Freak

by Jennifer Hillier

  “Yes.” This was so much harder than Sheila had been expecting. “What we had wasn’t about love. It was about power. And dominance.”

  “On some level he must have loved you, though.” Abby’s voice caught in her throat. She almost seemed like she was about to break down, and Sheila was surprised by the amount of emotion she was seeing from the inmate. It certainly appeared real. “Otherwise, he would have killed you. Like he did those other women.”

  “He nearly did kill me.”

  “But yet, here you are.” The ice in Abby’s voice was unmistakable.

  Sheila kept her expression neutral. “How much did you know? About what he was up to?”

  The younger woman’s expression was impossible to read. “I didn’t know anything.”

  “You had no idea what was going on?”

  “Didn’t I just say that?” Abby’s eyes narrowed and her voice went up a notch. “He lied to me. He lied to you. Why is that so surprising?”

  “He said you—”

  “I know what he said about me.” Abby’s face and neck flushed a deep red that started from her collarbone and worked its way up to her cheeks. Her posture, relaxed only seconds ago, was now rigid. “I know what he told you, and I know what you told the cops. It was all over the news, Sheila, or don’t you remember? Because of him, and because of you repeating what he said—which, by the way, were all lies—I was practically convicted the moment I was arrested last year.”

  “But you—”

  “Don’t you dare interrupt me. I’m not done.” Abby was heaving, and Sheila could feel the chocolate-scented hot breath on her face. “My boyfriend was a psychopath, okay? You should know that better than anyone. And yet somehow, you believed him when he told you I killed those women. You went and blabbed to the fucking cops about it. You were the reason I had to run.”

  “But you hurt Jerry—”

  “Fuck Jerry! He cornered me, and I did what I had to do to get the hell out. I’m a survivor, Sheila, and so are you. You did what you had to do to survive in that basement, didn’t you?” Abby’s hands were clenched into fists. “Didn’t you?”

  Sheila blinked, almost paralyzed by the question. Nobody but herself and Ethan knew the true story of what went on in that basement. She hadn’t told a soul. But here was Abby, acting like she knew every detail about what had gone on, and maybe she did. Maybe Ethan had told her. The thought made her sick. “I did what I had to do to survive, yes.”

  “And so did I.” Abby’s voice shook with anger. “So don’t you fucking sit there on your high horse and judge me. You might have a Ph.D. in psychology, but I’ve earned a degree in surviving a psychopath for eight years, so don’t you dare presume to know anything about me. I’m half your age and twice as smart, and I don’t deserve to be in this goddamned hellhole. I have a life waiting for me on the outside, a good life, with someone who loves me unconditionally and will do anything for me. Who, in fact, has done everything—”

  Abby stopped abruptly and sat back in her chair, breathing hard. Sheila waited for her to finish her sentence, but it was clear she wasn’t going to. She wondered who the “someone” was that Abby was referring to. The handsome corrections officer from the day before, perhaps?

  The two women stared at each other across the table. Around them, faces were turned in their direction, and Sheila could sense several pairs of eyes watching their every move. It seemed as if the whole room had gone a few decibels quieter.

  “I’m not judging you, Abby,” Sheila said quietly, hoping to defuse her. “Ethan was a monster. He would have said anything to get his way. I know that now.”

  “Yes. But you need to admit that you used him, too.”

  “What?” Sheila said, startled.

  “Admit that you used him until you didn’t want him anymore, and that you threw him away.” Abby’s voice was like steel. “Admit that you’re the reason he’s dead.”

  Unbelievable.

  “I won’t do that,” Sheila said quietly. “I will never do that. What happened wasn’t my fault.”

  “Well, it’s not mine, either. And I don’t deserve to be here.”

  It took all of Sheila’s willpower to stay calm and keep her face closed. She took a breath, needing strength for the lies she was about to spew. “You’re not a bad person, Abby. But you got involved with a bad person and you made some bad choices. No, I don’t believe you deserve to be here.”

  “Will you tell Jerry that?” Abby said.

  “Of course I will.” Of course she wouldn’t.

