by J. D. Barker
I stood up fast, sending the wooden chair crashing to the floor behind me as I dived for the gun. If not for the spin, I would have missed it, but the butt of the gun rammed into my palm and I scooped up the pistol in a series of moves more lucky than skillful.
This didn’t slow down Erma Eads. With the howl of a banshee coming from her lips, she grabbed the edge of the table and yanked up. My sandwich plate, her ashtray, and the can of Coke flew through the air. The table careened toward me, and she followed behind in an uncontrolled tumble; two hundred and fifty pounds of blubber and bone crashed into Ikea’s finest, and both table and woman slammed into me. I tumbled backward, tripped over an end table, and went down next to the couch.
Erma got to her feet first and came at me again, half stumbling, half thrusting. She fell on top of me, and as her shoulder crunched down into the center of my chest, I heard a horrible cracking sound.
The air left my lungs and I thought for sure she had broken several of my ribs before I realized the sound had come from the end table, now in pieces under her meaty thigh.
Somehow, I managed to maintain my grip on the gun. I swung my arm around and smacked the butt of the nine-millimeter against the side of her head with a satisfying thunk. This slowed her for only a moment. Her long fingernails grabbed at my arm and sliced through the skin just above my wrist, and spittle flew from her lips as she growled like a rabid dog.
I brought my knee up while simultaneously punching her kidney. Once. Twice.
I kept hitting her, drawing strength from her garbled grunts, and finally her flailing diminished into lumbering, weak thrusts, her energy gone.
I twisted away and managed to roll out from under her before she could strike again. I half stepped, half stumbled to my feet. I raised the gun and pointed the barrel directly at her snarling, gasping face. “Enough!”
“What did you do to my Roland?” she screamed, a crumpled heap of flowered muumuu on the floor.
I twisted the gun sideways to get a better look at my wrist. She had drawn blood, but the scratches weren’t deep.
“You shot my brother!” she spat. “You killed Roland!”
“It wasn’t me!”
On the screen, the redheaded reporter was still talking. “The vehicle behind me, a 1992 Ford Escort, matches reports of the car used by Michael Kepler in his escape from LAPD earlier today with the aid of a man posing as his attorney. At this point, we don’t know if the body found in the car is that of Kepler, his attorney, or someone else. We have learned the person was shot in the head before the vehicle was doused in gasoline and set aflame. A gun was recovered at the scene, but the police are not willing to confirm whether or not that gun is the murder weapon.” The reporter gazed into the camera, her face solemn. “One thing is certain, Brett—a killer is on the loose. Residents of Los Angeles County are strongly cautioned to remain careful and vigilant until he is back in police custody.”
“Erma, you’ve got to believe me,” I said. “I didn’t hurt him. I wouldn’t shoot him, and I didn’t set the car on fire. Why would I do that?”
Her eyes narrowed as they darted from the television to me. “You’re him, aren’t you?”
“Who?”
“Nobody calls me Erma.”
“I don’t understand. Who are you talking about?”
She glared at me from her position on the floor. “Anyone who knows me calls me Bunny. Nobody calls me Erma. You’re him. I know it. Roland told me, but I didn’t believe him. Fucking crazy.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Just shoot me. I ain’t telling you shit.”
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
She smirked and nodded toward the television. “Is that what you told him?”
“Get up.”
“No.”
The two of us stared at each other for a long time, neither one looking away.
I crossed the small living room to the lamp on the floor, unplugged it, and yanked the cord out the other side. Then I did the same with the matching lamp. I used one cord to tie her hands behind her back and the other to bind her legs. From the coffee table, I grabbed the lighter sitting with a pack of Marlboro Reds and used it to heat the plastic cord at the knots.
“You’re burning me!”
“No, I’m not. Stop squirming.”
When the plastic cooled, the knots on the cord had fused. There would be no untying it. It would need to be cut away. I helped her to a sitting position on the couch.
I pressed the barrel of the gun against her cheek. “Tell me what the fuck is going on.”
“Shoot. Me.” After the two words, she pinched her lips shut tight and turned her head away from me, reminding me of a child refusing to eat.
“Which room is Roland’s?”
She only glared at me.
“Did he kill Alyssa Tepper?”
This seemed to confuse her, but she still didn’t speak.
I straightened and went to the bedroom on my left.
I had a fifty-fifty shot.
Erma’s room.
Bunny.
Whatever.
I tore the room apart. I yanked open every drawer and dumped the contents. Pulled every article of clothing from the closet and flipped the mattress and box spring. Several pictures hung on the wall—Erma in her younger years—I yanked those down too. I moved in more of a blind fury than anything resembling an organized search, but I continued, each destructive motion eating away at my anger and confusion.
After twenty minutes, I had found nothing meaningful in her room. I stomped the length of the mobile home to the bedroom on the opposite side, stepping over Erma Eads, who had managed to roll back onto the floor but had made little headway with her bindings.
“There would be no need for this if you just told me what was going on, Erma,” I said as I stood at the open door to the second bedroom. “You have a lovely home. I take no pleasure in this.”
