You Can't Hide: A pulse-pounding serial killer thriller (7th Street Crew Book 3)

by Willow Rose

  "Maya. Sweetie. Of course you'll see them again. You'll go on holidays and maybe some weekends. We'll figure it out."

  "And what about Dad?"

  I sighed. "What about him?"

  "Will we ever get to see him again or have you just decided that he's out of our lives as well?"

  "That is not my decision to make, Maya and you know it. Your father was the one who moved out. He was the one who said his girlfriends couldn't handle you. Not me. I wanted you to see him, I wanted you to go there every other weekend like most kids in a divorce, but he made the choice. He made the decision, Maya. Not me."

  "Because of Victor," she cried. "Because they couldn't handle Victor and all his seizures and panic attacks. That's why. Not because of me."

  I exhaled deeply. "Maya sweetie ..." I paused. Her eyes told me she couldn't handle the truth yet. The fact was that her father had said he couldn't handle either of them, that his girlfriend couldn't stand them, and it was too much for her now that she was pregnant and all. That was the truth. But at this moment I realized it would break Maya's heart if I told her that, so instead I kept quiet. This was not the time for that.

  "Maya ... I ..."

  "See, I told you. I'm just not important enough. You made that decision because of Victor, right? Just like you made the decision to move here based on what was best for Victor. Not me. Never me."

  Maya ran out the door and slammed it behind her. I looked down on my plate and finished the rest of the bacon, feeling all kinds of guilt.

  "I'll start running tomorrow," I mumbled, and drank the rest of my juice.

  Chapter Eight

  2012

  I decided to put our fight behind me and started unpacking the boxes I had managed to carry in last night. As soon as I was done with those I walked back to the car to get the rest. I opened the back and carried them out one by one, when I suddenly stopped. The police car was still parked in the street further down the road and now the entrance had been blocked off with police tape. But that wasn't what struck me even if four hours or so had passed by. No, what caught my attention were the two blue vans parked inside the police block, next to the island's only police car.

  Those weren't just ordinary vans; I knew that from my time as a real reporter on one of the local papers in Copenhagen. These were the vans from the Forensic team. These guys were only called out if it was a murder case.

  My curiosity got the better of me and I put down the box I was holding and walked closer. I joined the small crowd of neighbors and passersby who had stopped to watch. Behind the tape I spotted several people in blue bodysuits searching the place, picking up small evidence with tweezers and securing them in plastic bags.

  "I-I-Interesting, huh?" a man standing next to me asked.

  "Excuse me?" I asked and looked at him. My first thought was that he was some kind of weirdo, with his brown beanie covering his hair and forehead, and those black clothes and his stooping posture. He had both of his hands in his pockets like he was cold, but it was warm outside. But something in his eyes made me think twice. They seemed nice.

  "W-w-what h-h-happened?" he said.

  I shrugged. "I don't know. I just got here."

  "Y-y-you're ... t-t-that ... n-n-new o-o-one, right?" he stuttered horribly and I think the fact that I was now looking at him made it even worse.

  I smiled compassionately and nodded, knowing how fast news spread in a small place like this. "Yes. We just moved in."

  "W-w-welcome ... I'm ... J-j-jack. I ... I ... l-l-live a-a-across f-f-from y-y-you."

  "Well, hi then, Jack," I said, and for some strange reason couldn't help thinking about Jack the ripper. Jack wasn't a common Danish name, but I didn't want to ask him about it, since I knew that would require him to speak more than one sentence. I had never known anyone who stuttered before and was afraid to somehow embarrass him.

  "It's just because he doesn't know you yet," a woman standing to my other side said.

  I turned and looked at her. She seemed to be about my age, the beginning or middle of her thirties, maybe a little more. "Sorry?"

  "Jack always stutters when he gets nervous. New people make him nervous. Especially when they're pretty like you."

  I almost laughed but I could tell she was serious.

