by Dan Padavona
Water dribbled in the showers. She moved to the end of the row and peeked around the corner. Nobody there. Odd.
Footsteps moved through the room. The person was behind her now.
She swung around and scanned the row. The ghost had moved on.
Valerie had viewed too many horror movies to trust unexplained noises in a vacant room. Not willing to engage in the cat-and-mouse game, she strutted away from the sounds and toward the exit. She found the door closed. Jiggling the handle, her panic spiked. Someone had jammed the door from the outside. Her eyes ran up and down the door, searching for another way out. Footsteps moved between the rows. Coming closer.
Pounding on the door, she yelled.
“Ms. Steele? Can someone let me out? The door is locked.”
A bang swung her head around. It sounded as if someone had slammed a fist against the locker. She tugged on the door and pounded again. A fire exit at the rear of the locker room led to the staff parking lot. That meant she’d need to evade whoever was inside the room.
Removing her shoes, Valerie padded past the first two rows and stopped. She angled her head around the corner and confirmed the next row was clear. It was quiet now. As though the stranger had vanished. Her breaths came quick as she tiptoed to the fourth row. She recognized the pattern of open and closed doors, the stray, abandoned T-shirt on the floor. This was where she’d changed her clothes. Something caught her eye. An object lay on the bench at the far end of the row.
A wallet.
She swore it hadn’t been there before.
“Hello? Did you forget something?”
Her voice faded through the room and died against the walls. She moved down the row, keeping her back to the lockers so nobody could sneak up on her. Plucking the brown leather wallet off the bench, she opened it and stared at Derek’s driver’s license.
She laughed at the ceiling as the puzzle pieces fell into place. How long had Derek planned this elaborate Halloween prank? Anything to put a scare into her. She wasn’t too proud to admit he’d done a solid job.
“Very funny, Derek. Come out, come out, wherever you are.”
Her heart still slammed against her chest as she tucked the wallet into her pocket.
“If you want your wallet, you’ll have to take it off me. Bet you can’t guess where I hid it.”
Valerie smirked as she darted down the rows, the shoes in her hand, the knapsack and bag straps digging into her shoulder. Where was he?
Water plunked against the floor. He must be in the shower.
“Hiding in the girls’ shower, Derek. What did you hope to see, you dirty boy?”
Setting her belongings down, she waited beside the wall, the humidity from the showers breathing around the corner. After counting to three in her head, she leaped out of hiding.
“Boo!”
The showers were empty. Valerie narrowed her eyes and gazed around. Derek had run out of places to hide, and she should have found him by now. After she retrieved her belongings, she rushed to the fire exit. The heavy steel door made a loud bang whenever it shut. She would have heard the door if Derek sneaked out. She paused beside the exit. Something seemed off. Derek should have leaped out of hiding for the final scare. Worry creased her forehead.
Casting a glance over her shoulder, she shoved against the exit door. Anything to escape the gloomy locker room, no matter how chilly the weather.
Her breath caught in her throat as she stepped into the parking lot and spied her stalker. The door locked behind her before she could dive inside.
The Halloween Man leered at her from across the parking lot.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
October 31st
12:00 p.m.
Scout couldn’t take the cold anymore. Shivering, she wheeled the chair to the thermostat and boosted the temperature to seventy degrees. Most days, the sun provided passive solar heat through the guest house’s many windows. The glowering sky smothered any hope for sunlight today as the wind pushed the October chill indoors.
Back at the computer, she bit into a salami sandwich and chewed, staring at the screen. Jack lay on his belly with his head resting on his paws, giving her the sad eye. She tore a piece off her sandwich and tossed it to him. The enormous dog swallowed the treat in one bite and lay his head down again, hoping for another.
“If you eat all day, you’ll turn into Fat Albert.”
Jack whined.
“Fine.”
She threw him the last quarter of her sandwich.
