by Elle Gray
Thirty-Four
Sacred Grounds Coffee House; Downtown Seattle
I sit at my usual table in the coffee house, scrolling through the info Brody sent me on my tablet. Tomorrow’s going to be risky and a very delicate operation, so I want to make sure I have it all down cold.
I need to give my brain a break though, so I close out of my email and call up the Dispatch. I see that Marcy has been using her time in sequestration well. There are a bunch of new articles up on her site. Half of which are about our current case. I’m glad she took my advice and is keeping up the charade. If she’d stopped writing about the killing’s cold turkey, it might have tipped Tucker off that we are closing in on him.
Or even worse, it could have set him off. Who knows what he would have done then, or what other atrocities he would commit? I mean, the guy just murdered a girl to get Marcy’s attention and pay tribute to her. I don’t want to believe it, but I think Blake is right. For some reason, Tucker’s glommed onto Marcy and has clearly imagined this scenario where they’re together. A partnership. He commits the crimes; she spreads his gospel through her online paper.
I think murdering somebody to prove your devotion to them— or whatever he was trying to do— speaks to just how far gone you are as a person. The man is so sick and twisted that he’s lost all grip on reality. I have a feeling he’d maintained a facade of normalcy for most of his life. It was something he had to work at. Something he probably had to work hard at.
But when he caught his trigger, whoever she was, cheating on him, that facade came tumbling down. The real monster that had lurked just below the surface all his life came out. Dr. Jekyll gave way to Mr. Hyde and unleashed his rage over Seattle.
Not that there’s any excuse or justification for doing what Tucker is doing. People get cheated on all the time, and they don’t resort to wholesale slaughter. But not this guy. No, this guy is an absolute monster who needs to be thrown into a deep, dark hole, and never see the light of day again.
I quickly read through Marcy’s articles, still amazed that the SPD isn’t doing anything to inform and protect the public. I’m sure they’re getting panicked calls up the wazoo from people who keep up with Marcy’s site. And the fact that they’re still maintaining radio silence about it, to me, is criminal.
I mean, yeah. I suppose it’s a valid strategy. Deprive Tucker of what he wants most: attention. Notoriety. But by following this strategy, they’re really rolling the dice and potentially putting more people at risk.
But then again, the cynical part of my mind doesn’t think it would make much of a difference even if they did inform the public. Would anybody behave any differently if they knew a killer was prowling the streets? Would the public abide by a curfew if the mayor ordered one? I can’t imagine what it would be like if the mayor ordered a mandatory curfew and said nobody would be allowed out on the streets after a certain time.
I don’t know. Maybe we’re all so jaded that we accept the fact that there are murderers among us, and we’re all taking a chance just by stepping out of our front doors every day. What does that say about us as a species? About our world?
I quickly divert that morose chain of thought and turn to another question— whether or not I should update Commissioner Gray now or wait. I really feel like we’re closing in on Tucker. I feel like we’re a day or two away from bringing him down and ending his reign of terror. But if we jump prematurely, we could blow it all and watch Tucker slip away like sand through our fingers.
In my heart, I believe that Gray is a good man who wants the best for the city. It’s the people under him I have grave reservations about. I can see a scenario play out where I tell Gray and he starts getting his pieces moved around on the board where he wants them, only to have somebody jump early, too eager to get to it and screw it all up. What could be a slam dunk case, getting a serial murderer off the streets, ends up blowing up in our faces.
No, it’s probably best that I sit on this until we’re sure. Until there is some resolution in sight, we need to keep this quiet. The decision made, firm in my mind, I pick up my phone and key in a quick text over to Marcy.
How’s it going over there? You okay?
I’m fine.
I grin, knowing what “I’m fine.” means. I tap out another message and fire it off.
Can I bring you anything?
No. Thank you.
Saw your articles. Well done. You’re a fantastic writer. Consider me reader number five hundred thousand and one.
