Girl, Alone (An Ella Dark FBI Suspense Thriller—Book 1)

by Blake Pierce

  Outside her bedroom door, she could see the hallway light was still on. Her dad always kept it turned off when he was asleep, so maybe he’d woken up early too. Ella hopped off her bed and opened up her door as quietly as possible. She just needed to see his face, whether he was awake or not. She needed to make sense of this, then she could go back to sleep. If her dad questioned her on why she’d gotten out of bed, she’d just say her scrunchy had fallen out and her hair was itching her forehead.

  Out in the corridor, the orange light burned her eyes. She blinked until they adjusted then listened out for her dad. Nothing. Dead silence.

  Suddenly, she noticed something unusual.

  Her father’s bedroom door was wide open. He hadn’t kept his door open since she was a baby.

  “Hello?” said a voice. This time, the voice came from outside of her inner acoustics. She snapped back to reality, seeing Ripley in front of her again.

  Music filled her ears. Hard rock from the eighties. It sounded like AC/DC but she wasn’t sure. Suddenly, she was back in Freya’s Tavern, a long way away and many years removed from that night as a five-year-old girl. She always tried her best to keep the visions at bay, but they crept up on her like a spider from the floorboards. Once she knew they were lingering, it took a lot of willpower to not let them in. The slightest mention of family or work or trauma could bring back all of the pain and crush her under the weight of her memories. She had always prided herself on being approachable, honest, authentic, but there were certain subjects she avoided like the plague. This was one of them.

  “Sorry, went off into dreamland there,” Ella joked.

  Ripley narrowed her eyes in her direction. Ella felt her stare. The same stare that had seen right into the heart of a hundred of America’s most violent offenders was now turned on her. It burned. It made her feel exposed, like Ripley could see everything she’d just been imagining.

  “I’ve only ever worked in law enforcement,” Ella said, trying to revert back to the original question. “Started with Virginia state police seven years ago and never looked back. I guess I’ve been typecast,” she laughed.

  “Something was bothering you just then. What was it?”

  Ella stuttered. “Bothering me? Nothing.”

  “They don’t call me the Human Lie Detector for nothing. A moment ago, you went somewhere else in your head. Tell me about it.”

  Ella felt herself freeze up. She couldn’t tell Ripley the truth. She’d never told anyone, let alone someone she’d only known for twenty-four hours. But if she tried to lie her way out of it, there was a chance it could affect Ripley’s perception of her. Ella could sense Ripley was warming to her, or at least she hoped so. The last thing she wanted to do was quench that.

  “I was trying to think about why I joined the Bureau. Around the time I did, some bad stuff was happening in my personal life. That’s all.”

  “Like what?”

  “Family drama I guess is the term.” Ella hoped the lie was convincing enough.

  The moment hung and gradually died out, but then Ripley revived it. “Talk about it. I think you should. “

  Ella brainstormed some ideas to shut the conversation down, but nothing solid came to mind. She decided to be direct. “Can we talk about it some other time?” she asked. Ella saw Ripley give her the three-point look, moving her gaze toward her feet, her hands, and back to her eye level. It was the look that said she knew the truth regardless of what came out of her mouth.

  “Bottling up trauma isn’t good for you. If you want to do this job for any longer than a week, you’ll need to find a way of letting that trauma out.”

  “I get that, it’s just that it’s a long story and today has really tired me out.”

  Ripley smiled with a sympathetic look. Ella couldn’t tell if it was mock or genuine.

  “Sure, let’s get out of here,” Ripley said.

  They exited Freya’s Tavern and walked out into the night, following the streetlamps toward a wooden hut that doubled as a taxi stand. Ripley poked her head through the glass partition and booked the next cab available to take them to their hotel.

  Seeing Ripley engage in something so mundane was a strange feeling, Ella thought. She then realized that she’d stopped seeing her as the mythical figure she was known as and started seeing her as a person made of flesh and blood, with her own troubles and worries and regrets.

