The_Amazing_Mr._Howard (30 page)

Mr. Howard sighed. If Van Adams ever had a shot at going to Heaven, he just blew it, and it saddened him to think one day Van Adams might be his roommate in Hell.

He walked to him and leaned over. “I would rather kill you, however, that would not advance my plan, and so I will set you free. Enjoy what time you have left.”

He slammed a fist against Van Adams’s temple. Van Adams eyes rolled back and air whistled from his chest as if escaping a valve. He tumbled to the side, face smacking against the floor, and lay still.

“That should hold you for a few minutes,” Mr. Howard said leaning over to untie the ropes that bound Van Adams’ arms and legs. After rummaging through Van Adams’ pockets for his keys, Mr. Howard went to Alicia, who continued to sleep. He knelt before her and bowed his head.

“Forgive me for what I must do.” He stood, kissed her on the forehead, and turned away. At the stairs, he looked back into the room, a sickening feeling in his gut. He locked the door and hurried to his car.

***

As he drove home, Mr. Howard tried not to imagine what was happening inside Van Adams’ basement. Van Adams, now a blood-starved vampire, would soon awaken, if he hadn’t already, and when that occurred, there would be no controlling his fury. Poor Alicia. If only she had kept her visions to herself.

The traffic was light for a Sunday. He stayed on back roads, the sun glaring on the windshield, heat rising through the leather seat. Killgood needed to be home. But would he respond? Of course he would, he was a cop. He turned onto Overland Trail. The body of a deer lay bloodied in the road. Head out the window, he slowed as he passed. Was this the same deer he saw on his way to the cemetery? The sick feeling returned to his stomach.

It took fifteen minutes to make the drive from Van Adams’s house to his own. Deep shadows played upon the slopes of the foothills. A northern breeze brought a hint of autumn. He parked in the garage and hurried into his bedroom, where darkness wrapped around him like a security blanket. He peeled out of his extra clothes and sat in front of the phone. After a deep breath, he dialed Killgood’s home number.

“Hello?”

It was Susan. Damn, maybe he was out playing golf or something. “Susan, this is—”

“Mr. Howard, what a surprise. Are you looking for Chandler?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact. Is he in?”

“Hold on, I’ll go get him.”

“Thank you.”

A minute passed. He could hear voices in the background and recognized them as Susan and Chandler. Chandler said, “Why is he calling me here?”

Soon after, the phone was picked up. “Hello, this is Killgood.”

He’d answered using his cop voice and last name, which meant his mind was on the job, even though it was his day off. This was good. “Chandler, Mr. Howard here.”

“What can I do for you?”

“I hope I am not interrupting anything important.”

“I was watching the Broncos game.”

Mr. Howard paused to collect his thoughts and to add drama to the moment. “Chandler, I must tell you something terrible.”

A long silence followed before Killgood said, “You’ve had a vision?”

“Yes, and I do not believe this vision is of something that has already occurred.”

“I see. Now you’re seeing the future?”

“No, well… more like the present, I fear. I think what I saw is happening now.”

Another long silence. “Right now, as we speak?”

“That is correct.”

Killgood groaned softly. “All right, tell me what you saw.”

“A young girl is being killed.”

“At this very moment?”

“I believe so, yes.”

Killgood took in a deep breath, the sound like a wet whistle as it passed his teeth. “That’s not much to go on.”

“I saw the killer. I saw him clearly. He is the man who killed Stephanie Coldstone.”

“Are you serious?”

“I am serious about this, yes. He is killing a girl right now, inside his house.”

“How do you know he was inside his house?”

“I have been there.”

“Christ. You’re totally serious.”

“Yes.”

“Who did you see?”

Mr. Howard smiled as he twirled the phone cord around a finger. “Luther Van Adams, assistant dean at the college.”

“Shit, I don’t know, Mr. Howard. That seems like a stretch to me. Are you sure about this?”

“The man has a reputation with young women, if you know what I mean.”

“And he’s killing this girl now?”

“She is a young woman. He called her Alicia.”

“Alicia… fuck me.”

“What is it?”

“The psychic, the one who led us to Stephanie’s body, her name is Alicia Whitmore.” There was a pause. “Where does Van Adams live?”

