Kill Her Again
Robert Gregory Browne
Robert Gregory Browne
Kill Her Again
PART ONE
Present Tense
1
The little girl was about to die.
She knew this instinctively, even though the man in the red baseball cap had never uttered so much as a word to her. It was as if she had crawled up inside his brain and could read his innermost thoughts.
Thoughts of darkness. And dead things.
Lots of dead things.
The little girl wasn’t a stranger to death herself. She’d seen it firsthand, at six years old, when Mr. Stinky got hit by a bus. A lot of the details were hazy now, but she remembered she was playing hopscotch with Suzie at the time, Mr. Stinky running circles around them on the driveway, barking like crazy.
Then, for some reason, he had decided to dart out into the street. Saw a cat or something. And the city bus that usually came down their block at nine o’clock every morning came late that day, showing up out of nowhere as if it had been waiting for Mr. Stinky to make his move.
The little girl had been waiting, too, waiting for Suzie to finish her turn, watching her friend skip from square to square, when she heard the roar of the bus and looked up to see its front bumper smack Mr. Stinky right in the head. It knocked him into the air like one of her old stuffed animals, his legs flopping as he did a kind of slow-motion somersault, then landed on the blacktop.
He didn’t move after that.
And the bus driver didn’t stop.
The little girl screamed and ran into the street, even though she knew her mother would yell at her. And there was Mr. Stinky, lying on the ground like a bag of broken toys, his glazed eyes staring up at her, as lifeless as the two black buttons on her favorite Sunday School dress.
There wasn’t any blood, but she knew he was gone, knew he was dead, and he would never come back to her no matter how much she begged him to as she cradled him in her arms and cried and cried.
That had been four years ago.
But she still missed Mr. Stinky and sometimes wished she could be with him again, to feel him press his head against her arm, or put his paw on her knee, whenever he wanted her to pet him.
Maybe she’d get that wish.
Maybe he was up there in heaven somewhere, waiting for her.
Lying in the backseat of the car, her wrists and ankles bound, her mouth taped shut, the little girl stared up at that greasy red baseball cap and wondered where the man was taking her.
The road bumped beneath them, tree shadows flickering across the ceiling, and from what little she could see of the darkening sky, she thought they were headed into a forest of some kind. Not like the forest she’d camped in with her mom and dad, with the sun and a lake and fishing poles, but a dark and scary Hansel and Gretel kind of place, where kids like her are cooked and eaten.
The little girl’s stomach burned something awful, like that night not long ago when she ate too much lemon meringue pie. She wanted to throw up, wanted to release it all over the backseat, because she knew, without a doubt, that her time was almost up. The end was near.
That, just like Mr. Stinky, it was her turn to “ HEY, MCBRIDE, you awake?”
Anna McBride blinked, then turned from the passenger window to look at her new partner. Ted Royer. He seemed to be speaking to her from the far end of a long, dark corridor.
She blinked again and shook her head slightly, trying to clear her mind, a deep sense of dread bubbling in the pit of her stomach as the corridor finally widened, then disappeared altogether.
The darkness, however, didn’t. It was a little past one a.m.
“Is that yes or no?” Royer asked.
“Yes,” Anna said, clearing her throat. “I was thinking, is all. Daydreaming.”
But that wasn’t exactly the truth. The truth was much deeper than a simple daydream. And certainly more frightening.
Special Agent Anna McBride was losing her mind.
“Let’s get something straight right up front,” Royer said. He was seated behind the wheel of their bureau transport, a black Ford Explorer. He drove with the casual self-assurance of a career brick agent, a man who had spent many years in the field. “If we’re gonna be working together-and from all appearances it looks like we are-then I’m gonna need you to stay alert and keep focused. You think you can manage that?”
There was an edge of impatience to his voice. Anna knew that this new partnership had not been his choice, that it was merely the luck of the draw that had thrown them together. And she was pretty sure Royer considered it bad luck.
But she didn’t care about that right now. She had more pressing things to think about than an unstable work relationship.
Like an unstable mind.
As much as she wanted to believe that she’d fallen asleep for a moment, had let the hum of the engine lull her into the Land of Nod, she knew she’d been wide awake, and that what she’d just experienced had not been a dream at all. Not this time.
The question was, what exactly was it?
“Yo, McBride. Am I getting through to you?”
Anna nodded. “Message loud and clear.”
Royer gave her a sideways glance. “You’re not gonna be one of those, are you?”
“One of what?”
“Smart-asses.” He returned his gaze to the road, which seemed to stretch out forever into the desert darkness, all prairie brush and cactus. The view was as foreign to Anna as a lunar landscape. “I’ll tell you right now, I’ve had my fill of smart-ass partners, always trying to be clever, but usually at the expense of good investigative work. Too busy listening to their own bullshit to notice anything else.”
Anna was tempted to tell him she thought this might be a case of the kettle and the pot, but stopped just short of letting the words fly. Instead she said, “You don’t have to worry about me. No bullshit. And I’ll stay focused.”
This was an outright lie, of course. Staying focused was not her strong suit these days.
“I’m not gonna kid you,” Royer said. “The truth is, none of us really want you here.”