Violet Lyon appeared in multiple forums on the internet, especially websites devoted to horror movies. From her profile pictures and bios, it appeared Violet worshiped John Carpenter, Wes Craven, Tobe Hooper, and the famous horror directors from yesteryear. Though Violet concealed her identity and never posted pictures of herself, she remained active.
Good marketing plan, Scout thought. Violet posted links to her podcast in her bio and answered questions from adoring fans. Which she had many of. Violet’s presence on the horror forums sent hundreds, if not thousands, of visitors to her website. The phone interrupted the investigation. Uh-oh. Mom was checking on her.
“Hey, hon. How are you feeling?”
Scout fake-coughed into her hand.
“A little better.”
“Drinking lots of liquids?”
“I guess so.”
“Stay hydrated, Scout. You don’t want to make yourself sicker. If you’re up and about, will you do me a favor and preheat the oven at one? I’m baking with Ms. Hopkins this afternoon. We’ll be quiet, in case you’re asleep.”
Scout bit her lip. Claiming she was in her bedroom wasn’t an option. It would only get her caught once Mom arrived home.
“Um, I’m actually at LeVar’s place right now.”
A pause.
“You’d better not be working today.”
“Not much. I’ve been resting most of the morning and looking at the lake.”
Which wasn’t a total lie. Sitting in front of a computer wasn’t strenuous work, and the lake relaxed Scout and helped her focus.
“Please, be careful. With LeVar and Thomas at work, there isn’t anyone to watch over you.”
“Mom, it’s not like I’m gonna take a dip in the lake. I’ll be all right.”
“Okay. Don’t answer the door for anyone.”
“I won’t.”
“We’ll stop in and say hello after we get back. How’s that?”
“Sure.”
After Mom ended the call, Scout glared at the screen. She needed to work faster. Pretty soon, she’d have Mom and Ms. Hopkins looking over her shoulder all afternoon.
She opened Violet’s profile and clicked on her posting history. The podcaster debated her favorite horror movies, new and old. In one thread, she argued over the best final girls in horror history. Final girls, Scout learned, were the last surviving women in horror movies. Violet asserted Jamie Lee Curtis deserved the crown, and every copycat was second-rate.
As Scout moved through the posts, she noticed a disturbing trend. A forum member named Krueger31 always responded to Violet’s posts, often defending her from argumentative members. Scout liked his name. Obviously a reference to the Nightmare on Elm Street movies. Scout jotted the name on a notepad.
She toggled a separate tab and opened another forum Violet frequented. It wasn’t long before Krueger31 showed up. The stranger was flirting with Violet, though she didn’t acknowledge his advances. Scout assumed Violet was paranoid about internet stalkers. She’d need to be to keep herself safe. So who was Krueger31?
Typing the stranger’s name into a search window, she sifted through the results. The unknown poster created accounts on a dozen or more horror forums. One by one, Scout opened the forums, created new accounts, and clicked on Krueger31’s profiles. Unlike Violet, he left his bios empty. No identifying photographs, except the Freddy Krueger profile picture he hid behind on multiple websites. And he followed Violet from thread to thread like a lost puppy dog.
The search led Scout in an endless circle. This was going nowhere, and she was running out of time before Mom and Ms. Hopkins crashed her party.
An idea struck her. Geolocation. She could track Violet Lyon and determine if the girl lived around here, as she claimed. Scout dragged Violet Lyon’s IP address into a tracking application and read the results. As she checked the locations, LeVar’s voice came over the radio. She stretched for the handheld radio, but it lay atop the computer table. She strained. The wheelchair wobbled. When she felt certain she’d tumble out of the wheelchair, her fingers touched the radio and pulled it in.
Catching her breath, she asked, “Hey, aren’t you supposed to be at work?”
“I am at work,” he said. “Aren’t you supposed to be in school?”
“Yup.”
LeVar laughed.
“I’m in the car with Chelsey and heading to the farmhouse outside Wolf Lake.”
