by B. B. Hamel
“When he said our names,” I said, cutting in. Starch looked at me, head tilted. “How did he say them?”
She frowned a touch, thinking. “He sounded almost melancholy. A little sad, you know?”
I looked up at Nick. “He’s afraid of you. That’s why he hasn’t moved yet.”
“I think you’re right.” Nick glared down at his hands. “Not sure what that matters though.”
“Listen, you two can go argue about the best way to lure a serial killer into your crazy house later. I want to watch TV and pass out in a blissful wave of painkillers.” Starch picked up her remote and pressed a button. The bed began to recline.
“Can I do anything for you?” I asked. “Do you want anything?”
“Just a little quiet. I’ll do a full debrief later and make sure Nick gets a copy of the report.”
“I’d appreciate that,” he said.
I stood. “Maybe you don’t want to hear it from him, but I’m sorry this happened to you.”
She smiled at me and patted my hand. “It’s not your fault, but I bet you think it is.”
I looked away and said nothing. Some part of me knew she was wrong about that: if he’d come for me instead of for her, then this wouldn’t have happened. The only reason she was involved at all was my fault. Maybe I couldn’t control that CGK picked me out, but Starch got pulled into my mess, and she paid the price in her blood.
Nick left and I trailed behind him. I wanted to say something more but I couldn’t find the words, and it didn’t matter anyway. It had happened—she got attacked, nearly killed, and there was nothing I could say that would change it. She knew I felt guilty and wished it could be different. That still didn’t matter.
When we reached the end of the hall, out of sight of the cops, Nick took my hand. I looked at him, surprised. Someone might spot us, and if anyone knew how close we’d become, this little operation would get shut down immediately. They’d send me off somewhere else, and I’d never see him again.
“She’ll be okay,” he said, pressing the elevator call button. He sounded like he was trying to convince himself.
“Yeah, she will.”
We rode the elevator down and headed home.
17
Nick
I finished cutting the lawn because I had nothing else to do. Rose sat on the porch sipping wine and watching me. When I was done, I joined her, feet up on the railing. It was a decent late afternoon, not too hot out, the humidity reasonable, and I should’ve felt okay.
Instead, I kept thinking about Starch fighting for her life.
I fucked up. I never should have told her that CGK wouldn’t attack. It wasn’t in his profile for him to lash out like that, but I still should’ve covered my bases and made sure she was being careful. CGK was a psycho and a serial killer, after all, and no matter how good my profiles of him were, none of them mattered when he got his back up to a wall.
I felt like things were moving now. They’d been stuck for a few days, at a total standstill, and we’d been trying to lure him out with little success. Now though, it felt different. He was circling, getting closer and closer, waiting for his chance to strike. The moment I let my guard down was the moment he’d show himself, and I knew I had to be vigilant, extra vigilant now that he’d been injured. He was a wild animal, fighting for his life.
“Did I tell you how my little brother died?” I asked as the sun began to dip down past the trees.
“No, you didn’t.” She tilted her head in my direction. “What made you think of that?”
“Starch, I guess.” I tapped my fingernail against the glass. I’d barely drank any. “Every time someone gets hurt, I think about him.”
“It’s obviously something you don’t like talking about.”
“Not a good memory.” I stared at the branches, at the light dappling the gravel driveway, and smiled a little to myself. I could still remember playing with Buck when we were boys, when things were still okay. Then after, when he was gone, the crippling absence. That hole never went away.
“What happened?” she asked.
“He was murdered,” I said. “I was ten. He was eight. We walked home from school together most days, we didn’t live too far away. But one afternoon I had to stay after for detention. I’ll never forget, I called Randy Marbles a pussy fucking bitch for saying Ken Griffey Jr. wasn’t a good baseball player.”
She watched me carefully, and I couldn’t read her expression. I wasn’t sure I wanted to, honestly. I hated this, the telling part, where I let someone into my painful past and they pitied me, and looked at me like they finally understood why I’d become what I was. I hated that, when they thought what happened to Buck explained my future.
It didn’t. Maybe it drove me harder—but it didn’t.
“Buck had to walk home alone that day,” I said. “I don’t know when it happened. The police did an investigation, and allegedly someone said they saw him get into a car, but they never found proof of that. He just disappeared and wasn’t home when I got back. I remember my parents freaking out when I told them I didn’t know what happened—they assumed he was with me. They called the police, and people were out searching all through the town. I stayed up late walking in the woods, holding my dad’s hand, yelling Buck’s name. We never found him and I fell asleep on the couch holding a flashlight against my chest.”
“He was missing for a month. That was the worst time of my life. Every day I woke up, thinking he’d come home, and every night I went to sleep praying he’d come back the next. Then one day a state trooper appeared at the door and told my parents that they’d found Buck. I don’t remember what he said. I don’t think I was in the room for it. But I do remember my mom screaming and crying, and my dad crying and holding her, and the state trooper knelt down in front of me and put a hand on my shoulder and said I’d have to be brave.”
I stopped the story there and squeezed my eyes shut. I hated that moment and hated that trooper. Who the fuck told a little kid, ten years old, to be brave? My brother was just murdered. The last thing I should’ve been was brave.
