by S W Vaughn
For a while afterward, she’d talked to her mother, who seemed to at least entertain her theories about what happened. But it turned out she was only humoring her, hoping she’d grow tired of the subject and move on. When she didn’t, when her efforts to prove she was telling the truth started to steer her toward full-blown obsession, her mother had exploded at her and forbidden her from ever mentioning the girl in the woods again.
Now they would have to believe her. She had proof. But knowing she’d been right all along didn’t make her feel triumphant, or smug, or even satisfied.
She felt guilty. Like she should’ve tried harder to convince everyone. Part of her knew she couldn’t have done anything more — she’d only been twelve years old, after all — but that didn’t stop her from thinking she’d failed the dead girl, along with her as-yet-unknown family.
Which meant that she now had two killers to track down.
But no matter how personal the new-old case was, Preston still had to reserve most of her efforts for Lynn Reynolds, the more recent victim. The girl had only been twenty-four, blonde and blue-eyed, pretty and almost painfully innocent. She was well-loved in the community. Her family and friends needed answers, deserved them.
Especially her mother. Georgette Reynolds had been the one to find her daughter’s body, and the shock had rendered her unresponsive for three full days afterward. The woman would never truly recover from this.
Preston’s unsettled mind churned through everything she knew about the Reynolds case for the thousandth time, hoping maybe this time she’d make a connection that would lead somewhere other than straight into a brick wall. Lynn had been found in the bedroom of her own apartment, the lower floor of a two-family house where the upstairs apartment was currently vacant. There’d been no sign of forced entry, so at first it was assumed that she knew her killer. Her fiancé had been suspected, questioned, and released. He was a real prick, but he had a solid alibi, no priors, and no real reason to murder his wife-to-be.
The worst of it was the way she’d been killed. Someone had tied her to her own bed, so tightly that her hands had turned purple, and then proceeded to spend hours torturing her. She’d been beaten, raped, and slashed repeatedly with a knife. The official cause of death was blood loss, but it had taken a long time for her to get there.
All of it looked disturbingly similar to the pattern of an active serial killer who’d been operating a few states away. Enough that she’d contacted the department that was handling those cases and asked them to share details — because she suspected that either the killer had visited the Junction and taken a victim here, which was highly unlikely for a number of reasons, or they had a copycat in their midst.
Unfortunately, the other department didn’t have much more information on the killer than what had been reported in the news, which was why he was still at large. Another dead end.
Or at least it would have been, except the chief had decided to pursue the copycat angle more aggressively and hire an ‘expert’ who was due to arrive in two days, and serve as her partner. Much as she wanted to solve this case by any means necessary, Preston was not looking forward to being saddled with some outsider. It felt like the chief had already lost confidence in her, after less than a month in her new position.
Like it or not, though, it was a fact that she was no closer to finding Lynn Reynolds’ killer than she had been the day her body was discovered.
Overwhelmed and too spent to think any further, Preston finally felt the tug of sleep. She didn’t bother going back to her bedroom. Instead, she stretched out on the couch, rolled away from the flickering screen of the television, and tumbled into a troubled slumber.
Chapter Four
Marco
The next rest area was sixty miles up the highway, one of those pull-through loops off the shoulder with a single building that contained restrooms and vending machines, and a couple of picnic tables paired with charcoal grills on the grass outside. There were no other vehicles there when I pulled in and parked near the building.
I cut the engine, and then closed my eyes and leaned back against the seat for a moment. I hadn’t really been able to catch my breath until now.
At least I could take a few minutes to appreciate the fact that I was still breathing.
Aside from that, I did feel a little bad about the second guy I’d taken out at the gas station. The first one hadn’t seen it coming, so that was okay. But the other man — well, I’d broken one of my two rules, and that always got me down for a bit.
Rule number one: Never kill anyone who didn’t deserve it.
Rule number two: Never make the target suffer.
Okay, so it was a strange code for a hitman, but it was mine. The only way I could do what I do and still feel like a human being. The reason for the second rule was because of my theory about the afterlife. I didn’t believe in heaven or hell as actual places that people went when they died, but I did believe that we create our own afterlife — and how you spent eternity depended on your last few moments on Earth. Dying peacefully meant going to ‘heaven,’ but if you died in agony or terror … well, that was the other place. Our consciousness continued to feel what we felt when we died, forever and ever, amen.
Maybe I was wrong about all that, and I had no idea where I’d heard that theory in the first place, but I couldn’t shake the belief. So in my own work, I strove to make sure that my targets never saw me coming. That they died before they knew what hit them, because death was punishment enough.
But if I was right, my lookalike was in hell right now.
Because when he died in terrible pain, he’d been horrified that Nicky’s goons had shot him instead of me.
Pushing away thoughts of the life I’d been forced to abandon, I focused on my current situation — which happened to be sitting in a dead man’s almost-brand-new Jeep Grand Cherokee, sixty miles from my own murder scene. So far all I knew about the man who’d owned the vehicle, other than the facts that he’d served a stint in juvie, looked like me, and hadn’t been wearing a wedding ring, was that he’d been driving to Vermont for a vacation. A long vacation, judging by the excessive amount of luggage stuffed into the hatchback of the Jeep and spilling into the back seat.