I hope she doesn’t take that as patronizing. The truth is, I think she’s fantastically talented. She has a clear sense of her story and doesn’t color it with opinions, yet somehow makes even a series of dry facts engaging and electric. She knows how to tell a story to captivate her audience.
Her writing style is a lot like Veronica’s, actually. The way Marcy tells a story reminds me of how Veronica used to tell stories. She’s got an honesty to her storytelling that’s refreshing. In this day and age of opinions masquerading as facts, left spin, right spin, and skewing a story to favor this demographic or that demographic, Marcy— like Veronica before her— cuts through the noise to keep her readers both engaged and informed.
My phone chirps, and I look down at it, the words bringing a smile to my face.
That means a lot to me, Paxton. Thank you.
If you need anything at all, let me know. If not, I’ll see you when I get home.
I close up my phone and get to my feet. After draining the last of my coffee, I pull on my coat, then slip my phone into my pocket and grab my tablet before waving goodbye to the staff and heading out to the parking lot.
The storm that had been lashing the city for most of the day has finally abated, leaving the night air cold and wet. It felt heavy and almost oppressive. I’m not the superstitious type, but there’s something strange in the air that tightens a knot in my gut and wraps my heart in tendrils of ice
I get to my car and toss my tablet inside when my phone rings. I pull it out and push the button to connect the call and press the phone to my ear.
“Arrington,” I say.
“I told you to stop hunting me.”
I’m overcome by a sensation like a million ants crawling across my skin. I turn in a complete circle, looking at the street, the parking lot, and even the back seat of my Navigator, but don’t see him. He’s either not here, or he’s hidden well. I subtly move my hand
“You knew I wouldn’t,” I tell him.
“You’re a fool.”
“You’re not the first person to think so.”
I silently debate with myself. How far do I goad him? Do I let on that I know who he is? After a moment, I decide against it. I want to keep him blind as long as possible. If he knows I know who he is, he can prepare for me. He can vanish. He can do a thousand things, and I wouldn’t be ready for any of them. At least if he thinks we’re still stumbling around in the dark, we maintain the advantage.
“Why did you steal her from me?” he asks. “You can have any woman in the city. Why did you take her?”
“Who are you talking about?”
“You know exactly who I’m talking about,” he spits. “Why defile her when you and I both know you’re going to discard her in a few days or weeks?”
I’m about to ask who he’s talking about again when the answer hits me in the face. Marcy. He’s talking about Marcy. But why does he think I’m sleeping with her?
“She wasn’t like these other liars before you came along,” Tucker growls. “She was better. And she was mine. But you soiled her.”
“Soiled her?” I laugh.
“The only good to come out of this is that I see her for what she is now,” he seethes. “I see that she’s just like the others. She’s a liar. A deceiver.”
“And what, you need to teach her one of your lessons?”
“She has to learn,” he says simply. “Just like the rest of the whores in this city, she must learn the lessons I am teaching. I ne
ver wanted it to come to this, but, well… here we are.”
“Listen, why don’t you and I go somewhere and talk?” I offer. “Just you and me. We can talk this out like men.”
“Like men?” His laughter is high and brittle. The sound of madness. “You’re not a man, Arrington. You’re filth. And you infect all those around you. Like that blonde friend of yours. She’s a sweet piece of meat, isn’t she? Are you screwing her too? Are you soiling her the way you’ve soiled Marcy?”
I know he’s trying to bait me by mentioning Blake. He’s probing me for weaknesses, and if I react, he’ll know that he can get to me through Blake. Of course I’m worried about her, but if there’s one thing about Blake Wilder I know, it’s that she can take care of herself. The woman is tougher than nails and proficient in a fight.
“You have to know you’re not getting anywhere near Marcy, right?” I ask. “We got her out of the city already, and she’s under lock and key. You’ll never find her. At least, not before I find you.”
“You lie. It’s all you people know how to do,” he spits. “Lie and take those things that aren’t yours. Marcy loved me, and you stole her from me.”