“What happened to him?” she whispered.
“They found him in a field. He’d been killed. Strangled. They linked him to a serial killer about a year down the road. I remember the police talking to my parents again, and how mad they were that the cops were back in their lives when all they wanted to do was move on and forget about Buck, even though I couldn’t. I kept thinking about him, every day, and it felt like my parents wanted to erase him. I was angry a lot as a kid.”
“I’m so sorry,” she said, and I flinched a little. There it was, the pity that always came, and I knew what was next.
“They caught the guy,” I said. “At least, they’re pretty sure they did. They never proved conclusively that he killed Buck, but his method matched Buck’s murder perfectly, and they had evidence that he was in the area at the time, so it made sense. Still, the ambiguity was hard on my parents. Even with the sick shit in jail, they struggled, asking themselves questions: what if one of them didn’t work, and could’ve picked us up from school? I had the same questions. For a long time, I blamed myself. But now, looking back, I think that if I hadn’t gotten detention, we’d both be dead, instead of just Buck. It wouldn’t have helped a damn thing.”
She moved her chair closer and took my hand. I stopped speaking and the silence rushed back in. I realized suddenly that we had something in common that I should have been more aware of, and maybe that was what drew me to her at first, that we’d both lost a sibling to a serial killer. The chances that we’d find each other like this were so incredibly slim—and yet there we were, sitting on the porch together.
Her hand felt good in mine. She let the silence do the talking for her. After a while, she looked at me again.
“I’m glad you told me,” she said. “I didn’t know.”
“I hate talking about it. People always look at me different after.”
“I know what you mean.�
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“And because of my job, you know? I hunt serial killers now. People always assume it’s because of what happened to Buck.”
“But it’s not. You fell into this by accident, right?”
“Exactly. And maybe I’m a little more dedicated than the other guys. I guess you could say I’m a little more obsessed. I guess that does stem from Buck. But he’s not the reason.”
“I know he’s not. It’s like saying Del’s the reason I live in this house. She’s part of the reason, but she’s only a part. There’s always so much more than our tragedies. That’s sort of a good thing though, right? The tragedy doesn’t define us.”
“It doesn’t,” I said.
“Will it ever feel easier? The loss?”
I didn’t answer right away. I didn’t want to lie to her, but I didn’t want to tell her the truth—that even twenty years later, I still woke up at night thinking about Buck, wondering what his life would have been like. I didn’t think that would ever go away.
“A little,” I said after the silence stretched.
She sighed and gave me a small, sad smile. “That’s what I thought.”
We sat in quiet for a bit. She leaned toward me and I kissed her. Gently, probing, almost sad. It was a quiet kiss between two people that shared a similar history, and lived in a similar present anxiety. We were woven together, knitted in ways I hadn’t thought about, but now it seemed so obvious. Del and Buck, Rose and me, our wicked little network.
“Come on,” I said, standing up. “Let’s go inside.”
“Lawn looks good. Thanks for doing that.”
“I’m really useful. Keep me around.”
I headed inside with her just behind, and as I closed the door and locked it, I thought I saw a figure in the shadows next to a tree—but no, it couldn’t be. I turned away and went to make her dinner.
18
Rose
Twelve blissful hours. We got twelve blissful hours until Nick’s phone rang again. I was on my second cup of coffee, lounging back on the couch with the TV playing Bachelor in Paradise when Nick appeared on the steps looking tense. He held the phone to his ear, listening. “You’re sure?” he asked. “We’ll be there soon.”
He hung up.
“What happened?”
“Another attack. This time in the city.”
I sat up straight. “Who?”
“One of the girls on the list.”
“CGK?”
“Definitely.” He shoved his phone into his pocket. “Come on, get dressed, we have to head down there.”
I got dressed and we hit the road. It was an hour drive and we killed it by listening to the radio and studiously ignoring each other. He was stuck in his own little world, and I knew he was messed up with guilt and anger. It would be so easy for him to blame himself, since this whole operation had been his idea. Except it would be totally absurd, and at some level he had to realize that.
CGK was spiraling out of control, acting irrationally, and even if Nick had gotten me out of town, this would’ve been the end result. He’d made it clear that CGK was heading in this direction for a while, ever since that botched attempt at capturing him in Texas. This wasn’t Nick’s fault, and maybe we were doing some good—Starch wasn’t dead, and this girl had survived as well. Those were two people that might’ve been killed otherwise, if it weren’t for Nick warning them first.
The car rolled down along Kelly Drive. The Schuylkill River was on the right, and the sun glinted off its lazy waves. People ran along the river trail, some of them on bikes, a few on roller blades. I watched them go, wondering how many had any clue how much evil lurked out in the city around them. I guessed it would be crippling, if people thought about it too much. We couldn’t stay inside, hiding away from the darkness—which was why people like Nick were necessary.
Even if it drove him to the edge, and maybe over it.
“I know what you’re thinking,” I said as he found a spot and parked. We were in a quiet neighborhood north of Fairmount. The houses are nice and neat, though built on a heavy slope along a hill.
“No, you don’t.” He got out.