  Abby let out a long breath. Her fists unclenched and the blood in her face began to drain away. Around them, heads finally turned back around. Conversations resumed.

  “I struck a deal with the prosecuting attorney this morning,” Abby said, and just like that, her voice and posture were back to normal. Jesus, it was almost like talking to three different people. Her ability to switch gears reminded Sheila of Ethan. She tried to imagine the two of them together, and the thought was terrifying. “If they make an arrest, I’ll be transferred to Creekside Corrections.”

  “Is that minimum security?”

  “Yes. I heard it’s not too bad. With good behavior, I could be out in three years.”

  Good God. That didn’t seem right at all. “I hope your special someone is willing to wait for you.”

  Abby smiled. “I’m not even worried about it.”

  Sheila leaned forward slightly. “So, do you actually know who the killer is?”

  Abby sat back in her chair, twirling a lock of shiny black hair in her fingers and looking quite content. “Maybe.” Her smile made Sheila uneasy. “We went through my mail and we came up with some names. Jerry and Danny were here earlier today.”

  “Danny? Jerry’s assistant?” Sheila was surprised Jerry would bring his intern to the prison. She remembered Danny Mercy quite well, having had her as a student a couple of years earlier. The girl was bright and quite personable. Then again, maybe that’s why Jerry had her tag along. Someone like Danny, close to Abby’s age, would probably be very helpful in getting Abby to open up.

  “Yes. She’s smart as hell.”

  Abby’s expression was difficult to read, and it made Sheila uncomfortable, not knowing what the other woman might be thinking. She knew she needed to steer the conversation back to the murders. “I heard the women—the victims—looked a lot like you. And that the message ‘Free Abby Maddox’ was . . . left on them.” She couldn’t bring herself to say the word carved.

  “I heard the same things.”

  “The killer must be someone who’s quite taken with you.”

  “That’s one way to put it.”

  “How would you put it?”

  Abby shrugged and used her forefinger to draw imaginary circles in the air beside her ear, the universal sign for cuckoo. “People are screwed up, Sheila. You know that.”

  She nodded. “How do you feel about the victims?”

  “You mean, do I feel empathy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, of course I do,” Abby said. “What kind of person would I be if I didn’t?”

  “But whoever’s doing this, obviously they have some kind of plan to get you out of here and someplace nicer,” Sheila said carefully. She knew she had to tread lightly here if she was going to keep Abby talking about this, which so far the younger woman seemed open to doing. “You’ve been given immunity from Diana St. Clair’s murder. That’s huge.”

  At the mention of Diana’s name, Abby’s face hardened. “As well I should be. I had nothing to do with her death. She was just another one of Ethan’s victims.”

  The coldness in Abby’s eyes chilled Sheila to the core. “But you would have gone to trial for a murder charge had these new murders not happened.”

  “Yes, and?” Abby cocked her head questioningly. “Why don’t you just ask me whatever it is you’re wanting to ask me?”

  “Okay, then.” Sheila sat up straighter and folded her hands in her lap. She looked
straight into Abby’s eyes. “Did you plan this? Did you have something to do with these new murders?”

  The question brought a smile to Abby’s face, and she leaned forward, her eyes glinting. “Does it matter if I did?”

  Sheila opened her mouth to respond, but she couldn’t find the words. Had Abby just admitted she was orchestrating this whole thing from prison somehow? That she had allowed three young women to die in order to cut a deal with the prosecuting attorney? It was mind-boggling. Unconscionable. Depraved. And it wouldn’t surprise Sheila one bit.

  “I’m joking, Sheila.” Abby leaned back again. She was practically purring. “Come on now. Of course I had nothing to do with it. And I feel terrible that women were killed just so someone could send the cops a message about me. But I’m a practical person, and I know I’m helping myself by helping the police.” She shrugged. “What’s so wrong with that?”

  Before Sheila could think of how to respond, the corrections officer in the corner spoke into the mike.

  “Visiting hours are over in five minutes,” the CO said, his voice crackling slightly over the loudspeaker. “Please say your goodbyes now. Visitors, please begin making your way toward the exits. Thank you.”