The depth of the man’s delusions is breathtaking. And he whips from one narrative his mind has produced to a second narrative that’s completely contradictory a moment later. The man is unraveling. That’s worrisome. When somebody like Tucker starts to unravel, they become even more unpredictable, and there’s no telling what he’ll do.
I need to keep his mind focused. I need to keep his energy and hatred directed at me. If I can wind him up enough, maybe I’ll get him to screw up. But if nothing else, I need to wind him up enough to come after me, rather than Marcy or Blake.
It’s a gamble, to be sure. But time is ticking before Mr. Hyde comes out. And this might be my only shot.
“You’re right. I did steal her from you,” I tell him. “It wasn’t all that difficult. I mean, it’s not like you’ve got much to offer her.”
“Shut up,” he sneers, his voice low and threatening.
“I, on the other hand, can offer her the world—”
“I said, shut up!”
A cruel grin pulls the corner of my mouth upward. “And let me tell you, she was so grateful. Almost more than I can handle,” I rub it in. “She was amazing. Seriously. Utterly amazing.”
“SHUT UP!” he screams. “I’m going to kill you. Do you hear me? I’m going to kill you and bathe in your blood.”
I laugh. “That’s a bit dramatic, don’t you think?”
“Soon,” he says, his voice low and cold. “I’m going to end you, Arrington. Soon.”
“Why wait? Let’s meet and settle this like men.”
“Soon,” he whispers.
He disconnects the call, and I’m left looking around the street again. The man is definitely in the process of unraveling, and he’s doing it quickly. We’re moving into his endgame. Things are moving faster than I’d anticipated. I just need to make sure I’m moving equally as fast before they spin out of control.
He obviously doesn’t realize that we still have the upper hand. It’s time to use it.
Thirty-Five
Outside of the Tucker Residence; Capitol Hill District, Seattle
Mixed in with the hipster bars, indie shops, and the high-rise condos of Seattle’s Capitol Hill district, you can still find some family homes. However, they seem to be a dying breed these days.
David Tucker’s home is on an upper-middle-class residential street. It’s neat and orderly, with thick trees lining both sides of the road, beautiful homes, and fastidiously kept lawns. It’s quiet and clean. Seems like an ideal place to raise children.
As I sit in my Navigator, looking across the street at his house, I have to wonder if Tucker once had dreams of doing that here. His house is a Queen Anne Victorian style home, with high, asymmetrical gabled roofs, a wrap-around porch, and a tall circular turret on the west corner with windows all around. It’s a beautiful place. Probably quite expensive, too. I can definitely see raising a family in that house, on this street.
I find myself wondering why he’s kept it all this time, after his descent into utter depraved madness, spurred by some cheating lover. Or at least, that’s the excuse I’m sure he’d give. I’m sure it broke his heart but come on. Even if your heart does get broken, that doesn’t excuse fixating on it for years to the point of committing murder.
But as I start to judge him for it, I realize my own hypocrisy. Although our circumstances are as vastly different as our responses to our own heartbreaks, I hate to admit that I can’t say I’m all that different in that regard.
Veronica’s been dead for almost three years. And yet, I cling to the home we built together. I cling to all of her things. I’ve left them all up like a shrine. And yeah, I’ve locked myself away with them. And I also cling to my desperate need to find a reason for her death, to find who’s responsible. Like a man clings to a life preserver in the middle of the ocean.
It looks like for both Tucker and me, time stopped years ago, and we’re stuck fixating on the past in an unhealthy way. Mine significantly healthier than his, to be sure, but it’s still ruled my every thought and action. For the first time, I find myself wondering if, like Tucker, I’m creating phantoms where none exist. If maybe I’ve created a scenario in my mind that had vengeful, evildoers murder my wife, rather than admit to myself that she could be the victim of nothing more nefarious than an accident.
In my mind, I need for somebody to be responsible. I need to have a perp. It might be that holding somebody responsible for something so senseless is the only way I can come to grips with Veronica’s death.
