking back over her shoulder just once to make sure the street was deserted. Once inside she pulled the BlackBerry from her pocket and dialed Todd to let him know she was in. Then she slipped the phone back into her pocket and called Foreman’s name.
 

No answer.
 

Despite the urge to hurry downstairs and start rummaging through the plastic containers, she went into the garage and watched through the window for the Prius. When it appeared, she hit the button and listened to the screeching noise as the garage door slowly rose. Once Todd pulled in (the other space empty, Foreman clearly gone), she hit the button again and the door began to lower.
 

Inside the house, Todd said, “Where to first?”
 

“The basement.”

Foreman—God bless him—had been kind enough to label the contents of each container. So it made their job easier, bypassing the containers filled with kitchen utensil and appliances, containers filled with bathroom towels and dishcloths and oven mitts. They pushed all these aside until they got to the ones labeled with anything related to baby—toys, diapers, blankets—and these Elizabeth opened by herself, digging through each, shoving the contents away in disgust when they didn’t reveal what she wanted.
 

At some point Todd had stopped searching through the containers and stood watching her. It pissed her off and it made her work even more furiously, one time even punting an empty container across the room like a football. This was when Todd finally spoke.
 

“Stop.”
 

But she didn’t stop, going to the next container despite the fact she had already gone through all the baby ones, this container full of DVDs and CDs, movies and music she and Eddie had once shared together, had laughed at and cried to together, and the thought of it all made her sick. The lid off, she hefted the plastic container (it weighed about fifty pounds) and then upturned it, the jewel cases and plastic cases avalanching across the floor.
 

“Elizabeth, stop!”
 

She shot Todd a glare, menace in her eyes, and said, “Why the fuck aren’t you doing something?”
 

“What else is there to do? We’ve looked through all these containers. It’s not here.”
 

“That can’t be,” she said, though she knew it was true, she could see it with her own eyes, the fact that every container worth opening had been opened. She began to shake her head, whispering, “No, it has to be here, it has to,” and before she knew it she had kicked another empty container across the room. It sailed for a couple of feet and hit the wall with a dull thud.
 

“Maybe ...” Todd cleared this throat. “Maybe we should search the rest of the house.”
 

She collapsed to the floor, first to her knees, then over onto her side. Her body shook but there were no tears in her eyes.
 

Todd stood motionless for several seconds before turning and disappearing upstairs.
 

In her pocket the BlackBerry dinged. She went to reach for it, pull it out, see what new picture Clarence had sent her, but her hand froze. She couldn’t move it. She couldn’t do anything. All she could do was lay there on the floor, shaking.
 

Above her she heard frantic footsteps and Todd’s voice calling her name. Then the basement door opened and he said, his voice hoarse, “Elizabeth, you need to see this.”

•
   
•
   
•

F
OREMAN
LAY
MOTIONLESS
on the queen size bed in the master bedroom. He looked peaceful enough, despite the wire wrapped tightly around his neck. It had cut deep into his skin, causing him to bleed, and for however long he had lain there, the pillow and the rest of the bed had been absorbing the blood. His face pale, his eyes shut, and his hands clasped on his chest, like he was prepped and ready for the coffin.
 

Elizabeth stood just beside the bed, staring down at him. Downstairs, she had cried without any tears, but here, in the place she had once slept with her husband, she had tears but did not cry.
 

“This is my fault,” she whispered. “All of this, it’s my fault.”
 

“Don’t say that.”
 

“But it’s true.”
 

“Elizabeth, you can’t blame—”
 

“First Van and Harlan, then Mark Webster, then Jim, and now ... now Michael.” She shook her head as if to clear it. “And Reginald Moore. I can’t forget him. He was the first.”
 

Todd came up behind her and placed a hand on her shoulder. She instantly turned and held onto him, burying her face into his chest.
 

“This is all my fault,” she repeated.
 

He stroked her hair, telling her to hush. Then he asked, “What should we do now?”
 

She didn’t answer for the longest time. She kept thinking about Matthew and that explosive collar around his neck and those bright red digits counting down. She kept thinking about David Bradford’s son, the explosive collar around his neck, too. She kept thinking about what Van had said, what Bradford himself had said, and how they were all probably right—Matthew was already dead.
 

“I don’t know,” she murmured, stepping away from him. They stared at each other for a long moment. Then her gaze shifted past Todd. Something must have changed in her face, some kind of tell, because Todd immediately stepped back and glanced in that direction.
 

“What is it?”
 

She walked past him toward the oak chest. At the pictures on top. Only six in all: one of Foreman’s first wife, one of Sheila, one of Foreman and Sheila together taken at some beach during sunset. The other three were of a baby. One showed their son as a newborn, the kind where his eyes were barely open. The other showed Sheila and Foreman holding the baby together. The last showed the baby in his crib, asleep, curdled up next to a plush purple dragon.

•
   
•
   
•

I
T
WAS
A
man who answered the phone. The first thing he said was, “Listen here, asshole, how many times do you have to be told not to call here anymore?”
 

For an instant Elizabeth didn’t know what to say. She had known Foreman still had feelings for Sheila after all these years but couldn’t imagine his infatuation had gotten this bad. Just how far it had gone, she had no clue, but here was a man—no doubt Baldy from two days ago—sounding like he was ready to come over here and kick some ass.