At least I’d be able to change out of these clothes. I’d gotten some of my doppelganger’s blood on me while I was failing to save his life, which meant I couldn’t risk keeping what I was wearing. So much for my Armani shirt.
I took out his wallet and flipped it open. His driver’s license stared at me from behind the plastic window, the face so much like mine that it made me dizzy. According to the license, his full name had been Donovan North. And he’d lived in the Bronx. All this time, and my creepy doppelganger had been in my city, in the same damned borough.
Not that there would’ve been much chance of me randomly bumping into him among the eight-million-plus population of New York City, or even the one and a half million people who lived in the Bronx.
Once the fresh batch of chills had passed, I read the rest of the details on the license. He was one year older than me, six pounds heavier and two inches shorter. Hair black, eyes hazel, like I already knew. No corrective lenses. The rest of his wallet contained two credit cards and a debit card, twenty-three bucks in cash, a receipt from a gas station in Jersey with a time stamp that said he’d been there earlier today, and a folded strip of three condoms that had been in there long enough to leave indented rings in the leather.
So no wife, and probably no girlfriend, either.
I added the cash from my pocket to the billfold, stuck the wallet in the cupholder, and pulled out the phone next — a Samsung Galaxy. I didn’t hold out much hope that it would be useful, since everyone locked their phone these days. Unless his passcode had been his birthday or something, I wasn’t likely to guess it.
But when I tapped the phone to life, an unexpected laugh escaped me.
He’d used facial recognition to lock the screen.
I held
the phone in front of my face, and it chimed as the screen unlocked. His background was a tropical beach scene, probably a stock photo that came with the phone, and he had only the standard icons on the screen — phone, text, camera, photos, browser, and various Google apps. No Facebook, Twitter, or Instagram in sight. There was a weather app running in the top right corner, announcing that it was currently sixty-five degrees and cloudy.
I tapped the square at the bottom and found an app running. It was Google Maps, and there was a destination address programmed into it: 5 Whispering Pines Drive, Landstaff Junction, Vermont. When I entered the address into Google, I got results for the Whispering Pines Resort.
Now I knew where he’d been going on vacation. And since he was heading for a resort, it was almost certain that he’d already booked a room. Some fancy resort in Nowhere, Vermont, seemed like the perfect place for me to lay low while I figured out what the hell I was going to do with my life, now that I was dead — and conveniently, my double had already paid for it.
All I had to do was become Donovan North.
I gathered up phone, wallet, and keys, climbed out of the Jeep, and opened the back door. It didn’t take long to find a suitcase that was full of clothes, and I grabbed jeans, a t-shirt, and a black cargo jacket, along with socks and underwear. There was another difference between us — he was a boxer man, and I wore briefs. He had extra shoes too, but unfortunately his foot size was smaller than mine.
Just as well, because if I swapped my boots for his sneakers, I’d have nowhere to keep my emergency blade. A proper throwing knife, weighted and perfectly balanced, one I could actually use if I ran out of bullets.
That done, I went up to the passenger side, dumped the stuff I’d stolen from the gas station onto the seat, and popped the clean clothes into the empty plastic bag. Then I headed for the building and went into the men’s room. The restroom was spacious, well-lit, and marginally clean, with two long rows of stalls in addition to the lines of sinks and urinals.
I headed for one of the handicapped stalls and locked myself in. As I stripped down, setting my boots aside and stuffing the bloody clothes into the gas station bag, a fresh stab of guilt skewered me at the sight of Donovan North’s blood smeared along my ribs.
If I hadn’t gone to take a piss first, I’d be the one shot and bleeding to death at some country truck stop.
Hell, it should’ve been me — or at least I should’ve been there to take out Nicky’s thugs before they killed three innocent people. But here I was, stepping into the life of this virtual stranger I’d known for a week when we were kids, who’d died in my stead. Taking his place, his identity, like it was no big deal — just because he’d been in the wrong place at the right time to save my ass.
I’d killed plenty of people, but they all deserved it. This one didn’t.
Cold washed over me as I grabbed a handful of toilet paper and wiped off the blood, and then flushed the mess. I carried the bag of stained clothes and my boots to the sink, took my blade out of the left one, and gave both boots a quick rinse under the water. They were speckled with blood, too, though I wasn’t sure whose it was.
The last step was my hair. Cutting it with a knife wasn’t going to leave it very stylish, but I’d worry about getting a decent haircut later. After all, I was on vacation.
Not that I felt like I deserved a vacation at the moment.
It took a while, but I managed to chop off most of my hair without making it look too much like someone had taken a weed whacker to my head. The blade was very sharp — sharp enough that I’d once killed a guy by throwing it across the room and embedding it in his skull — so it cut through hair like butter. All I needed now was a set of clippers to buzz through and even things out. The clippings went into the bag with the clothes, and I used paper towels to wipe the sink and the floor, removing every stray hair.
I wouldn’t leave behind any evidence that I’d been here. Just in case.
Finally, with my dripping boots in one hand and the damning plastic bag in the other, I walked out of the restroom and went to the vending machines. One of them probably had what I needed.