The second bedroom was a mirror image of the first, about twelve feet wide and ten feet deep. A double bed, unmade, was crammed in the far corner. The once-white sheets were now a muted yellow. A small air-conditioner unit chugged at the window, but it did little to diminish the musty odor of sweat and mildew in the air.
I rubbed at my temples. I wasn’t exactly sure when the headache had started, but the dull throb behind my eyeballs had grown to the point where it could no longer be ignored.
“Erma, do you have any Tylenol?”
When she didn’t answer, I went back down the hall to the small bathroom. “Never mind, I’ll find them.”
Above the pedestal sink, I opened the mirrored medicine cabinet and rummaged around inside. I didn’t find any Tylenol, but she did have a bottle of Excedrin Migraine.
I took two, swallowed them dry. Started to put the bottle back, thought better of it, and slipped it in my pocket instead. As if in retaliation, the pain behind my eyes intensified. My ears filled with a low hum.
I tried to ignore it and give the medicine time to work.
I returned to the second bedroom, Roland’s, and stepped inside.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Written Statement,
Megan Fitzgerald
As I had earlier, I asked the Uber driver to drop me at the start of our long driveway rather than at the house. The sun had set nearly an hour before, and the last thing I needed was Dr. Rose or Ms. Neace spotting headlights coming up the drive.
I bolted through the yard, my backpack bouncing under my right arm, dodging all but the last motion-activated light, this one above the laundry-room door.
The interior of the house was dark, and I kept it that way. I removed my shoes and felt my way up the back staircase and along the hall. I slipped into my room and gently closed the door, cringing as the hinges squeaked the last few inches.
When I turned on the light, I found Dr. Rose sitting on the edge of my bed.
“Shit!” I dropped my backpack and covered my mouth.
Dr. Rose stare
d at me with those steel-gray eyes, her lips pursed. Both her hands were at her sides, her fingertips digging into my duvet.
“You scared me half to death!”
Dr. Rose licked her lips. “Our appointment was three hours ago. Where have you been?”
“Studying. At the library.”
“I called campus security and had them check the library. Four times. You weren’t there.” She rose from the bed. “Where have you been?”
“I…I wasn’t at the library the whole time. I went to Starbucks to get a snack and some coffee. That’s all. They probably missed me.”
Dr. Rose glared at me.
“Really, that’s the only place I went. Where else would I go?”
“Why didn’t you answer your phone?”
I had turned off my phone after speaking to Michael. That FBI agent kept calling, and I didn’t want her to be able to track me. “The battery died.”
“Let me see it.”
“Seriously?”
“I’m not going to ask twice.”
I reached into the front pocket of my backpack, pulled out the phone, and handed it to her.
Dr. Rose studied the blank screen for a second, then pressed the power button. “You’ve got fifty percent left on the battery. Why was it off?”
“Are you sure? It died hours ago.”
“I’m not an idiot, Megan. Don’t patronize me. It’s unbecoming.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“What’s your pass code?”
“You have no right—”
She glared at me. “What is your pass code?”
I told her.
Dr. Rose keyed in the number and began opening various apps.
“What are you doing?”
Without looking up, she said, “I’m checking your call log, your texts, your pictures, and whatever else I decide I’d like to look at.” She tossed her keys to me. “Go wait for me in my office.”
I felt my face flush. I squeezed Dr. Rose’s keys hard enough to draw blood and stomped down the stairs.
I had no idea what Michael was about to do, Jessica. If I had, I would have tried to stop him. I swear.
Chapter Forty
Michael
Like Erma’s bedroom, Roland’s had two windows. He had covered both in newspaper, haphazardly taped over the glass—not enough to block the sunlight entirely but enough to make the space feel smaller, claustrophobic. A milk crate beside the bed served as a nightstand. No other furniture.
I stepped over the dirty clothes, went to the milk crate, and flicked on his lamp. The bare bulb came to life, sent the shadows scurrying.
An empty garment bag from Roselli’s in downtown LA hung from the back of the bedroom door; no doubt it had once held the suit Roland was wearing today. An old pair of tennis shoes were lying on the floor atop a couple of stained T-shirts and a pair of dusty jeans.
Beside the lamp on the makeshift nightstand was an old alarm clock, a stained water glass with a thin layer of dust, and several prescription bottles, including Ambien and mirtazapine, an antidepressant. All the medications had been prescribed for Roland Eads.
With my left hand, I held the lamp. With my right leg, I kicked the side of the milk crate, punting it toward the wall. It rolled several times before coming to a stop on the opposite side of the small room. The pills, clock, and water glass scattered in various directions.
He hadn’t hidden anything under or behind the crate.
I set the lamp down on the floor, slipped both hands under his mattress, and tossed that aside too. The box spring followed. Nothing.
Systematically, I made my way around the room, kicking at the threadbare, filthy clothing, thumbing the pages of each book, every magazine.
I found nothing.
My headache intensified, the dull hum growing to a steady grumble. It felt like someone was squeezing my left eyeball, the pressure slowly building.
I swallowed another migraine pill.
I went to the closet and slid the door open.
On the floor sat a bowling ball, several pairs of shoes, and some old hiking boots. A couple of stray hangers had fallen down there too. I checked the finger holes of the bowling ball before throwing it through the bedroom wall. I even reached into each fragrant shoe on the off chance he’d hid something inside.
