Kill Her Again

by Robert Gregory Browne

  “Let’s hurry up,” he said. “I don’t want to be here any longer than I have to.”

  There was a small door with a pull chain in the ceiling above the second-floor landing. Pope pulled on it, and springs groaned as the door opened and a ladder unfolded, leading up to the attic.

  Pope went first this time. McBride handed him a Maglite and he flicked it on, then climbed to the top of the ladder and shone it into the cramped space above.

  Nothing had changed up here. By some miracle, the squatters had never ventured inside, leaving the boxes of old clothes, legal papers, and discarded toys untouched. Pope had been up here a hundred times over the years, depositing unwanted junk, but he didn’t remember ever seeing any marks on the floorboards.

  Not that he’d been looking for any.

  The attic walls and ceiling were unfinished, made of tar paper and two-by-fours. Pope shone the light toward a nearby stud and spotted the Stick N Click light fixture he’d mounted there. The electricity in the house had been turned off months ago, but there’d never been a line up here anyway, and the Stick N Click ran on a 9-volt battery.

  Reaching over, he jabbed it with a finger, and it came to life, illuminating the small room. Not well, but it was better than nothing.

  Pope pulled himself all the way up, then shone the flashlight down the ladder.

  “There’s room for one more,” he said. “That’s about it.”

  “You go on,” he heard Jake say to McBride. “I’ve got some calls to make anyway.”

  A moment later, McBride was at the top of the ladder. “Did you find it?”

  “Give me a break,” Pope said, “I’m still trying to get my land legs. This place wasn’t built for full-sized human beings.”

  As if to prove this, he pulled himself upright and nearly bumped his head on a crossbeam.

  The floor was made of narrow wooden slats, and as McBride stood up next to him, he ran the flashlight along them, looking for Susan’s mark.

  Nothing there.

  “We’re gonna have to move some of these boxes,” he said.

  McBride nodded and they spent the next several minutes shifting boxes from one pile to the next. But they found no marks of any kind, except for the usual scuffs and scratches.

  “I knew this was too much to hope for. Chalk it up to another one of Susan’s-”

  “Wait,” McBride said. She was staring at a nearby ceiling beam. “Let me have that flashlight.”

  Pope handed it over and she shone it toward the crossbeam, then moved in for a closer look.

  “I found it,” she said. “This is it.”

  Pope was surprised. Stepping over to the crossbeam, he took a look for himself, and sure enough, etched into the wood with a knife or an ice pick or a screwdriver was a small, crudely drawn circle with several spokes-about the size of a dime.

  The gypsy wheel.

  He turned to McBride. “This isn’t right. She said she marked a floorboard.”

  “No, she said she hid it under a floorboard. The wheel is just a reminder of where.”

  Swinging the flashlight downward, McBride shone it on the wooden slat directly beneath the mark, then touched the slat with her toe.

  It wobbled slightly. Loose.

  They crouched down and Pope stuck his fingers into the space between the slats, carefully prying the loose one free.

  “Why do I feel like Geraldo Rivera about to break into Capone’s vault?”

  McBride shone the light inside, but they saw nothing, and Pope felt a twinge of disappointment.

  “Maybe it shifted,” she said, then reached a hand in and patted the space between the floor joists. From the look on her face, she wasn’t finding anything.

  Then her expression changed.

  “I’ve got it,” she said, then reached in farther and brought out a thick, canvas binder. The kind they’d always used in school. It was crammed full of papers and news clippings, but instead of the usual hearts and flowers drawn on the cover, the typical “Suzie loves Joey” adornments you’d find on a young teenage girl’s notebook, this one was covered with gypsy wheels. Some small, some large. Some crude, some intricate. Each one of them the sign of a serious obsession.

  “I don’t believe it,” Pope said. “The goddamn thing is real.”

  3 4

  The Ghost had a problem.

  After following his targets to this neighborhood cul-de-sac, he had watched them disappear around the back of one of the houses. It looked to be a typical suburban two-story, but on closer inspection, through his field glasses, he realized it was abandoned.

  A moment later, a flashlight came to life inside and he knew they had broken in.

  It was, he’d thought, the perfect setup. Go in quickly- pop, pop, pop — and the targets would be eliminated. And because the house was abandoned, it might be days before the neighbors got curious about the Suburban parked out front and decided to see if someone was home.

  A minute or two passed; then a dim light went on in a window near the top of the house. The attic, most likely. Because they had been using a flashlight, The Ghost had assumed the place had no electricity. But apparently he was wrong, and working lights was a variable he’d have to figure into his strategy.

  Unfortunately, before he was able to calculate his angle of approach, the front door opened and the deputy, Worthington, stepped outside, a cell phone in hand.

  Worthington being out in the open like this was the problem. The Ghost could easily take him down with a simple drive-by, but that left two targets inside, upstairs, and no way to get to them and get the job done without taking the risk of being seen or possibly even caught.

  As is often the case, he had been presented with circumstances that were less than ideal. And while instinct told him he’d be better off walking away and telling Troy to go fuck himself, he kept thinking about the money.

  Always the money.