  Most interestingly of all, Ella was starting to realize that Ripley wasn’t always right. There were blind spots in her rationale. Ella’s copycat theory seemed so airtight in her head and yet Ripley refused to accept it, or even consider it in any way. Ella visualized the whole thing like a jigsaw—the victims, the M.O.s, the references to infamous serial killers, even the locations. She couldn’t see any holes, but then again, she also couldn’t tell that Rick Cornette wasn’t a killer. She hadn’t known that criminals often marked potential burglary victims with strange symbols. It dawned on her that there were plenty of things she didn’t know, and perhaps there were aspects of this murder which could potentially blow her whole theory apart.

  In the distance, Ella could still see Christine’s Hardware 101. One of the guarding officers had fallen asleep in the police car. Ella began to wonder how easy it would be to slip past them. She wondered if the killer had come back to inspect his handiwork over the past twenty-four hours. It wasn’t uncommon for serial killers to inject themselves into investigations in any way they could, whether it be offering to help or calling the police to provide bogus information. The more Ella thought about it, the more confident she was that he would have at least surveyed the scene in some way, even if it was just a fleeting pass-by in his car.

  Ella thought of the two gentlemen who’d bought her a drink. She thought of the bartender, the sleeping policeman, the midnight strollers casting an inquisitive eye at the crime scene tape as they walked by. Any of those people could have been responsible for Christine Hartwell’s murder. Whoever it was could have been in the same bar as her and she wouldn’t know it.

  “Get some sleep tonight, Dark,” Ripley said as they waited. “We’re going to be seeing some dead bodies in the morning.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  He hung back in the shadows, watching his prey. He recalled a paragraph from one of the textbooks he’d memorized.

  The serial killer continuously evolves towards becoming his own god and executioner. With each subsequent killing, the homicidal drug, blunted by habitual use, creates a diminishing and disappointing impression. The extraordinary becomes increasingly ordinary.

  They were the words of one of the many men he admired. His heroes, he called them. The human monsters whom he’d lived through vicariously for as long as he could remember. They were the words of Ian Brady, the serial killing, psychopathic genius from England whose insights into murder had taught him so much and brought him great success already.

  But insights only took him so far, he’d realized. He knew now that acquiring knowledge was only half the battle; putting it into practice was what separated the real artists from the amateurs. And he was going to be the Picasso of his new world, he’d decided. No one would be better than him. People would talk about him for decades to come.

  With each subsequent killing, the homicidal drug, blunted by habitual use, creates a diminishing and disappointing impression. However, he’d made sure to keep things fresh this time, to avoid any so-called diminishing impressions. Outside of murders of convenience, how many serial killers crossed gender boundaries? Hardly any. They chose their victim type and they stuck to it.

  Bundy, Ramirez, Kemper, Gein. They all killed women.

  But there was a certain cannibal from Milwaukee who had a penchant for young, gay, black men. Tonight would be that man’s resurrection.

  And as he watched the man stumble out of the club and into the road, these thoughts of dismemberment came rushing back, and excited him to the point he began to tremble in anticipation.

  The man began to walk away from th
e club, and so he followed. His plan was simple. Follow him home, enter behind him, and begin the process. The man was Shawn Kelly, and he’d met him in the same club he’d just stumbled out of only the week before. Shawn made the perfect victim for what he wanted to achieve. The second they had engaged conversation on their first meeting, his mind had jumped to the Dahmer crime scene photos, and that was when the pieces fell in place.

  Shawn sang as he made his way home, leaving the main street and entering into an eerily quiet side road. He knew the exact route Shawn would take home, and by his calculations, it would take him around twelve minutes of walking. So far, things were on track.

  Shawn used the wall for assistance as he clambered down the side street, managing to stay on his feet. Shawn turned into a large cul-de-sac bathed in orange light.

  He didn’t like the cul-de-sac. It was too open, too visible. There were houses in every direction, making it easy for someone to spot the strange man following the drunk man.

