“Jesus, Amy. They’re going to hang you out to dry. You know that, right?”
I nodded. I did know that. So when it happened, I wasn’t surprised. And while there were some individuals and groups who had a field day, calling me a vigilante and a murderer, there were others who celebrated my supposed rogue status, saying there was nothing wrong with a cop who actually dealt with criminals as they deserved. And none of that was the problem. It didn’t really matter to me what people thought or felt.
The problem was that I didn’t know what I thought or felt. I couldn’t seem to wrap my mind around what I had done, for a second time. I hadn’t hesitated to kill either time, and there was no precedent for either killing; they were separate and unrelated. When the psychologist asked if I would have proceeded in the same fashion had the perpetrator been female, I answered with a disgusted, “No, of course not.” Which was not the way I should have responded. But it was a stupid question, and I’ve never had much patience for stupidity.
While on suspension, I began drinking. A lot. Alice, already wary of me, kept her distance; there was no discussion, and there was no closeness. The longer this went on, the more I became mired in my confusion, until I hadn’t a hope in hell of discovering what, if any, my motivations were. I drank even more, at home, eight or nine beers in a night, blacking out, and starting all over again the next evening. I always awoke with a hangover, felt depressed throughout the day, and drank to forget my own unhappiness.
It was a vicious cycle, and eventually I crashed. Literally. I went out to get more beer, though I don’t remember that; the investigators questioned witnesses who said it appeared I tried to speed through a traffic circle. One of the front tires hit the curb and the car flipped as it flew through the air, and landed smack on its roof in the adjacent ditch. I ended up upside down; my forehead slammed against the steering wheel and I briefly lost consciousness.
I came to in the ambulance as they were trying to aspirate my lungs; I’d vomited at some point. Apparently, I fought the EMTs like a crazy person and they had to sedate me. The next thing I remember is lying in a hospital bed. Alice was looking at me with a mixture of sadness, concern, and disgust, saying something to me that was lost in the haze of drugs and pain and confusion. I didn’t see her again after that. Kitch visited me, and eyed me with almost the same expression of sadness and concern, minus the disgust. I knew then that my career as a police officer was over.
When I was released from the hospital two days later, I had a neck brace for the whiplash I’d suffered, and a prescription for painkillers to deal with a blinding headache that would not abate. I came home to a house empty of Alice and whatever possessions she’d considered hers, and a note that said she’d had enough, she was sorry, but she had to leave. And that was the end of that.
A week later, I received a summons to appear in court. I was ordered to perform a year of community service; my driver’s license was suspended for twelve months, and my car, which had been totaled, was impounded.
Eight days later, I received my official release papers from the police department, without prejudice and without ceremony. I was terminated, my certification revoked. I got thoroughly, nastily drunk that night, and several nights after, until one morning I awoke in my backyard, on my back, soaked with dew, with absolutely no memory of how I’d gotten there. Kitch was in a crouch next to me.
“I’ve always preferred a bed to the backyard,” was his dry comment.
“Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it,” I told him.
To his credit, he didn’t laugh at me or lecture me. He helped me to my feet and into the house where I showered and cleaned myself up while he made coffee. We sat at the kitchen table, and after very little persuasion, I began thumbing through the yellow pages to find a therapist. I made an appointment while Kitch sat quietly beside me. And afterwards I cried and cried, while he sat and held my hand. Finally, he encouraged me to call my sister, Anna, who said she would come immediately and stay with me for a couple of weeks. I was grateful for his help, and hers, and later for so much more. I had learned that asking for help is hard, but suffering because you can’t ask, or don’t know how, is hell, and I no longer wished to reside in that particular hell.
Chapter Twenty-Four
I left the Travelodge at a less-than-hurried pace, turned in my key, grabbed a coffee and scone from the breakfast items provided, and took the time to finish them before heading to the Jeep. The storm of the night before had left behind an endless blue sky and a brilliant sun in its wake. It was nine a.m. by the time I’d removed the Jeep’s side windows, stowed them behind the seats, and rolled up the back window. Sparkling like gems, droplets of rain ran down the sides of the fabric. I decided to leave the top up; it looked like it was going to be another hot day.