  And if he didn’t act now, Troy might finally come to his senses and call the whole thing off, leaving The Ghost to argue with the fool about return of payment.

  And such an argument would be neither pleasant nor beneficial to his career.

  Training his field glasses on the small gap between the target house and its neighbor to the left, The Ghost focused on what he could see of the backyard.

  Not much, but enough to tell him that access from the rear would not be difficult. The fence bordering the back neighbor’s property was low and easily climbed, and there was just enough shrubbery along the side of both houses to limit his exposure to prying eyes.

  A rear assault would also leave Worthington out of the equation until The Ghost was ready to deal with him-assuming he stayed outside long enough. And based on Worthington’s body language, it didn’t look like he’d be heading back inside anytime soon.

  His mind made up, The Ghost set the field glasses down, started his engine, and rolled down the street.

  Estimated time of completion was six minutes and counting.

  They weren’t quite sure what they had when they opened the notebook.

  Susan Pope’s ramblings about tracking the bogeyman had been promising at best, but there had been no guarantees that it would amount to anything substantial.

  What they discovered was that this mentally ill woman, this shy research assistant from Salcedo, California, had spent a large portion of her life nursing an obsession. The notebook was filled with photographs, drawings, newspaper clippings, Internet print-outs, and coded writings. It would take hours to sift through it all and decipher the language.

  The first page held three faded photographs, under the handwritten caption For Jillian:

  A school portrait of a pretty young girl in a lavender blouse; a shot of the same girl wearing a pink one-piece at the community pool; one of a much younger version, holding a Jack Russell terrier in her arms.

  “Mr. Stinky,” Anna said, touching the photo.

  “You remember?”

  “Yes.”

  Anna stared
at the photographs and realized that Susan had been right. There was no mistake that Jillian and Anna shared the same eyes. And based on these eyes alone, Anna would swear she was looking in a mirror.

  But this wasn’t the first time she’d seen them. She suddenly remembered an image from her trance. The locket dangling from the Rambler’s rearview mirror.

  The girl inside that locket.

  The gypsy girl.

  She’d had the very same eyes.

  The Ghost couldn’t believe his luck.

  The neighbors to the rear of the target house were not yet home, and slipping into their backyard undetected had merely been a matter of timing. People in the houses on either side were busy doing Whatever families do, and he hadn’t even had to throw on his gas company uniform to complete the task.

  Within moments he was up and over the back fence and dropping to the ground in the target’s backyard, which, from what he could tell, had seen better days. There was a swing set to his left and a sandbox full of abandoned Tonka trucks, and it suddenly occurred to The Ghost that this might be Pope’s house. The very same house Pope had tried to sign over to Troy several times in the past.

  Troy’s refusal to accept it had always been a mystery to The Ghost. The man was certainly no humanitarian. But maybe he felt uncomfortable taking ownership of a house that had once been home to a nut job and the boy she torched.

  Even The Ghost felt a small chill of discomfort at the thought of it.

  There was still light in the attic. Taking a pair of surgical gloves from his pocket, he snapped them on, then removed his weapon from his waistband and checked the magazine. He had considered using a knife for this assignment, but didn’t want to be bothered with cleanup. Instead, he screwed a homemade suppressor onto the tip of his weapon, then quickly crossed the yard and slipped in through the open rear door.

  He felt fairly confident that he hadn’t been seen. Navigating the dark would be difficult, but he couldn’t risk using a penlight.

  Stepping past a kitchen doorway, he hugged the wall and worked his way into the living room, which was partially illuminated by light from the street.

  He could hear Worthington out front, still on the phone.

  But as he neared the stairs, The Ghost paused, slightly unnerved by the sudden sensation that he wasn’t alone down here.

  He turned quickly, surveying the room, but saw no one. Empty shadows. He was again tempted to use his penlight, but decided against it.

  He stood there a moment, waiting, and nothing changed. The living room was still and quiet.

  False alarm, he thought, then started up the stairs to the second floor.

  “ We need a brighter light and a pot full of coffee,” Pope said.

  He was feeling claustrophobic. Needed to get out of here.

  The sight of the notebook, the drawings, the scratchy, handwritten passages, served as a reminder of how little he’d known about Susan and how he’d failed her. And Ben.

  She’d had an obsession that afforded no room for outsiders. And despite his animosity toward her, he couldn’t help feeling as if he was invading her privacy. Peeking in on a part of her life that she’d never intended to share.

  It would have to be done, yes, but not here. Not in this house. He needed to be far away from this place and the memories it held. The guilt he felt.

  He suddenly realized McBride was staring at him.

  “What?”

  She closed the notebook. “It’s not your fault, you know.”

  He just looked at her.

  Was she a mind reader now?

  “What are you talking about?”

  “What happened to your son. It’s not your fault.” She held up the notebook, shook it. “It’s his. He did this to Susan. The damage was done long before you even entered her life.”

  Pope shook his head. “I should’ve known what she was capable of. I should’ve stopped her.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know. I could’ve paid more attention. Gotten her help. Not allowed myself to get so wrapped up in my work.”