He gave Killgood the address. “I realize this is all sudden, but I do not control my visions.”

“I understand,” Killgood said.

“So you will have someone check it out?”

“I’ll go myself.”

Christ no, he hadn’t meant for Killgood to go to Van Adams’s house, and certainly not by himself. It was too dangerous for one man to face a newly turned vampire. A vision of hundreds of cops in dress uniform, black tape over their badges, saluting a flag-draped coffin came to him. Susan and the kids sat near the coffin, tears rolling down their cheeks.

“Chandler, you should not go alone.”

Killgood’s voice lowered to a whisper. “Listen, I’m still in the dog house over this shit with Ryan. The last thing I need is to call out the troops on a bogus murder investigation. I might as well turn in my badge now.”

He could not persuade him to send in a marked unit first, and there was no way he could go to Van Adams’s house to assist him. If Van Adams saw him, there was no telling what he might say. “Take your gun.”

“Always.”

“Your shotgun.”

Several seconds passed. “You’re serious about this?”

“Most definitely.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”

“You will call to let me know.”

“I’d better get going. With any luck, I’ll be able to catch most of the second half of the game.”

Mr. Howard hung up the phone. He would have said a prayer if he thought it would do any good. The hands on the clock ticked off the seconds. There wouldn’t be long to wait.

Killgood eyed the shotgun on the seat beside him. A part of him felt foolish for having brought it, while the other part was damn glad to have the shotgun for company. Nothing said hello like a round of twelve-gauge buckshot. If this assistant dean, this Van Adams, tried to give him any shit, he’d shoot first and take his chances with the grand jury. Having a throw down in his ankle holster was added insurance in case something went wrong.

But, what could go wrong? He’d done a quick check on Van Adams before leaving the house. How many Harvard educated, multi-millionaire serial killers were out there? To his knowledge, a big fat zero, all of which made Mr. Howard’s vision sound absurd.

As he drove, Willard’s voice filled his head.
You’re going down the wrong road. Mr. Howard’s the killer, I’m telling you.
Willard’s insistence on Mr. Howard’s guilt nagged at him. He didn’t want to believe Mr. Howard was capable of murder and had no reason to, based on the flimsy evidence Willard offered, yet the idea proved difficult to dismiss. He had hoped Alicia Whitmore’s involvement might help solve the case, but other than leading them to Stephanie’s body, her visions were as cryptic as Mr. Howard’s. Now, she might be in danger. Crap. This wasn’t even his case anymore, yet here he was, driving off to find who knows what, missing the goddamn football game and all because Mr. Howard had a vision.

You’d better hope I find someone dead out there, Mr. Howard, or I’ll never listen to another word from you.

He read his scribbled notes with the directions to Van Adams’s house. For once, he wished he’d listened to his wife and bought a car with GPS. After taking two wrong turns and ending up in a field surrounded by cows, he finally arrived at a long dirt road that headed toward the foothills. The name Van Adams was stenciled on the mailbox. He took a deep breath and let it out. “All right, time to get this over with.”

The afternoon sun swung westward, rays of light beaming down through the leaves of aspen and oak trees on either side of the road. In a couple of months, the trees would stand barren, piles of red and yellow leaves littering the ground. He remembered Reann helping him rake leaves when she was a little girl. He raked them into big piles and before he could toss them into a trash bag, she came running, and dove into the piles with a squeal. Odd that he should think of that now.

A soft whistle escaped his throat as the large house came into view. What was he going to say to Van Adams if there was nothing wrong? Sorry to interrupt your day, Mr. Uppity Millionaire, but a psychic said you were busy murdering a girl. His name? It’s Mr. Howard. Do you know him? You do? Great. Now about that murder. What’s that you say? You’re going to sue my ass for trespassing and invasion of your privacy? Why, thank you, sir. It’s not as if I need my job or anything.

He parked the car and climbed out. “I feel like a total ass,” he said, walking up the porch steps. At the top, he froze, his gaze on the door standing ajar.

Shit.

He ran back to his car and grabbed his police radio and the shotgun.

Why is the door open? Rich bastards don’t leave their doors hanging open.