  Around them, chairs squeaked as inmates and visitors stood up, murmuring words of endearment to each other and exchanging hugs. Abby stood up, too. “Well, thanks for coming, Sheila. It’s been fun.”

  No, no, no. Sheila was right on the verge of getting Abby to admit something big here, she felt it in her bones. Abby knew more than she was telling Jerry about the murders, and now visiting hours were over? What timing. If only she had ten more minutes . . .

  “Come visit me anytime.” Abby’s smile was cold. “If not here, at the new place. I think they’ll be making an arrest very soon.”

  Sheila nodded, feeling helpless. The same corrections officer who’d brought Abby in had returned to escort the inmate back to her cell. Sheila watched as the younger woman was cuffed.

  “By the way, Sheila,” Abby said over her shoulder as the guard escorted her out. “You might want to watch The Pulse tomorrow night. I’ll be taping an interview with them in the morning, and I’ll be talking about my relationship with Ethan. I have no doubt you’ll find it . . . enlightening.”

  Abby was out the door with the CO at her elbow before Sheila could respond.

  Shit. So close.

  chapter 17

  IT TOOK SOME serious driving skills to keep up with Mike Torrance’s Steve McQueen lane changes. Jerry had forgotten about his former partner’s death-wish driving, and he lost sight of the unmarked for a full minute on I-5 before spotting it again. The light rain was making the roads slick enough to be scary, and he was relieved when they finally exited the freeway.

  He pulled up behind Torrance on Palmer Lane, parking on the street in front of the house where Abby’s number-one fan and letter-writer, Jeremiah Blake, lived. The house was a brown-bricked rambler, older, set far back from the main street and flanked on either side by tall maple trees.

  The driveway was empty but they could see lights on inside. Torrance rang the doorbell. A few seconds passed. Nobody answered. Torrance pressed his ear to the door briefly.

  “Somebody’s got to be home,” he said. “I can hear music.” He rang the doorbell again, then banged loudly several times.

  It took another minute, but eventually the door opened. A kid who looked around fifteen stood there, staring at them with crust in his eyes. Hip-hop and the smell of old pizza wafted out into the cool afternoon air.

  “Yeah?” he said. Tall, close to six feet and skinny, he had longish messy brown hair and a jawline full of pimples. He was dressed in stained sweatpants and a faded Puget Sound State Steelheads T-shirt that sagged around his ribs. His skin was pasty and his dark eyes had grayish circles, as if he hadn’t been out of the house for a while.

  “We’re looking for Jeremiah Blake.” Torrance eased closer to the door frame so that his foot was inside the house by about an inch.

  “That’s me,” the kid said.

  Torrance and Jerry exchanged a look. Surely this couldn’t be the same Jeremiah Blake who was writing to Abby Maddox. The DMV records showed he was forty-five. This kid couldn’t be out of high school. Torrance flashed his badge and Jerry did the same with his consultant’s ID. “You’re Jeremiah Blake? Are your parents home?”

  The kid took a step back, his eyes widening at the sight of Torrance’s badge. “My dad’s not here. His name’s Jeremiah, too. What do you—”

  “Can we come in?” The detective’s face was like stone. “Or would you rather talk outside where all your neighbors can see us?”

  The kid poked his head out onto the stoop and looked around. Indeed, one of the neighbors next door, a middle-aged man who had just pulled into his driveway, was observing the three of them curiously. “All right, come in,” he said reluctantly, opening the door wider and taking another step back.

  Torrance and Jerry stepped into the house. The three of them stood in the front foyer in a triangle, eyeballing each other. The hip-hop changed to heavy metal, an assault on Jerry’s ears.

  “How about you turn that off for a little bit?” Torrance said, his eyes crinkling at the noise. “So we can talk.”

  The teenager shrugged and turned for the hallway. The two men exchanged a look and then followed him. The house wasn’t big and they were in the kid’s bedroom a few footsteps later.

  Blake’s room was small, cluttered, and generally a disaster. The floor was a mess of dirty clothes, old fast-food cups, and crumpled cheeseburger wrappers. A large tube television sat in one corner, the screen frozen on a scene of an eerily real cartoon man shooting a bunch of other men, blood spraying out of their chests where they’d been hit. The video game box sitting on top of the TV said “Gears of War 3.” Wow. So much blood for one video game. The last game Jerry could remember playing was Galaga, over three decades ago.