Sure enough, the second-to-last machine in the long row held single-dose packets of various over-the-counter medication, tiny bottles of sunscreen and mosquito repellent — and two-packs of disposable cigarette lighters.
I fed two of the singles from North’s wallet into the machine and punched the letter-and-number combo for the lighters. The machine spit them into the tray, and I grabbed them and carried everything over to the picnic tables outside. I was still alone at the rest stop, so I left the load on a table and crossed back to the Jeep, grabbing a bottle of water, some jerky, and a package of chocolate Zingers. The stolen breakfast of champions.
I decided not to feel too guilty about stealing. After all, I’d had every intention of buying this stuff from the gas station, before those morons ruined everything.
It took me few minutes to hunt up a handful of dry sticks, twigs, and leaves around the trees that lined the back of the rest area. I also grabbed a thick downed branch that was about three feet long. Back at the picnic tables, I heaped everything from the plastic bag — including the bag itself — into one of the grills, arranged kindling on top and at the sides of the pile, and lit the whole thing up.
While the evidence burned, I used the big stick to hold my boots over the fire, one by one, to dry them out.
I was so damned resourceful. Should’ve been a Boy Scout instead of a hitman.
When I finished patting myself on the back, I chowed down on dried beef and cream-filled chocolate cakes until everything in the grill had burned to ash. I stuffed my mostly dried boots on my feet, gathered my trash and dropped it into a waste can, and headed back to the Jeep.
Exhaustion was creeping up on me, but I didn’t feel safe stopping here for any significant length of time. I was only an hour out from the truck stop shootout. Vermont couldn’t be that far from here, so I’d just keep driving to the resort.
Donnie must have made a reservation. All I had to do was claim it. There was probably a record of it and a reservation number, either in his phone, or printed out and stashed somewhere in the Jeep. I’d look for paper first. I flipped down both visors and found his registration stashed behind the driver’s side one, but no other paperwork. So I checked the glove box. It was locked, but the ignition key opened it.
My breath caught when I got a look at what was inside.
“Well, well, Mr. North,” I murmured aloud, reaching over to pull out the holstered gun that rested on top of a slim stack of paperwork in the glove box. “Taking your handgun on vacation, are we?”
The gun was legal and registered to him, according to the laminated concealed-carry permit I found along with it. It was a nice piece, too. A nine-millimeter Glock 19C Gen4, clean and well maintained, fully loaded. The find almost made up for the Shield I had to leave behind. But I’d leave it in the glove box for now, until I knew more about Donovan North and figured out why he’d taken a gun on vacation.
What I was looking for lay beneath the gun: a single folded sheet of paper that had been printed from a home computer. On it were the details of a two-week reservation for Mr. Donovan North, in the Vista Suite at the Whispering Pines Resort. Sounded pretty fancy to me. Maybe old Donnie had ended up loaded, some high-powered single businessman striking it rich in the stock market who commuted to Manhattan and took long vacations at exclusive country resorts. And carried a gun.
He hadn’t looked rich, but he’d certainly been able to spot an Armani shirt. Besides, you never can tell about people by looking at them.
After all, I didn’t look like a killer.
According to the reservation, he was due to check in at noon, the day after tomorrow — well, technically just tomorrow, since it was after midnight now. But it was only a four-hour drive from here to the resort. He must’ve been planning some kind of interim stop between here and there.
I really didn’t want to look
for some random motel to hide out in until then. Maybe the Whispering Pines would let me check in early.
There was a phone number listed for the place on the printout. I practiced saying the name out loud a few times, so I wouldn’t stumble over it when I introduced myself, and then dialed the number on North’s phone.
After four rings, there was a click as someone picked up, and a young-sounding female voice with a slightly nasal drawl said, “Whispering Pines, can I help you?”
“Hey, there,” I said smoothly. “I have a reservation there for noon on Tuesday, but I’m running a little ahead of schedule. Is there any way I can check in earlier, say, today around five a.m.? I can pay for an extra night.”
If the place was snooty, now was probably the time she would sniff and politely tell me to fuck off.
“Well, sure now, let me see what I can do for you,” the young woman said, much to my relief. “As long as your room isn’t occupied at the moment, I’m sure we can squeeze you in early. Can I please have your name, sir?”
“Donovan North,” I said without missing a beat, glad I’d practiced.
“Oh, Mr. North,” she breathed immediately, as if she knew me. “Of course you can get here early. You said five, right? I’ll make sure everything’s ready for you.”
I blinked. “Thank you,” I managed to say without stammering.
“You’re very welcome. We’re so excited to have you!” the woman gushed. “Well, I guess I’ll be seeing you bright and early, then.”
“Yeah. See you then,” I said slowly. “Uh … bye, now.”
“Have a safe drive, Mr. North.”
I’d run out of small talk, so I just hung up and stared at the phone for a minute. That was a lot more enthusiastic than I’d expected. Donnie had said he’d never been to Vermont, but it sure sounded like this girl, at least, knew him. If that was the case, I could be in trouble. I looked like him, but not exactly down to the last detail, and I sure as hell didn’t know how to act like him.