  “She was hiding from you, Danny. Don’t you get it? She didn’t want you to know about her dark side. She didn’t want anyone to know. And even if you had known, there’s no way you could’ve gone back and erased what happened to her and Jillian.”

  “Doesn’t matter. I should’ve protected him. I should’ve protected my boy.”

  “From his mother?” Anna said. “Think about that. There’s no way you could have known she’d harm her own son. You did what a husband and father are supposed to do. You loved them unconditionally. No one could ever blame you for that.”

  “It’s not that simple.”

  “Nothing about this is simple. But your blame is misplaced. It’s not your fault.”

  Her words hit home and Pope felt tears in his eyes. He started to turn away, but McBride reached up, touching his cheek.

  “It’s not your fault,” she said again.

  Then she surprised him by leaning toward him and kissing his tears. And before he realized what he was doing, he turned into the kiss, pressing his lips against hers.

  They stayed that way for a long moment, savoring it. And despite all the women he’d been with-the tourists, the showgirls he’d used to numb his pain-he’d never felt anything like this, the odd sensation of familiarity, as if this weren’t the first time he’d kissed her. As if they were long-lost lovers, reunited at last.

  When they pulled away from each other, McBride seemed embarrassed by her impulsiveness.

  “Sorry,” she said.

  “Don’t be.”

  Then he took the notebook from her, set it atop a nearby box, and pulled her into his arms, kissing her again. He lost himself in it, all of his troubles melting away, taking the room, the house, and the not-so-simple world with them. A feat that, until this moment, he’d thought impossible.

  After a while, he said, “We need to get out of here. Find a nice, bright coffee shop and get to work.”

  McBride nodded, kissed his cheek, then pulled away from him and picked up the notebook, carrying it down the steps.

  Pope turned, taking a last look around the room, staring at a part of his own past life. A life he could never go back to. Then he doused the light and followed her.

  But when he reached the bottom of the steps, McBride was nowhere in sight.

  “Anna?”

  No answer.

  “Anna, where the hell did you-”

  “Over here, Danny.”

  But it wasn’t McBride’s voice.

  Pope swung around and froze when he saw two figures step out of the shadows near the bathroom.

  The Ghost.

  Holding a gun to McBride’s head.

  3 5

  “ I’ve always liked you, Danny. I don’t think I need to tell you that this wasn’t my idea.”

  Pope’s mind was racing, but to his surprise, McBride seemed cool and collected. There wasn’t even a hint of fear in her eyes.

  “Let her go,” he said. “I haven’t told her anything.”

  “That doesn’t really matter at this point, does it? Normally, she’d already be dead, but I heard your little exchange upstairs and I’ve got a feeling love is in the air. And because I like you, I wanted to give you a choice.” He smiled. “Who goes first?”

  Pope stared at the gun in The Ghost’s hand and felt helpless, wishing he still had Jake’s Glock. There wasn’t a whole lot he could do with a miniature flashlight.

  “How much is he paying you?”

  “More than you can afford, I’m afraid, so don’t even go there.”

  “You won’t get away with this. My cousin’s right outside.”

  “Thanks for your concern,” The Ghost said, “but he’s next on the list. Now, come on, Danny, decide. Or I’ll decide for you. Time’s wasting.”

  “You motherfucker. You’re enjoying this.”

  “Not at all. Either you watch her die or she watches you. It’s your choice.”<
br />
  Pope looked at McBride. She was blinking at him, furiously. Then her gaze shifted to the flashlight in his hand.

  It took him a moment to figure out what she was trying to tell him.

  He looked at The Ghost. Tried to see the eyes behind those orange glasses. “I can’t do it,” he said. “I won’t do it.”

  “Then I guess I’ll have to decide for you.” He paused, then took the gun from McBride’s head and pointed it at Pope. “You first.”

  Several things happened at once. Just as The Ghost started to squeeze the trigger, Pope brought the flashlight up and shone it directly in his face. The Ghost made a noise, squinting against the light, and the shot went wild as — McBride moved into action, simultaneously grabbing his gun hand and stomping down on his right foot.

  The Ghost howled, but wasn’t so easily dispatched. He made a quick turn and brought his free hand up, smashing the side of McBride’s face, sending her sprawling.

  Pope hurled the flashlight at him, and leaped, taking him down with a hard tackle — but as they hit the floor, The Ghost brought a knee up into Pope’s groin and Pope felt his testicles implode, pain shooting up into his stomach as the wind was knocked out of him.

  He rolled away, clutching himself, as The Ghost got to his feet and backed into the bathroom doorway, out of breath, his gun still in hand, pointed at Pope and McBride.

  And make no mistake about it. He was angry.

  Very angry.

  “You know something, Danny? I don’t think I like you all that much any…”

  He paused mid-sentence, his expression shifting, a startled look in his eyes. Then his fingers went slack and the gun fell to the floor, as he dropped to his knees and pitched forward, blood spreading across his back.

  And standing in the doorway, knife in hand, was the man in the red baseball cap.

  He spat on The Ghost, his voice full of disgust. “ Gadje scum.”

  Anna’s jaw was on fire, but the pain abruptly disappeared as she pulled herself upright and saw Red Cap staring at her.