  But he knew that Shawn’s house was located on the next street over. He kept his distance, occasionally staring at his phone to give the impression he was searching for a nearby establishment. He looked up and saw Shawn reach the small walkthrough which led into the street his house was on, and so he edged slightly closer to keep Shawn in sight.

  But then the voices came. Somewhere over the wall. They were numerous and jovial in tone. The unmistakable sound of drunken youth.

  Irritation clouded his thoughts. He hated that sound, and even worse was that it threw his schedule into disarray. He was standing at the entrance to the alleyway when, in his panic, he turned and rushed further out of sight.

  He could hear Shawn now, talking to them. Something about the club he’d been to and how he’d gotten completely shitfaced. He must know them, he thought.

  “We’re going to Freya’s,” one of the strangers said. “Coming?”

  No, no, no. He was almost sick with worry. He leaned against the wall, feeling a sudden emptiness in his stomach. Don’t you dare ruin my schedule, he thought. We’ve come this far. If you ruin this, you pricks will be next in line.

  They continued talking, then footsteps came his way. He panicked. His first thought was to run, but that would just draw attention to him. He knew he couldn’t risk anyone seeing him.

  Whoever it was came out of the alleyway. They were about to see him, and Shawn might too. If that happened, everything would be ruined.

  Out of some instinct he didn’t know he had, he leaned his arm against the wall and arched himself over. He coughed to the point that bile rose up through his stomach and into his throat. He felt their presence behind him, watching him.

  “You okay, bud?” one asked. It wasn’t Shawn.

  He held up his thumb, then continued spluttering. He spat some phlegm out onto the ground.

  He waited for what felt like an eternity. But then he heard them leave. Still perched against the wall, he glanced at them and saw they were both white, both teenagers. Shawn wasn’t with them.

  Relief washed over him, and once the kids were out of sight he rushed through the alleyway to continue on with his plan.

  He reached the other side and saw Shawn still staggering up ahead. He arrived at his small, detached home which boasted an impressive view of the lake. Of course, the killer already knew Shawn’s home address. He knew his job, and he knew that he afforded his place with a helping hand from his daddy.

  He edged closer, ensuring that he stayed cloaked in shadows.

  Shawn walked around the back of his house, unhooked a waist-high gate, and entered his backyard. Since most of the bayou houses were located in wide grassy areas, privacy was hard to come by. Public walkways usually circled entire blocks, leaving rear yards open to the view of any passersby. He had no problem circumventing his way around to Shawn’s backyard and still remaining obscured.

  At last, Shawn made it into his house. A downstairs light switched on. It had been around ninety minutes since the killer had dropped the pill in Shawn’s drink and made his escape, so their full effect should kick in any second. Then it was time to strike.

  He took a short walk to the end of the street and back just in case any prying eyes had spotted him. He made sure to hold his phone in his hand as he walked back. If anyone asked, he’d say he was talking to a local fellow on a dating app and was meeting up for a midnight rendezvous. If any of the neighbors knew Shawn, and he was sure they did, they’d no doubt believe him.

  After three minutes had elapsed, he moved closer to Shawn’s backyard.

  As expected, the killer’s tools were still in place from where he left them earlier. Shawn had been too drunk to notice them, despite them being right by his fence.

  One power drill. One gallon of antifreeze, courtesy of Christine’s Hardware 101.

  The back door opened with a click. He entered into a dark kitchen with black-and-white tiled panels. Five steps later, he was in the living room, staring at a man sitting on his sofa staring at his cell phone.

  “Hello, Shawn.”

  The man jumped up in fright. His phone flung from his hands. “Whoa, shit. You scared me.” He put his hand on his chest then smiled. “Come in.” He motioned for the stranger to join him on the couch. “What’s your name? Or shall I just call you JD213?”

  “You can call me Jeffrey.”

  “Jeffrey? Seriously? What are you, eighty?”