  "Hi, I'm Sophia. I live next to Jack on the other side of the street across from your house. The cheap side." She reached out her hand and I took it.

  "Emma," I said.

  "Got any kids, Emma?" Sophia asked.

  "Two. A teenage daughter and a seven-year-old son."

  Sophia nodded. "Good for you. I have five. All with different fathers. I'll tell you about them one day, but you'll have to bring the wine."

  I chuckled. "I will. Do you have any idea what happened here?"

  "Old Mrs. Heinrichsen was found dead this morning. That's all I know so far. Not that she'll be missed around here, old hag."

  "Oh," I said and looked at the scene. I spotted Officer Dan among the people in there. He saw me, too, and waved.

  "So what do you do, Emma?" Sophia asked. "For a living."

  "Well, I'm a writer."

  "Written anything interesting lately?" she asked.

  "Nope. Still waiting for that million dollar idea for the bestseller I'm planning on living off of for the rest of my life. Until then, I'm living off the money I got from selling my apartment in Copenhagen."

  "Should keep you going for a long time out here," Sophia said. "Not much to spend money on unless you like to buy tourist crap."

  "I really don't," I said. "Well, better get back to the kids."

  "Shoot! The kids!" Sophia said and walked back with me. "Keep forgetting about them. Must be wishful thinking, huh? See you around," she added and waved as she walked away.

  I waved back, thinking it was going to be easy to make friends here.

  It was in the moment I turned and looked back at the scene that it struck me.

  I should write about this. I should write a book about the murder at Fanoe Island.

  Chapter Nine

  1977

  There was a small toilet and a sink in the corner of the room that Astrid used to throw up in in the mornings. The nausea had grown worse and so did her worry that no one was going to come after her, that they had somehow forgotten about her.

  Or maybe they were in fact looking for her, maybe he was looking for her up there, but was looking in all the wrong places?

  But you don't believe that anymore, do you?

  It was hot in the bunker and Astrid was happy that she had worn a dress on the day that she had been trapped down there. It was expandable and too big, so there was room to grow.

  Days went by - at least she felt like it was days - it might have been weeks without a sound from the outside. From time to time Astrid hammered her fists on the iron door and yelled and screamed from the top of her lungs, but soon she gave up the fight. It was useless. It was a horrifying thought, cruel and gruesome beyond anything, but she was beginning to think that maybe, just maybe, she was stuck down her forever, or at least until the ration of food and water ran out. Then she would surely starve to death eventually. The thought made her start to cry again, but there were no more tears left. She fought hard not to allow the thoughts of a slow death caused by starvation and thirst enter her fragile mind and poison her spirit, but it was a fight she knew she would lose. Was death really the only way out of this shithole?

  "Won't anyone miss me?" she mumbled and heard the echo of her own voice. "Mom? Christian? Anyone?"

  Are you even looking for me?

  The feeling of loneliness crept up upon her and she hugged her blanket just not to feel so alone. For a long time - only God knows how long - she sat staring at the barren walls and the packed shelves with food enough for what? A month? Two? At least enough for now.

  You mustn't give up. Don't give up the fight. Don't give in to those bitter thoughts. You're not a failure till you’ve give up the fight.

  Astrid
sniffled and wiped her nose with the back of her hand. This was not the time to throw a pity-party, she convinced herself. Sad thoughts like these would only drag her down, only make things worse. Since there wasn't anything she could do to change her situation, Astrid decided to make the best of what she had. So to keep the boredom out, she started stacking cans in high towers. She had made five that reached all the way to the ceiling and only needed one more can to finish the sixth, when one fell down and Astrid bend down to the floor to pick it up. That was when she spotted something under the old bed that she had been sleeping on. She pulled it out. A wide smile spread on her face. It was a radio. An old one with a broken antenna, but it was still a radio. She turned the button on top to see if it worked and a crackling sound filled the room. She held her breath while turning the button to find a station and cheered out loudly when the sound of Queen’s "We Will Rock You" filled the room. It wasn't a clear sound, but it was a sound.