Before heading out, I consulted the road map to double-check my route. I’d discovered the name of the town I was in while checking out: Winchester, Virginia, where Patsy Cline had gotten her start. The town boasted a population of some 26,000 plus. In the bright morning sunlight it looked far more inviting than when I’d arrived. As I drove back to the highway, the landscape looked luxuriant, clean and fresh and almost blindingly verdant. I had also noted on the map that just to the north sat the town of Gettysburg, and the Gettysburg National Military Park. I briefly considered heading that way, maybe do a little sightseeing, but then tossed the idea; I wasn’t much of a history buff let alone a Civil War enthusiast. I had to be in a town called Hills Valley, in the state of North Carolina, and I planned to drive the Blue Ridge Parkway most of the way there. It was going to take me at least five hours to reach my destination; I had no time for sightseeing. So I drove out to the on ramp and left Winchester behind.
I deliberately tried not to scan the area for Kael, but as I checked the flow of traffic I found myself thinking of her. I could only guess where she was headed but I could pretty much guarantee she wasn’t hanging out by the side of the road at the moment. There was no way of knowing how long the news story had been running. I didn’t know if Kael was a regular news watcher, but her surprise and consternation indicated she’d been caught completely off guard. Which meant she’d probably not screwed up much previously, if at all.
Not knowing how long that newscast had been running meant she couldn’t know if anyone on the road had seen it or might recognize her, even though the headshot taken from the security camera was blurry. I had recognized her, but considering I’d just spent the night with her, up close and personal, that wasn’t surprising. Others might not be as attentive. Still, hitching during the day might be risky. At night she’d probably do better. Which it seemed she’d been doing as a matter of course anyway.
If Kael was indeed the woman the FBI was searching for, and it would appear that she was, what did that make her? The newscast had clearly stated the killings were considered a vicious form of vigilantism, not the work of a serial killer. How many men had she killed, and how had she killed them? Why was she specifically targeting pedophiles, as the newscast alleged, and why was she killing them?
The questions piled up in my mind and I had answers to none of them. As I headed for the interstate, it occurred to me that I could have, perhaps even should have, detained Kael as soon as she admitted to her involvement. Yet that had never crossed my mind. I was startled by the realization. As a cop, I’d always been diligent. As an ex-cop, I still was, often much to my annoyance. Yet in this case, when it would seem criminal not to act, or criminal to not even think to act, I had done neither. Frustrated, I merged into traffic and concentrated on driving.
The drive along the Parkway was the best distraction I could have asked for. It was the most scenic and beautiful drive I’d ever experienced. The speed limit was only forty-five miles an hour, so I was able to enjoy the view while minding the twisting, turning, rising and falling road. The Appalachian Mountains were much, much older than the Rockies, and weather forces over millions of years had worn down their once jutting peaks. Yet i
n my opinion this only added to their beauty. The mountains stretched far and away. The tree-covered slopes and peaks were softened by the thick, lush growth of deciduous trees such as maple, oak, and beech at lower elevations, while cedar, pine, spruce and fir grew farther up. All faded to blue, and then gray with the distance.
The vistas were vast and breathtaking, the low-lying areas still harboring fog in dense carpets from the heavy overnight rain, some of which clung in patches to the forested mountainsides as if anchored by the trees. With the sun rising steadily, all would burn off in an hour or so, but for now, it lent the views an ethereal, almost primeval quality.
After a few hours I left the Blue Ridge Parkway at Highway 77, and shortly afterward entered North Carolina. Just beyond the state border, I pulled off the highway once more and drove into the small city of Mount Airy. A sign proclaimed the city to be the birthplace and home of Andy Griffith. Even though I was familiar with the man and the 1960s show named after him, that had been well before my time and I had only a passing interest in his legacy. I was less than a couple of hours from Hills Valley and it was only three in the afternoon. I felt more relaxed about the drive now. Even though I had thoroughly enjoyed the picturesque Parkway, and would definitely return the same way when the time came, taking a break to check out a quaint Southern city with the bragging rights to Mayberry sounded like a good way to pass some time.