He gave the door a gentle shove and peeked inside the house. A Tiffany lamp lay shattered on the entry tile. He took two steps and spotted a splintered mirror on the wall in the dining room. “Jesus Christ.” The shotgun clicked as he racked in a shell.

This is bad. This is really fucking bad.

Blood hammered through his veins. Sweat popped out along his brow. He turned on the police radio and brought it to his mouth. “Baker 313.”

“Go ahead, Baker 313.”

The dispatcher responded. “Baker 313, I’m at 2932 Stoltey Lane on a signal 51. Send backup.”

“Ten-four Baker 313. Do you need those units code 3?”

Code 3 meant responding with lights and siren. He saw no reason for that yet. The patrol units would drive like wild men if they thought he was in danger. “Negative dispatch, not at this time.”

“Ten-four. Charlie 112 and Charlie 115 copy call. Charlie 112 has the sheet. Signal 51 at 2932 Stoltey Lane. You’ll be assisting Detective Killgood.”

He crammed the radio into his back pocket and crept into the family room. His eyes narrowed at the sight of dirt spread across the tan carpet. Inside the dining room, he stared at the shattered mirror.

What the hell is going on?

He looked at his watch. The patrol units wouldn’t arrive for another ten minutes. Should he check the rest of the house? No, better wait until backup arrives. A high-pitched scream carried from behind a closed door. Part animal, part human, unlike anything he’d heard before.

“Son of a bitch.”

Another cry, followed by a deep growling.

“Shit.” He ripped the radio from his pocket and brought it to his mouth. “Baker 313, close the channel and send those units code 3.”

“Ten-four Baker 313. Attention all units, the channel is closed for emergency traffic only. Charlie 112, Charlie 115, you are authorized to go code 3.”

A scream rolled up from behind the door. Killgood checked his watch again. He edged toward the door, shotgun raised. With one hand, he turned the knob.

Locked.

They’ll never make it in time.

Sweat trickled down his temples. His heart pounded so hard his chest ached. What to do? What to do? A woman may be getting killed.

Damn it.

He reared back and kicked the door as hard as he could. The wooden frame cracked, but the door held. Another kick and the door snapped open. Stairs led down into a basement. A light burned inside the room, but he couldn’t see much beyond the last step.

Where’s my backup?

He considered waiting until the patrol units arrived. The growling returned, wet and threatening.

“Fuck.”

Swallowing his fear, he took a step, his legs wobbling. Two steps down and more of the basement came into view. Another step and he paused. Long streaks of red paint rained down one wall.

That’s not paint. It’s blood.

Another step. He stared wide-eyed into the dimly lit room. Something bloody and torn lay on the floor. One arm, legs, but no head.

“Holy shit.” He glanced over his shoulder, waiting, hoping for help to arrive. Nothing. No distant wail of sirens to assure him everything would be all right. He was on his own.

Killgood slinked farther into the basement, back pressed against a wall, shotgun elevated in trembling hands. He reached the bottom step and hesitated, resisting the urge to run like a frightened boy from a bully. Images of Susan and the kids flashed through his mind. Why did he take Mr. Howard’s phone call? He could be safe at home, watching the football game, and eating nachos.

When he took the last step, it felt as if he had stepped into his own grave. He inched closer to the body. A severed head lay nearby. Blood streaked short black hair and spread over the face. Acid scaled the walls of his throat. Mr. Howard was right. The body belonged to Alicia Whitmore.

A threatening growl made him spin around. Something approached, part animal, part human, white skin, the color of wind-driven snow, fierce eyes that glowed red. Blood dripped from an open mouth.

It’s a fucking zombie.

The man leaped toward him, covering the distance so fast, he barely had time to react. His shoulder recoiled, the shotgun booming as if someone set off a mortar shell next to his head. The monster fell back and howled, a hand pressed against its left shoulder. The hand came down, exposing a missing chunk of flesh and bone at the shoulder blade. The creature snarled. “You’ve come to kill me, and though you may try, in the end, it is you who will die.”

He aimed from the hip and fired. Shotgun pellets ripped into the right thigh of the killer, blood spraying from the wound. The blow knocked the beast onto his stomach.