  Finally, something else than the sound of my own tired breath or the sound of me sobbing.

  She realized that the radio ran on batteries but she had seen stacks of batteries in one of the boxes on the shelves, so she should be good for a while. She put the radio on the table, then sat down on the bed and listened to the tunes and voices of a DJ so far away, yet so close to her she felt like she could almost see him.

  It was like a drop of hope in an ocean of despair. But it was enough for Astrid to get her spirits up again, to make her remember the world outside, and to keep her from losing her mind in the small, suffocating room.

  Chapter Ten

  2012

  Victor was still playing in the yard when I returned to the house. Maya was nowhere to be seen. I walked out the French doors and looked at my son knee-deep in the piles of leaves on the ground, talking to the trees like he used to do to the plants back in our apartment in Copenhagen.

  They like it when you talk to them, Mommy. They need company too.

  It was okay, his doctor had said.

  "It's probably just easier for him to talk to things that won't answer. People with light autism like Victor find it hard to be social and be with people. At least this way he's not lonely."

  "But he tells me they talk back," I had said.

  "It's still okay. No harm in that. He just has a vivid imagination and that's not a bad thing. Let him. Just remember not to let him lose complete touch with reality. He'll be just fine. You'll see."

  Other doctors hadn't been as positive. His school had claimed he was getting worse and soon after, demanded I do something. They had given me pamphlets and phone numbers for physicians who knew a lot about his condition. They told me he needed all kinds of medicine, and basically scared the crap out of me. After that, I tried different types of group therapy and acupuncture and whatnot, but nothing had helped him. The fact was that he was living in a world of his own from time to time and there were days I was afraid of losing him to it completely, but somehow he always returned to me.

  As I watched him in the yard, I couldn't see anything wrong with him playing on his own, even if he was talking to the trees like they were alive. How could there be anything wrong with that when he was this happy? I was beginning to think I should have stuck with our family doctor's advice and just not overdramatize the whole thing. The so-called specialists didn't even have a name for what was supposed to be wrong with him. It wasn't Asperger's Disorder, it wasn't autism, it was something milder, but still interfering with his social skills.

  Personally, I believed he was just sad that his father had left him. That's all it was if you asked me, but then again, I wasn't a doctor.

  The wind had picked up but it wasn't cold yet, even if it was September. It was what they called Indian summer. Victor seemed to still be in his seventh heaven so I decided to let him play for a little more while I went in and did some more unpacking. I was happy to see that Maya had already taken her stuff, so I had only mine and Victor's left. I spent a couple of hours unpacking the kitchen supplies, then another hour or so in the living room, removing some of my grandmother's stuff and putting up my own pictures and personal touches. Later that evening, I called for a pizza and we ate and went to bed.

  The next day, I continued where I had left off. After breakfast I picked up a box, went upstairs to my bedroom and opened it. I removed some of my grandmother's old books from the shelves and put up my own instead, then I arranged the old desk, placing my laptop in the middle.

  The idea still lingered in my head. Everybody loved a good murder-mystery, didn't they? Maybe I could write one based on Mrs. Heinrichsen's story. My fingers were eager to start typing and I turned on the laptop and sat down on a beautiful old hand carved wooden chair. Even if it wasn't quite my style, I quite enjoyed the furniture my grandmother had left me. It was beautiful, very old-fashioned and a lot of it probably antique. An old, long case grandfather clock that looked like it was several centuries old chimed in the corner.

  My computer made a sound and I logged in. Although I didn’t have my own Internet connection yet, none of the neighbor's was locked or even had a passcode, so I used one of theirs for now. It felt good to be connected to the world again and I started searching the newspapers on the web for the murder on Fanoe Island. A few popped up, but most of them just small notes stating someone was found dead in a house here and that the police thought it might be murder. I couldn’t find any other details.