I followed the signs and headed for the historic downtown district. I parked the Jeep and decided to take a walk to stretch my legs. I headed down a side street, and one of the first things I came upon was the Andy Griffith Museum. Out front was a bronze statue of a man and boy holding hands and carrying fishing rods. It took me a moment before I figured out it was Andy and Opie from the show, and that made me smile. I didn’t go into the museum, but instead wandered around a bit more. After fifteen minutes, I was Mayberry’d out. I made my way back to Main Street, and the Blueberry Diner to have my lunch.
I sat in a booth drinking sweet tea and immensely enjoying a pork chop sandwich, which was apparently a Southern staple according to my server. I realized that whenever the little bell over the door rang I looked up. It took me a few moments to figure out that I was looking for Kael. It made absolutely no sense. The chances of her ending up at the same diner, in the same town, were basically nil, yet there I was, looking for her.
Feeling vaguely unsettled, I finished my lunch a little quicker than I had planned. Outside, I realized I was still doing it, looking around, searching among the pedestrians for Kael’s blond head and slender figure. I felt foolish and further discomfited. If driving was the only thing keeping me from being distracted by hopeless searching, then the sooner I started, the better off I’d be.
* * *
I arrived in Hills Valley shortly after five p.m. Traffic into and out of town was bumper-to-bumper, but I wasn’t in it long before I pulled off to get to my hotel. Now that I was out of the higher elevations, the temperature was in the nineties, and I was hot, sticky, and tired. An air-conditioned hotel room sounded lovely right then. Once I’d checked in, I immediately went up to my room to take a shower, taking only my duffel bag and laptop with me. My room was on the third floor, basic, but roomy and attractive, designed in browns, tans, and whites. It was much nicer than the motel I’d stayed at the night before, and there was no offensive bedspread on the king size bed, only a brown fleece cover folded over the foot.
Thirty minutes later, refreshed, and dressed in khaki Bermuda shorts and a lightweight cotton T-shirt, I headed down to the guest laundry facilities with the duffel bag full of dirty clothes. I threw the load into the washer, intending to return within a couple of hours. I’d make the short drive into town to find a place to eat and have a pint or two. I didn’t need to meet with my client until the next day, Thursday; my time was my own the rest of the day.
In the heart of the small town, I chose a pub with an outside seating arrangement mirrored by every other dining establishment up and down the street. The town was touted as Historic Hills Valley; there were numerous decorative signs, white or brown, in the area, which mentioned locations and people as far back as the late 1700s. The white signs seemed to be attached to residences and provided information on the original owners, the brown to more generalized categories like people, places, and events, and their significance to the town itself. There were towering trees, bushes, hedges, flowering plants, and ground cover everywhere. Coming from the Midwest, I’d not seen such a proliferation of foliage until arriving in the South. I couldn’t imagine ever growing tired of it.
The Brass Penny was a small, cozy pub with dark stained wood chairs and tables along one wall, half of them filled with patrons. The other wall was taken up almost entirely by a bar of polished mahogany with attendant bar stools. I grabbed a corner stool and scanned the chalkboard list of available draught and bottled beers, eventually deciding on a pint of amber ale that came from a brewery in Asheville. The bartender, Adam, approved of my choice, and after he’d served me we chatted a bit about the town and our reasons for being there.
The pub was obviously a popular watering hole and by dinnertime it was bustling. Pints and plates of food were being served with startling rapidity, and after glancing at several of the plates that passed by, I took a look at the menu. I settled on shrimp and crab mac and cheese, which proved to be as tasty as it was unique.