“The farmhouse Benson and Ramos used as a hiding place?”
“The same. How’s the Violet Lyon search going?”
“Better,” she said, reading a map of Violet Lyon’s locations. “I’m using IP geolocation to find her.”
“IP what?”
“It’s a way to track a person’s location online.”
“That’s…disturbing. Is it accurate?”
“Within five to seven miles.” Scout pointed at the screen, as though LeVar was there to see. “Her locations cluster around Barton Falls, New York. That tells me she’s not lying about her whereabouts.”
“That’s a start. Since you know where she lives, can you find out who she is?”
“I hope so. I’ll start with the usual methods—digital yearbooks, social media accounts, town forums, media articles. Like I told you, I’ll find Violet by the time you return.”
“Just so you’re aware, that might be late. I don’t imagine we’ll finish before sunset.”
“No problem. We’ll feed Jack and watch the house until you’re finished.”
“And let him out to run. He shouldn’t stay inside all day.”
“Aye-aye, captain.”
Scout turned to Jack after the call ended. She wanted to open the door and let Jack burn some energy. Though Jack seemed reliable and always returned on command, she worried he’d run off. What would she do if Jack sprinted into the woods and didn’t look back? She leaned over and stroked the dog’s fur. The wheelchair arm dug into her ribs, and she cursed the stupid chair. She’d come to terms with her paralysis. But times like this made her wish she could run like her classmates. Nothing would make her happier than bundling up in a winter coat and walking Jack down the lake road.
As she turned back to the investigation, Jack sat up and swung his head toward the door. His ears lifted, and a low growl rippled through his frame.
Pushing herself away from the table, Scout wheeled down the hallway to the door. She expected a deer had wandered into the yard and spooked the dog. A man stood on the front steps outside her house, ringing the doorbell. She rubbed her eyes and wished she’d brought her binoculars. The man pressed the doorbell again before giving up. As he descended the ramp, Scout drew in a breath.
No, it couldn’t be.
She hadn’t seen her father in months. Yet there he was, crossing their front yard toward his car. Jack barked behind her. She shushed the dog and pulled the door open, squeezing through the entrance as he climbed into his car. Then she was a five-year-old girl again, crying for her father’s attention as he left for work. Throughout her life, he’d spent more time at work than home with his family.
“Dad, wait!”
He didn’t hear her over the wind. The door closed and the engine fired as Scout threw her strength behind the wheels. The chair carried her up the concrete path as the icy wind stung her eyes and drew tears.
“I’m here, Dad. Don’t go!”
The car pulled off the shoulder as Scout reached the driveway. Her head fell to her chest. Why didn’t he stop?
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
October 31st
12:10 p.m.
“Are you certain this is the man you saw?”
Deputy Aguilar set Mark Benson’s photograph on the counter. The shop owner adjusted the thick-lensed glasses on her nose and squinted. Aguilar stood inside the florist’s shop, surrounded by bouquets and vases. Something inside the store ignited her allergies. She struggled not to sneeze while the woman lifted the picture and tilted it to the left, then to the right.
Aguilar groaned under her breath. The shop owner’s eyesight made her unreliable. From the thickness of the lenses, Aguilar figured the woman might have spotted Big Bird crossing the street and identified him as Benson.
“Yes, I’m certain it was him.”
“Where did you last see this man, ma’am?”
She lifted her chin at the storefront.
“He was standing right there, on the other side of the glass.”
Aguilar turned. Two sprawling palms blocked the window. How in the world had the woman recognized anyone, let alone a fugitive?
“On the sidewalk?”
“That’s right. He was there, plain as day.”
“Did he speak to anyone?”
The woman scrunched up her face in thought.
“No, he was by himself.”
“Then what happened?”
“After I recognized his face from the news, I picked up the phone and called your department. The moment I looked up, he disappeared.”
Aguilar chewed her lip and glanced around the shop.