“I’m beginning to see that.”
Another sideways glance. “There you go with the smartass shit again. I’m surprised they didn’t ship you straight to South Dakota. Who’d you have to blow to get this assignment, anyway?”
Anna bit her tongue. Anything she said right now would only egg Royer on and all she wanted to do was shut him the hell up. The Glock 9 on her hip was calling out to her, but she resisted the urge to put a bullet in his brain. A feeling she’d been fighting since the moment she met him.
She had arrived in Victorville two days ago, less than a week after the doctors had proclaimed her fit for duty, and a little over a month after the blowup in South San Francisco.
She didn’t like thinking about that night, had known the moment it exploded in their faces that she would be the designated scapegoat, as she should be. It was all her fault.
But thinking about it had not turned out to be the problem. Ever since she’d jolted awake to a dark hospital room, a nasty set of stitches on the side of her face to remind her of the mistake she’d made, the majority of her mind’s real estate had been occupied by only one thing:
The vision. The dream. Nightmares so vivid they had her waking up in a cold sweat every night. Fleeting thoughts and images that all but disappeared the moment she opened her eyes.
A little girl in trouble.
A little girl who was about to die.
“Here’s the drill,” Royer said. “We get to Ludlow, you stand there and keep your mouth shut. These jurisdictional disputes can get a little tricky, so I’ll do all the talking.”
“I th
ought they invited us in?”
“They did, but the request came from the County Undersheriff himself, so it’s unlikely the rank and file are gonna be too thrilled about a coupla feds sticking their noses in the pond.”
“I’ve seen my share of pissed-off locals. I think I can handle myself.”
“Yeah,” Royer said, wagging his finger at her scar, which, despite several sessions with CoverGirl, had proven impossible to hide. “I can see that.”
This silenced her. It was her turn to shoot him a glance, but his concentration was centered on the road ahead and he didn’t seem to notice.
Or did he?
Was he baiting her? Hoping she’d give him an excuse to send her packing?
The Victorville Resident Agency-one of the bureau’s L.A. satellite stations-wasn’t any paradise, but Royer was right: She should be in South Dakota. She’d only managed to stay in California because Daddy dear had connections in the Justice Department.
But it was doubtful even South Dakota wanted her.
Nobody did.
“I’ll keep my mouth shut,” she said, surrendering to Royer’s contempt, knowing she’d have to swallow a lot of pride to make this partnership work. She’d spent a lifetime ramping toward a career that had unraveled in just a few short minutes, so she wasn’t about to squander what was likely her one and only second chance, no matter how much it pained her.
Besides, pride was the least of her concerns at the moment. The visions had obviously begun to escalate. They were coming during her waking hours now. And despite what the doctors had told the Victorville Agent in Charge, she knew she wasn’t even remotely fit for duty yet.
And until she was, she’d simply have to fake it.
“Looks like we’re here,” Royer said, and sure enough the lights of Ludlow, California, twinkled in the distance ahead, a dusty oasis in the middle of the Mojave Desert.
Anna wondered how people lived out here, wondered what compelled them to seek out the isolation and the dry, oven-like temperatures. Places like this were scattered throughout Southern California, with no apparent connection to the rest of the world.
Maybe that in itself was the attraction.
“You might want to brace yourself,” Royer said. “I’m told the scene is pretty grisly.”
Anna didn’t mind.
Maybe grisly was just the distraction she needed.
2
It was small as houses go. A worn, two-bedroom box made of brick and stucco, surrounded by a low, sagging wooden fence and fronted by a tiny patch of earth that had never held much more than a few desert weeds.
Anna had always harbored the notion that everything looked better at night. More stylized. Romantic. But there was no romance here. The house was a desolate and dreary reflection of the neighborhood-and town-it occupied.
A half-dozen County Sheriff’s vehicles were parked haphazardly in the street out front, a coroner’s van backed into the driveway, its rear doors hanging open.
Several neighbors stood watching from across the street, a mix of old and young, fat and thin, clothed and half-naked, every one of them with a leathery, sun-baked complexion that added a good ten years to their appearance.
The first thing Anna noticed as she climbed out of the cool interior of the Explorer was the oppressive summer heat. Middle of the night and it had to be over a hundred degrees. She felt as if someone had thrown a thick, wool blanket around her, and she wanted desperately to take off her coat. That, however, wasn’t about to happen unless Royer took his off first, and Anna wasn’t holding her breath.
Good thing, too, because Royer actually buttoned his coat before flashing his creds at a nearby deputy. Ducking under the yellow crime scene tape, he headed for the open front door.
Anna followed, but before they reached the porch, a sinewy guy in a western shirt, jeans, and cowboy boots stepped into the doorway.
“Agent Royer?”
His voice was a deep, somber baritone, but there was no hint of hostility on his face as he moved forward and held out a hand to shake.
Royer shook it, looking mildly surprised by the man’s courtesy.
“That’s right,” he said. “Deputy Worthington?”
Worthington nodded. “Sheriff’s Homicide. But call me Jake.” His gaze shifted to Anna, lingering briefly on the scar before finding her eyes. “And you are?”