I followed, catching up. He walked with long, purposeful strides.
“You think you could’ve done something different. Like maybe if you pushed CGK earlier, forced him to make a move.”
“That’s not it.”
“Then what is it?” I grabbed his arm and stopped him. We were close to the girl’s house and I didn’t want to go there without understanding him first. “Come on, what’s eating at you?”
“All of this.” His tone was hard as he looked at me. “The first girl, Starch, now this. What the fuck is he thinking? He never kills more than once in an area. He’s smarter than that. Now suddenly he’s going on a spree?”
“You think something’s going on.”
“It can’t just be us. That can’t be it. There’s got to be something else.” His jaw clenched tight, and I saw that he wanted desperately for that to be true.
I gently took his hand. “It’s okay if there isn’t. If he’s doing this for me and you—”
He pulled his hand away.
“Come on,” he said, walking.
I followed, looking at the ground.
Two blocks over, cop cars covered the area. Nick flashed his badge and they let us through. More cops littered the sidewalk, and eventually we were ushered into a house that had been turned into apartments. The girl’s place was on the bottom floor, back room. Cal was in there, standing with his arms crossed, with another detective, a tall pale guy with dark freckles. A young girl sat on the couch, barely nineteen or twenty, with long blonde hair, dark eye makeup, pretty in a sort of quirky way. She had on a t-shirt and sweats, both oversized, and she was almost lost in her own clothes.
“Took you long enough,” Cal said. “Nick, this is Detective Gunner.”
“Good to meet you,” Detective Gunner said.
“And this is Elena.” Cal gestured at the girl.
“Hello, Elena.” Nick stepped forward.
She looked up like she was surprised someone was talking to her. “Hi, uh, nice to meet you.”
The apartment was cramped. It was decorated mostly in whites and blacks, with a few scale anime figures adding pops of bright color. Her kitchen was tidy and the living room was dominated by a desk that was clearly her main streaming setup. I wondered how many men had seen the inside of this place, but pushed that thought away. Elena looked so young, so innocent and small—sort of like Del, back when she’d first started.
I felt a sudden sense of vertigo and had to take a couple deep steadying breaths.
“Mind if I talk to her?” Nick asked, looking at Cal.
“You’d better. Not sure why else you’d come all the way out here.” Cal stepped toward the door, glancing at me. I could tell he was still angry and didn’t approve of this, but I figured there wasn’t much he could do at the moment. He left without another word.
Detective Gunner followed. “All yours then, Agent.” There was a hint of aggression in his tone.
Nick ignored them both as they left.
Elena watched us then looked at me. “Who are you?” she asked.
“I’m Rose.” I glanced at Nick.
“She’s sort of like you,” he said.
“You stream?” Elena tilted her head.
“No,” I said. “My sister did. She’s gone now.”
“Oh.” Elena’s face fell. “Was it him?” Her tone was flat, almost emotionless.
“Yeah, it was.”
“Damn. Sorry. That’s just— man, that sucks.”
I drifted over and sat at the other end of the couch. Nick took the chair the detective had vacated and sat forward on his elbows.
“I know you’ve probably been over it a thousand times, but can you tell me what happened?”
“It’s really nothing.” She stared at her hands. “Nothing happened, you know? Like, really, nothing.”
“I know,”
Nick said. “But tell me anyway.”
She clicked her teeth together a few times, a nervous habit. “Like, god, okay. So I logged off my stream—”
“You play Blockcraft, right?” I asked, interrupting her.
She looked a little surprised. “Uh, yeah, sometimes. After, you know, the strip show.” She seemed strangely shy and folded her legs up underneath her as she spoke. “The door thing buzzed, right? And I got up to check it. But there was nobody there. And it sort of freaked me out, but I went to check anyway, just in case it was a food delivery. Sometimes my closest fans send me stuff, you know?”
“Your fans know your address?” Nick sounded surprised, but I thought back to Delia, and knew she’d done the same thing. Her favorite clients would send her gifts, little things mostly, but sometimes they’d send pizza or whatever during a stream.
Maybe that was what got her killed. Maybe CGK was a regular, and he earned enough trust to get her address.
“Sure, sometimes,” she said. “I mean, I can trust them, you know? They send me stuff. They sort of love me?”
“Did you give your address to someone new recently?” I asked.
She nodded. “Last night. He’s been coming around for a few months, really nice guy.”
I looked at Nick. “That’s him.”
His face tightened and he nodded. Elena looked between us with wide, doe-like eyes. “What do you mean? You think that guy was one of my clients?”
“Makes sense,” Nick said. “He could’ve found you any number of ways, but that would be consistent with his profile.”
“And it would be easiest.” I felt the string of logic unfurl around me, like a warm blanket coming undone. One thing followed along from the other, and it all made sense. “Think about it. He loves these women, right? He wouldn’t want to kill one at random.”
“Uh, excuse me, kill?” Elena’s head whipped back and forth between us. “Nobody said anything about killing me. I thought that was just some super fan stalker.”
“He is,” I said, “but he’s also a serial killer. I think he goes into these channels and gets close with them, wins their trust, until he gets their home address.”