  "Guess it's not that big a story when an old woman dies," I mumbled and looked out the window.

  I spotted Jack doing yard work across the street, still wearing that beanie of his covering his hair and I wondered if he might be going bald underneath. I picked up my binoculars. He somehow reminded me a little of Victor, the way he seemed to be in his own world of some sort. I saw him run inside, then come back with a tray between his hands. He handed the tray to a woman in a wheelchair. She must have been there the whole time, but I just hadn't noticed until now. I watched as he started feeding her with a spoon. The food ran out of her mouth like it would with a small child and he scraped it off of her chin and forced it back in. He said something to her, she didn't respond. Then she lifted her hand and planted it directly on top of the bowl, causing it to tip and the food to spill. Jack stood up and started wiping it off.

  How old was this woman? I wondered. She didn't look very old. Was she his wife?

  I put the binoculars down and decided I had done enough snooping on the neighbors for today. I turned back to the computer instead and scrolled through the articles some more. I found a small feature about Mrs. Heinrichsen, which painted her as a woman who had been very important to the locals on the island and was known to be a big contributor to the local church. She and her husband had raised the money to renovate it back in the eighties when it was falling apart and there was no money. I sighed and leaned back in my chair. If I was to write a book about this, then I needed something more. I needed the dirty details. And I knew exactly how to get them.

  Before I met the father of my children, I had once dated this guy who was a hacker. He could get in everywhere and he taught me a little too, something that until now I had only done for fun and to keep up-to-date with it. But now, for the first time I wanted to use it for my own benefit. It was illegal as hell, but I knew how to do it without getting caught. So after about an hour of trying, I managed to hack into the police files at the local police station. Not that it was protected very well, I admit to that, but it was still part of a nationwide system that the police used everywhere. I found the report Officer Dan had written and I opened it and started reading. The station had received a call at ten past seven a.m. and Officer Dan had responded. A man working for Mrs. Heinrichsen was supposed to drive her to the mainland to meet with her lawyer and when she didn't come out on her own, he feared that something might have happened to her, that she might have fallen and hurt herself. But nothing had been able to prepare him for what he saw, he said in the statement.

  I opened the pictures from the scene
of crime that were attached and looked. What I saw made my stomach turn. The remains of an old woman lying on her bed. It looked like she had been cut open. On the wall behind her the killer had written the number four in blood. I covered my mouth with my hand as I read the forensic report. She had bled to death in her bed. Apparently some of the woman's organs were missing. The liver, the lungs, and the heart had been cut out and removed. The forensics believed it had been done while the woman was still alive. I felt nauseated by the thought.

  I leaned back and studied the pictures. I could hardly imagine the pain, and to think it had happened right down the street from me? Why wasn't it mentioned in the papers? I couldn't stop thinking about why her organs had been removed. Why would anyone want to cut out her organs? To sell them? Yes, organs could be worth a lot on the black market, but she was an old woman. Why choose her and not a young person with fresh, new organs?

  It didn't make sense.

  Chapter Eleven

  2012

  A couple of weeks later I bought that bottle of wine and went across the street to Sophia's house. The kids had started school and both of them had had a great start. So far Victor hadn't had any seizures or anxiety attacks. So far, so good, I told myself. We managed to get the rest of our stuff from Copenhagen transported to the island and - even if we hadn't unpacked everything - we were quite settled in by then. It felt more like a home with each day that passed. Maya was still angry and slammed the doors now and then, but apart from that, we were having an almost pleasant time in the new house. I, for one, was thrilled to finally live in a real house, something I had always dreamed of, with a yard, and that was even close to the ocean. The house was old and clearly hadn't been very well maintained in the last years before my grandmother died, but it had been a beautiful house once and I thought it still had some splendor to it. For example, the tiles in the hallway were pure white marble and the effect was gorgeous. They were a pain to clean, but I didn't care much about that.