Royer cut her off before she had a chance to respond. “This is Agent McBride.”
“Welcome to Ludlow,” Worthington said, as Anna grabbed his outstretched hand.
She’d always hated shaking hands with a man, feeling awkward whenever she did it, wondering how to negotiate the task. Squeeze too hard and she might come off as some desperate female trying to prove herself, while not hard enough painted her as weak and ineffective. Finding a balance was tough, and the moment was usually stiff and uncomfortable.
Anna managed to get through this one with a minimum of fuss, however, and was relieved when Worthington didn’t hang on longer than necessary.
“I’ve gotta warn you both that what you’re about to see isn’t pretty. We’ve got more than one deputy almost lost his dinner over it, including me.”
“The minute it stops bothering you,” Anna said, “you’d better start thinking about a change of careers.”
Royer shot her a frown, but Worthington nodded solemnly, then handed them each a pair of latex gloves and gestured for them to follow him inside. “Let’s get to it.”
Royer didn’t wait for Anna or offer her the chance to go in first. She was, she realized, merely an accessory here. A show of force that didn’t really translate into action. This was Royer’s party and she was the annoying little sister whom Mom had foisted on the big kids.
Her only sense of satisfaction came from the fact that Royer had been wrong about the reception. Worthington seemed genuinely glad to see them.
Pausing at the doorway, she turned as she snapped on the gloves, taking another look at the neighborhood, at the ramshackle houses that lined the street. She had a feeling that even out here in the desert, a street like this was no stranger to violence. There’d have to be something extra special going on inside to gather such a crowd at one-thirty in the morning.
Grisly, Royer had warned her. Not pretty.
Turning back toward the house, Anna stepped past the threshold and took it all in.
The first thing she noticed was the blood. It was hard not to, considering it was everywhere, arterial spray all over the furniture and walls. She didn’t need gloves; she needed a hazmat suit.
A split second after the blood registered in her brain, the smell hit her, the same smell that accompanied too many of the homicide scenes she’d been to.
Urine and feces.
It’s the thing they never tell you about in movies and on TV. That when some people die violently, they evacuate their bladder and bowels. From rock stars to anonymous paupers, it isn’t unusual to find them swimming in their own waste.
Mix that with the scent of the blood and rotting entrails and you’ve got the smell of death.
A smell you never get used to.
Royer and Worthington were standing over a body on the right side of an unkempt, standard-issue living room. A couple of coroner’s men stood nearby, waiting to bag it.
The victim was female, possibly thirty years old, although it was hard to tell, thanks to the way the body had been carved up. The killer had been quite liberal with the use of his weapon, which had been sharp enough to cut very deep.
More blood soaked the sofa cushions just above the spot where the body lay, and Anna figured this was where the victim had been killed. She felt the Lean Cuisine meat loaf she’d scarfed for dinner start to back up on her, but forced it down. She wasn’t about to give Royer any more ammunition against her.
Not that he needed any.
When she joined them, he said, “What took you?”
She ignored the question and stared down at the corpse, feeling a sudden sense of sad
ness wash through her. She didn’t know this poor woman, didn’t know anything about her, but nobody deserved to be displayed like this to a room full of strangers.
Anna looked at Worthington. “Who is she?”
“Rita Fairweather. Twenty-seven-year-old single mother of two.”
Christ, Anna thought. Only a year younger than me.
“She worked at a bar in town, place called The Well. Was there until about eleven p.m.” He gestured to the blood on the walls. “Near as we can figure it, it was pretty much a blitzkrieg attack. They never saw it coming.”
“They?” Royer said, raising his eyebrows.
Worthington hitched a finger and they followed him across the room through a doorway that led to a small, dingy kitchen. Lying on the faded linoleum in a sticky pool of blood was a man of indeterminate age, multiple stab wounds to his chest. An unopened can of Colt 45 lay at his feet.
“One of her boyfriends from the bar,” Worthington said. “John Meacham. Poor sonofabitch picked the wrong night to get horny.”
Anna noticed something on his neck and crouched down for a closer look. The flesh was slightly pink, with two fresh, reddish marks about half an inch apart.
“Looks like he used a stun gun on this one,” she said.
Worthington nodded. “That’s what we’re thinking. We’ll know for sure once the M.E. gets him on the table.”
Anna stood up. “You say Fairweather has kids. Where are they?”
“Ahh,” Worthington said. “The reason you two are here.”
He turned again, crossing through the living room to a narrow hallway. As Anna and Royer followed, she began to get a vague feeling of deja vu.
There was a bathroom at the far end of the hall, and two bedroom doors on either side, facing each other. Worthington led them to the one on the left, to yet another body-a teenage girl, her mouth taped shut, her wrists and ankles bound, more stab wounds.
An image flashed through Anna’s mind — the little girl, bound and gagged in the backseat of a car Anna blinked it away, forcing herself to concentrate on the room, which was largely occupied by two twin beds and a parade of stuffed animals and action figures. One of the beds sported Los Angeles Dodgers bedsheets, while the other carried a pastel pink comforter covered with a throwback to Anna’s own childhood: My Little Ponies.
Kill Her Again Page 1