By the time I left the pub an hour and a half later, I was comfortably stuffed. The pub itself was full, there was barely any room to stand, the corner jukebox had been turned up, as well as people’s voices. Everyone seemed to be in a good mood, greeting each other warmly, calling out to those entering, hugging, backslapping, laughing, and clinking their pint glasses and beer bottles in friendly salute. I was reluctant to leave, but I had a pleasant buzz on and I didn’t want to get carried away with more than the two pints I’d already had. I wasn’t certain there was a taxi service, so I was responsible for getting myself to my hotel.
I’d parked on the street, and as I waded through a crowd of smokers and drinkers out front of the pub, I could see many other people stroll the sidewalks, enjoying the evening and the town. Once in the Jeep, I strapped on my seatbelt, reached to turn the key, and glanced in my rearview mirror. My eye was caught by a young woman with short glossy black hair cropped above her ears, knapsack on her shoulder, weaving her way through the crowd on the sidewalk with a determined look on her face. My heart almost stopped when I recognized Kael. A second later she was gone from sight, disappearing around a corner.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Her first excursion takes place just shy of her twentieth birthday. It is almost her last.
She drives to Nashville, Tennessee, parks in the airport’s long-term parking, buses it to the outskirts of the city, then hitches to Georgetown, Kentucky. She has gone over her plan again and again, and even so is not certain it will work. The idea to appear as young as possible, and to place herself where her target will see her, approach her, attempt to lure her, fascinates and repulses her.
It is all well and good to peruse the offender registry, to pick out a target, to dispatch him. There are many to choose from. It would be a simple task. This does not interest her. What interests her, what compels her, is the repeat offenders; the ones who have not served their time due to a technicality; those who have paid only a fraction of the price their victims have. When she comes across these, her anger, her fury at that injustice claws at her heart. And so she peruses the registry with careful attention, going over it again and again, before making a decision.
In Georgetown, she finds her target; charged with four counts of sex with a minor, he served time for only one, due to the other three victims’ refusal to testify. She follows him, tracks his movements. He’s a jogger. She sets up a chance meeting in a park. It is far too easy, and it sickens her how quickly he zooms in on her as he jogs past the bench she occupies. She has deliberately dressed in pink and blue pastel, including her Converse high tops and the n
arrow ribbon in her hair. His gaze lingers on her pony-tailed, shorts-and-tank-top-clad person a fraction too long as he passes by. She looks off into the distance so as not to meet his eye, and when he slows and turns around, she lowers her head and stares at the ground. Her knees bounce as she jitters on the balls of her feet like an impatient kid. When he finally approaches, and asks if she’s okay, she makes a loud, frustrated sound, changes the pitch of her voice. She invents a story about plans to meet a friend for their first cross country run, she must have gotten the directions wrong, no one has shown up.
He is solicitous and offers to wait with her. This immediately creeps her out, and to hide it, she jumps to her feet. How about if you run with me? she says brightly. Come on, let’s go! And amazingly, he agrees. She takes off, he follows. The path is narrow, so they run in single file, which is what she had in mind. The park is situated along Elkhorn Creek, crisscrossed with asphalt running paths, and mostly unused dirt bicycle paths which meander alongside the creek. He invites her down one of these, suggesting a more challenging run. She has her eye on the public outhouse off to the right, fakes a cramp, tells him she’ll meet him there. He nods, his eyes bright.
In the outhouse she latches the door, digs through the trash bin, pulls out the plastic bag she had stashed there earlier, buried beneath a mound of paper towels and newspaper. She pulls a change of clothes out of the bag, along with a small waist bag containing her gun. It takes her less than three minutes to strip out of the pastel outfit and don the black one: shorts over tights, long-sleeved lightweight shirt, thin nylon gloves, Reebok running shoes. She slicks her hair back and secures it tightly with a hair tie. The pastel outfit goes into the bag; she unlatches the door, and carefully steps out. She feels sleek, deadly. There is not a single person in sight.
She leans to pick up a good-sized rock, stuffs it in the bag, ties the handles together. As she trots down to the creek, she heaves the bag out over the water, hears a satisfying splash, and takes a moment to ensure it sinks. She continues along the path, where her target is waiting on his erstwhile running partner. He is very surprised to see her, and even more surprised to see the gun.
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