“Crap,” I mutter to myself.
My phone rings, quickly pulling me out of my head. It’s the cold slap back to reality I could have used a few minutes ago. I clear my throat and see that it’s Blake. I press the button to connect the call.
“Go,” I say.
“Good morning to you too,” she laughs.
“Sorry,” I reply. “You caught me in an unexpected moment of self-reflection.”
“Better than catching you in a moment of self-gratification.”
“I somehow don’t feel like that’s true right now.”
“Ouch.”
“Yeah,” I sigh.
“Anyway, I’m down at the Medical Center, and Dr. Tucker is on duty,” she tells me. “He’s apparently in surgery as we speak.”
“Excellent,” I reply. “And you’re sure he didn’t see you?”
“Not a chance.”
“That’s good.”
After my phone call from the good doctor last night, I made sure to call the whole team to report in and make sure they knew to be extra vigilant. I didn’t expect Tucker to move on them— he has no reason to think we know who he is at this point— but I still want everybody’s head on a swivel. This guy is unpredictable, and as we get closer to cornering him, he’s going to be worse. Better to be overprepared than get caught with our pants down.
“All right, it’s time to go to work,” I say.
“Be safe and watch your six,” she replies.
“Always.”
I disconnect the call and pull my phone out of the holder attached to the dash. I slip it into my coat pocket and get out of the car, then slip the Bluetooth bud into my ear. I look carefully up one side of the street, then down the other, but don’t see anybody. I walk purposefully across the street, acting like I belong here.
Instead of walking up the steps to the front porch though, I follow the path around the side of the house and find a door near the back. I glance around and let out a small breath of relief. Nobody seems to be around.
This section of the side yard I’m in is sheltered by a tall fence, a screen of bushes, and the high, thick boughs of a tree. It would be next to impossible for anybody to see me unless they came back specifically looking for me.
I pull out my phone and push Brody’s speed dial button, then drop the phon
e back into my pocket. He picks it up on the first ring.
“Brody’s house of technological wizardry,” he answers.
I grin in spite of the nervous flutter in my gut. “I’m here. You got this?”
“What do you think this is, amateur hour? Of course I’ve got this,” he cracks. “I’ll be able to disrupt the system for thirty seconds. So you’ve got to pick the lock, get inside, and enter the code into the keypad when it turns back on. You’ll have five seconds to enter the code, or the cops will be automatically called.”
“And the code?”
“Moira,” he says. “M-o-i-r-a.”
“I’ll assume that’s his trigger,” I remark. “The woman who did him wrong.”
“Fair assumption. The dude is trapped in the past, big time. Like unable to move on,” Brody says, then quickly adds, “sorry. No offense.”
I chuckle. “None taken,” I reply. “Okay, let’s do this.”
“You ready?”
I slip the lockpicking gun out of my pocket and level it at the keyhole. I’m not much when it comes to picking locks. I don’t usually have to worry about it, though I can see now that it might be a valuable skill to learn. But for now, the gun will ensure speed. And that’s what I need.
“Ready,” I confirm.
I hear the keys on Brody’s laptop clacking as he works his magic, and then there’s a pause. It lingers a moment.
“Alright, shutting it down in three… two…”
I tense myself, ready to spring into action
He hits one last key.
“And voila,” he intones. “Thirty seconds. Go.”
I go to insert the gun into the lock and miss the first time. I grunt and steady my hand, slipping the needle and tension tool into the lock, and pull the trigger. Nothing happens for a long moment. The knot in my gut pulls even tighter, almost painfully.
“Dammit,” I growl.
“Fifteen seconds.”
I pull the trigger again and feel a click. Great. I hadn’t pulled the trigger back far enough. The gun vibrates in my hand, and I can hear the clicking of the lock, followed by a muffled pop. It’s unlocked. I extract the gun and slip it back into my pocket. Gritting my teeth, I turn the lock, half-expecting the alarm to sound, but it opens silently, and I push the door inward.