  Wrinkling his nose, he sidestepped a pizza box that was open but empty aside from a few bits of hardened cheese left behind. Empty Twizzlers wrappers—the family pack size—were everywhere. The tiny bedroom held a rank blend of body odor, old gym shoes, and stale food—a special scent also known as teenage boy. Jerry’s sister’s son had a room just like this one, but with one noticeable difference.

  In this room, every inch of wall space was covered with posters. Some were of rock bands Jerry had never heard of—the Killers, Foo Fighters, Act of Mercy. And intermingled with those were posters of serial killers. The faces of Ted Bundy, Charles Manson, Ed Gein, and even Ethan Wolfe lined his walls. And those were just the ones Jerry recognized.

  Blake didn’t have any posters of Abby Maddox, probably because there weren’t any available, because technically she wasn’t yet a convicted serial killer. But there were several printouts of Maddox’s face taped strategically around the room. They were in black-and-white but the kid had colored in Maddox’s eyes with pencil crayon in the exact right shade of blue-violet.

  Jerry suppressed a shudder.

  Blake flipped the stereo off then turned around. At the sight of them, he jumped, not realizing they were right behind him. Jerry followed Torrance’s gaze to the kid’s laptop, which was sitting open on the bed and powered on. The browser was showing a website called The Serial Killer Files. Blake saw them looking and quickly tapped a button with his finger. A second later, a screen saver popped up, the band logo for Act of Mercy. A skull with a bullet hole in its forehead. Nice.

  “I see you’re a fan of criminals.” Torrance’s hawk eyes moved over the posters slowly, missing nothing. “Got some good ones here.”

  “Um, are you guys allowed to be in here?” Blake’s gaze flickered back and forth between the two men. “My dad’s not home. That’s who you want, right?”

  “Actually, I think it’s you we’re looking for,” Jerry said amiably.

  “How are old you, son?” Torrance’s face was unreadable. His eyes scanned the posters a moment before coming bac
k to Jeremiah Blake’s face.

  “Eighteen.”

  “Got any ID?”

  “Why?”

  Torrance sighed.

  The kid reached for a pair of jeans crumpled beside the bed and fished around in the pockets. He pulled out a tattered wallet, and from that, a stained high school ID card. He handed it to Torrance, who scrutinized it before handing it to Jerry. Yup, this Jeremiah Blake was eighteen. Christ. Other than his height, he looked so much younger than that.

  But the good news was, at eighteen, he could be questioned without parental supervision. Jerry handed the kid’s ID back to him.

  “Who else lives here?” Torrance asked. “Besides you and your father?”

  Blake swallowed, his large Adam’s apple bobbing painfully in his scrawny throat. “It’s just the two of us. My dad has a girlfriend that sleeps over sometimes, but not . . . not lately.”

  “And what about you? Do you have a girlfriend who sleeps over sometimes?”

  The kid’s face reddened. “I . . . I don’t have a girlfriend. Look, I think you guys should tell me why you’re here. Or else I . . . I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

  Torrance smiled and looked away. It was Jerry’s cue to speak. “You’re a fan of Abby Maddox?” he asked, his voice a little less raspy than usual.

  “Um. Who?”

  Instinctively, Jerry stepped forward a couple of inches. Torrance stepped back. It was amazing how easy it was for them to slip back into their old routine.

  “Abby Maddox,” Jerry said patiently. “You know, the infamous attempted murderess and girlfriend of the Tell-Tale Heart Killer. She’s been all over the news lately—TV, newspapers, Internet, blogs. You have at least a half a dozen pictures of her on your wall. Good job nailing the eye color, by the way.”

  Jerry took another step toward him, prompting the kid to sit down on the bed since there was nowhere else to go. He looked up at the two men. “Yeah, I know who she is. Everybody does. So what?” Blake stared at Jerry sullenly, then suddenly his features lit up with recognition. “Hey, wait a minute. I know you! You’re . . . that guy. You’re the . . .”