  He let out a fake laugh. “Very funny. I might not be as young as you but with age comes experience.”

  “Don’t I know it?” Shawn said. “Listen, I’ll be honest, I’ve had a shitload to drink and I feel woozy as hell. You’re a top, right? Because there’s no chance I’m gonna—” Shawn stopped himself, putting his hand on his new friend’s shoulder.

  “What’s wrong, Shawn?”

  “Just a little light-headed. You couldn’t get me some water, could you?”

  Shawn’s eyelids began to flutter. The killer watched in fascination. It was almost too easy. He wanted to inject some fear into the equation. He wanted Shawn to know that he was in the throes of death.

  “Shawn, I think I should call you an ambulance. You don’t look good. Have you been drugged?”

  “How am I supposed to know?”

  “Is your vision blurred? Is your heart elevated? Is there a burning feeling in your temples?”

  “Yeah, but I’m hammered.”

  “You don’t get those symptoms with drunkenness. You’ve been drugged. I’ve seen this before. I don’t have my phone so give me yours and I’ll call for help. This is serious.”

  “Phone is behind you,” Shawn said, collapsing backward in his seat.

  “Got it,” he said. “Let me get you some water.” He moved into the kitchen and ran the tap for effect. He waited a few seconds, then picked up the bag he’d stashed near the back door. When he returned to the living room, Shawn had reached the eyes rolling back in his head stage.

  Shawn focused his vision. “Bag? Toys?” he said, slurring both words. “Kinky.”

  “You could say that.”

  “You call them? I think you’re right. I’m starting to…” Shawn trailed off.

  He held up his phone. “No. I haven’t called anyone.” He threw the phone on the floor and brought his foot down onto the screen, smashing it to pieces. He continued to stamp until wires and circuit boards were visible.

  “Yo, what the f…” Shawn began before falling back again. His motor skills had faded, rendering him close to immobile.

  “No one is coming, Shawn. It’s just me and you, and yes, you’ve been drugged. Any second now, you’re going to pass out, and then I’m going to kill you.”

  Shawn’s fight or flight response kicked in, and he began kicking his legs out toward the stranger. But he was too weak, too vanquished.

  “Be careful who you talk to online, Shawn, because they might be watching you from afar. They might be in the same bar as you, armed with date rape drugs to use on a horny, unsuspecting kid. Then they might
arrange a midnight hook-up with you.”

  Shawn’s eyes fell shut, his nervous system forced into shutdown through foreign substances and utter dread. There was a brief sign of life, and so the killer pounced, wrapping his hands tightly around Shawn’s neck and squeezing until he passed out.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Footsteps woke her up.

  They weren’t her dad’s. They were heavier and more careless.

  Ella stepped off her bed. Her nightlight cast green and blue shapes against her bedroom ceiling, hypnotically rotating clockwise. She thought that she was too old for it now, but whenever her dad turned it off, she missed the gentle buzzing noise which she’d come to associate with sleep.

  Outside was still dark, so it must be the middle of the night. She never woke early, unless something interrupted her. Maybe it was it her dad, checking on her? She’d told him a hundred times to stop. She didn’t need to be checked on.

  No. Her dad treaded lightly. She knew his rhythm. She’d heard it every night for five years.

  Her door was slightly ajar, giving her a small glimpse into the landing area beyond. Shadows moved and danced, but something told her that those shadows didn’t belong to her father. She wasn’t sure how she knew. Perhaps child’s intuition, the same way she could tell when her dad was angry or irritated. They had a different presence, an alien aura.

  Ella treaded lightly as she approached the door, being sure to avoid her blue rug on her bedroom floor. That was where the creaks were the worst.

  She peered out to see a figure making its way into her dad’s bedroom. She only caught a glimpse, but there was enough to tell her that she was right. There was someone else in their home.

  She suddenly felt sick and dizzy. There was an icy chill in her fingertips, but she slowly crept out of her bedroom and followed the strange figure.