“Do you have security cameras?”
The woman pointed toward the ceiling. One camera angled down at the counter.
“I keep it recording all the time, on account of the lowlifes who come in from Harmon.”
“Is that your only camera?”
“Yes.”
“And it doesn’t cover the front window.”
“Not sure why I’d want to record people coming and going. Just the criminals stealing plants inside the store. Once, a gentleman slipped a Pothos inside his jacket and walked out. The camera recorded him, and the sheriff’s deputy recognized his face from the video. I believe the deputy’s name was Lambert.”
Aguilar covered a snicker. She pictured Deputy Lambert, who stood eighteen inches taller than the diminutive woman behind the counter, solving the great Pothos caper. Aguilar would be sure to ask Lambert about the incident later.
“What time did you notice the fugitive?”
“It was a little after ten. I’d just finished my inventory work when I spotted him on the sidewalk.”
Aguilar noted the time and thanked the woman for her help. Outside the storefront window, the deputy crossed her arms and swung her head up and down the sidewalk. The municipal parking lot sat one block away, behind a row of stores. The amount of vehicles clogging the parking spaces meant Benson would have blended in. If he was driving, his was just one vehicle in a sea of hundreds. Though Aguilar doubted the shop owner’s reliability, she searched for stores likely to use security cameras. Her eyes settled on a well-lit storefront with an expensive necklace displayed in the window.
Schuman Jewelers. Schuman notoriously overcharged for jewelry, repairs, and cleaning. Last year, Aguilar had inquired about replacing a missing stone on a ring her grandmother handed down. The snooty woman behind the counter wanted almost two-hundred dollars. Aguilar wanted to arrest the woman for highway robbery.
But if any store on the block utilized multiple cameras, it was Schuman.
Aguilar adjusted her hat and pulled the door open. The interior of the jewelry store felt like a sauna compared to the cold wind ripping through the village center. Aguilar muttered to herself when she recognized the same woman behind the counter. The self-important store owner examined a ring with a loupe.
“May I help you?” the woman asked without looking up.
“Nights
hade County Sheriff’s Department, ma’am.”
The jeweler possessed a hawk nose that extended to her upper lip. The round, orange Bob framed a face that had benefited from a few lifts. Aguilar didn’t expect a respectful reaction from the woman.
“I gave at the community fundraiser last spring,” she said, still focused on the ring. With a huff, she set the ring aside and planted her palms on the glass counter. “How much do you want this time?”
“I’m not collecting donations.”
“Then perhaps you’re in a buying mood. I’m Lois Schuman, proprietor of Schuman Fine Jewelers. How may I serve you today, Deputy?”
Aguilar fished the photograph out of her jacket and laid it on the counter.
“We’re searching for this man. Have you seen him?”
The woman gave the photo a cursory glance and returned her gaze to Aguilar.
“I would think not. He doesn’t look the type to shop for fine jewelery.”
“He was last seen two stores down from you around eleven o’clock.”
“Well, if he walked past, I didn’t notice him. I’m quite busy today. What did he do, anyway? Steal a monster truck?”
“He’s a kidnapper and escaped convict.”
Schuman grunted.
“Then I’ll remember to never donate again. Seems you can’t contain the criminals you catch.”
Aguilar knew better than to waste time explaining Benson had served time in a federal penitentiary. Schuman returned her focus to the ring.
“Do you have security cameras that cover the sidewalk?”
Aguilar noticed the camera above the storefront window. Sometimes, shop owners placed fake cameras to deter criminals. Aguilar doubted Schuman spared any expense to protect her shop.
“We do.”
“May I examine the footage?”
“You may not. The Nightshade County Sheriff’s Department doesn’t have the right to demand security footage. No crimes were committed here.”
“Please, Mrs. Schuman. It’s important we establish when the fugitive came through the village.”
“That’s not my problem. If you want the footage, come back with a warrant.”