I found nothing.
I threw the shoes behind me, getting little satisfaction in the thumps as they slammed into the far wall.
The shelf at the top of the closet held only a couple pairs of jeans and dust.
My headache grew worse.
I think I groaned as I began rifling through the hanging clothes. If I did, I couldn’t hear it over the roar in my ears. I tugged at each garment, throwing it to the floor behind me as I went—several wrinkled button-downs, faded slacks, a—
I stopped.
I stared.
There were three of them.
I pulled them from the hangers and stomped back into the living room.
Erma “Bunny” Eads was lying on her side, twisting like a beached cod, still attempting to break the cords around her hands and feet. She managed to do nothing but work up a sweat. She looked up at me as I came in, her hair matted against her forehead.
I threw all three shirts at her, watched them flutter to the ground.
I returned the kitchen table to its original position, grabbed one of the chairs, and fell into it. I took the bottle of Excedrin Migraine from my pocket, popped the top, and swallowed two more.
My head screamed.
Elbows on the table, I held my head between my hands and rubbed my temples.
Fuck, it hurt.
The three shirts on the floor around Erma Eads were all embroidered with the same text:
WINDHAM HALL—STAFF
ROLAND EADS
Windham Hall—the orphanage where I stayed briefly before being placed with the Fitzgeralds. Megan had been adopted from there too. Both Dr. Rose and Dr. Bart served on the board.
“What does Roland have to do with Windham Hall?” I spoke the words softly, yet each syllable felt like the tip of a rusty fish knife digging into the side of my skull.
Bunny Eads smirked; her eyes narrowed, and she slowly shook her head.
I closed my eyes and sucked in tepid air. “Goddamn it, Erma, you don’t want to shut me out. That won’t end well for you.”
She licked at the blood trickling from her cracked lip. “Fuck. You.”
I wasn’t proud of what I did next.
Chapter Forty-One
Dobbs
Dobbs was beginning to understand that whenever Special Agent Jessica Gimble faced a problem, she retreated into her own world, pacing, finger-snapping, and occasionally barking an order, as she attempted to puzzle it out.
He stood under a tent in the Nadler Distribution parking lot listening to Sammy Goggans talk. Dobbs tried not to watch Gimble, but as Sammy Goggans droned on, he kept finding himself stealing glances as she circled Kepler’s truck, following the wide perimeter taped off by LAPD around the eighteen-wheeler. He knew she was a runner by her posture, her stride, her overall muscle tone and level of fitness. Her white tank top and jeans clung to her, and she seemed comfortable in the thin layer of sweat brought on by the activity; her cheeks, forehead, and arms glistened in the setting California sun.
Sammy paused a moment and plugged the small black box he had removed from the truck into his MacBook via the USB port. “This one is made by a company called Trux Data,” he said. “Unlike the hardwired models made by Xata, Cadec, and CarrierWeb, it’s meant to be mobile. This unit just needs a power supply, the transmitter plugs into the vehicle’s ODBC port, and it’s ready to record everything—”
“My guys pulled all this,” Dobbs said.
Sammy nodded toward Gimble. “If she found out I’d relied on a third party when I had access to the data myself, she’d tear me a new one.”
Dobbs glanced back at Gimble. Her pace had quickened toward a sprint-walk with
each lap. He’d lost track of how many times she’d gone around.
Sammy sighed. “Yes, she’s single. Yes, she’s attractive. She is deeply involved in a passionate relationship with her career. We assume she has a family somewhere, although I wouldn’t be surprised to hear she was grown in a lab. All I know for sure is she grew up somewhere outside Charleston, did her undergrad at Vanderbilt on some kind of full-boat athletic scholarship, then went right into the academy at Quantico.”
Sammy lowered his voice. “She doesn’t talk about her home life, and we learned long ago not to ask. Speculation is, it was rough, and she clawed her way out. Ran and didn’t look back.”
Dobbs stole another glance at her.
Sammy shook his head. “She goes out of her way to avoid any kind of attachment. I think she lives out of a go bag. Put her in your spank-bank and move on.” Sammy’s MacBook dinged and he looked back down at the screen. “Now we’re talking.”
“What is it?”
“I’m combining data,” he said as a map of the United States filled the screen with a red line running from Los Angeles to New York. “This is Kepler’s most recent run, which ended day before yesterday, just like he said. If I do this”—he hit a series of buttons, and dozens of other overlapping red lines appeared—“we’ve got all the runs he’s made since he started with Nadler.”
Dobbs leaned in closer. Although it appeared Kepler stuck to the same three or four cross-country routes, he diverged on small runs north or south. “These detours—”
“I’m on it,” Sammy replied. His fingers moving quickly over the keyboard.
Nearly two dozen red dots appeared on the screen, each lining up with the route data, most at the point of each detour.
“We got him,” Sammy said.
“Those are the murders?”
“Each dot represents a homicide where a feather was found.” Sammy turned and shouted over his shoulder, “Gimble! You’ll want to see this!”
Dobbs frowned. “He knew his GPS data was being recorded. I don’t get it.”