by T. R. Ragan
The moment I saw the red rubber ball roll over the edge of the pool and hit the water, I became tense and very alert. My heart rate accelerated.
With her uneven ponytails and big green eyes, she pointed at the ball floating there and asked me to get it for her.
I looked around, but I already knew my parents were out front talking to the new neighbors who had just moved into the house next door. I knew she couldn’t swim, but I told her to go ahead and get the ball herself.
She didn’t hesitate. She headed that way, reached for the ball, straining every tiny muscle in her arms. But the ball bobbed farther away, just as I knew it would. She reached for it one more time, and that’s when she fell in. Water splashed as my little sister fought for her life. She struggled valiantly that day, instinctively paddling both arms, swinging madly until one of her hands got a good solid grip on the pool’s edge. Not only was I stunned by her fight for survival, I was panicked by the thought of her tattling on me. I had no choice but to kneel down and pry her little fingers off the edge, one at a time until she had nowhere to go but down.
I could go on and on about that day: the look on Dad’s face right before he jumped into the water. My mom falling apart, all snot and drool. The neighbors, complete strangers, trying to console everyone.
I remember feeling afraid.
Once I realized my sister was truly dead, I missed her. I still do. But I would do it all over again if given the chance.
I have killed many times since then.
I have never shot anyone, never used a gun. Much too loud, for one thing. What good would it do to call attention to myself? Like many killers, and so-called normal people, for that matter, I like control.
Who doesn’t?
When I overpower someone, I prefer to strangle them. I rarely drug my victims because most medications take all the fire out of their eyes.
I don’t know why I’m so passionate about killing.
There are days when I wish I could stop.
No, not days, but moments. There are moments, long moments, when I wish I could stop killing. But I’m thirty-eight now, and if there is one thing in life that I’m certain of, it’s that I will never stop.
If it makes you feel any better, I rarely rape or torture my victims. If that gave me a thrill, I might, but I’m not your typical serial killer. I’m not trying to play cat and mouse with the authorities. There was one particular FBI agent who intrigued me for a while there, but he’s dead now. I have no desire for notoriety. My ego is plenty healthy enough as it is.
I simply want to keep doing what I do best.
I want to kill people. And then write in my journal. And paint. I will always paint.
I am almost finished with my latest work of art, which involves my last kill. It’s the eyes I’m having problems with. I can’t get the right look because it was dark outside. She was walking in a half-decent part of town, but it was an unusually dark night devoid of stars, and she was alone. The moment I spotted her, I opened my window, slowed my vehicle to a leisurely pace, and proceeded to warn her about the perils of being out alone at night. She looked worried, assured me she was almost home.
That’s what they all say.
I drove ahead, parked around a bend, and waited for her. She didn’t see it coming. Everything considered, it was all very anticlimactic.
Ahh, I hear the newspaper hit my front door. Wonderful. Will there be any news of the woman’s death? The anticipation is delicious. Today, or someday soon, I’ll have my answers: Who was she? What was her age? Her story? Everyone has a story.
I must go. The suspense is killing me.
But first, there is one more thing you should know about me. Above all else, I am an incessant liar. White lies, black lies, green lies. It doesn’t matter. I love death and deceit. In fact, the truth is, my parents are now dead. I killed them both five years ago. They left me no choice.
Until next time,
ZT
CHAPTER THREE
Lizzy pulled her car into a parking space and shut off the engine.
The corporate SRT building in Folsom was a giant block of steel and concrete dotted with windows. Stacey Whitmore, anchor with Channel 10 News, sat beside her in the passenger seat. All the way here, she’d been clicking one of her perfectly manicured fingernails on the console. “I don’t like this one bit,” she said, not for the first time.
Lizzy felt a muscle tighten beneath her cheekbone. Up until now she’d just let her whine, but the time had come for Stacey Whitmore to grow a spine. “If you can’t do this, then I’ll take you back to your house right now.” She reinserted the key in the ignition. “I’m sure Derek Murphy will be more than willing to help me out.”
“Put your keys away,” Stacey said. “The last thing I want is for you to call Derek Murphy every time you have a new story.” Stacey looked squarely at Lizzy. “If anyone finds out about this, though, I could lose my job.”
For the past few weeks, Lizzy’s focus had been on Wayne Bennett. He was rich and powerful, and he used that power to take advantage of young women. He was the worst kind of predator. People, young and old, thought they could trust him. He was a self-made millionaire. But like many highly successful leaders, he was seduced by money and power, and somewhere along the way he had lost his moral bearings.
“Wayne Bennett is scum,” Lizzy said. “You read the testimony from those three young women. And you know he won’t call your boss to complain or to find out what’s going on—the last thing he wants is the media coming around and asking him more questions.”
“The judge dropped the case against Bennett. Why would he do that if there was enough evidence to bring Bennett to court and let a jury decide?”
“I talked to Grady Orwell, the prosecutor on the case, and he said the judge dropped the case on a simple technicality during preconference. You know as well as I do that power and money buy a lot of privileges, including time.”
“You think the judge took a bribe?”
“I think that’s obvious.” There was a long pause before Lizzy added, “Somebody needs to get this guy off the street, and I have a feeling it’s going to have to be me.”
“There are hundreds, if not thousands, of rapists in Sacramento. Why him?”
“Because he has easy access to too many young people. The young women he purports to be helping put their trust in him because everything about him appears to be on the up-and-up. He’s a wolf in sheep’s clothing. By the time he strikes, these young women don’t know what hit them. The worst part is that he thinks he can get away with it.”
“He might be right.”
“Not if I can help it.” Lizzy anchored strands of hair behind her ear. “Listen. Think about all the young women you’ll be saving from his abuse if I can get the proof I need and get this guy behind bars where he belongs. Karma will pay you back in triplicate.”
“What sort of proof do you really think we’ll get out of him today?”
“I want you to ask him about Miriam Walters. Ask him what he knows about her disappearance.”
Silence.
“So, what’s it going to be?” Lizzy asked. “Are you in?”
“I’m in. But you owe me.”
Lizzy took a look outside. It was mid-April. The air coming through the vents was cool. White clouds billowed against a backdrop of gray sky.
“There he is,” Stacey said, pointing. “That’s his car pulling into the lot.”
“Where? Which one?”
“The cream-colored Mercedes.”
“Let’s go.”
Before Stacey could answer, Lizzy got out of the car, opened the trunk, and began to gather the video equipment she’d asked Stacey to bring. The Channel 10 News logo would make it all look official.
Stacey climbed out of the car and came around to the back. She took the microphone Lizzy
handed her. She looked professional in her matching two-piece suit. Her hair and makeup were flawless.
“Ready?” Lizzy asked her.
“Three questions and then we go.”
“That’s right.” Lizzy slid on a pair of black-rimmed eyeglasses that were nothing more than clear glass. Usually her hair was tied back in a ponytail, but today she’d taken the time to curl it. The last thing she wanted was for Wayne Bennett to recognize her as a private investigator from one of the many cases she’d worked on. If everything went as planned, he would think she was a camerawoman, and he wouldn’t pay her any mind.
Lizzy was halfway across the parking lot when she spotted him as he neared the entrance to the building. “Hurry up,” she told Stacey. “We’re going to lose him.”
Wayne Bennett was six feet tall, probably 170 pounds. His dark hair was thick and speckled with silver. His suit was well tailored. His shoes newly shined. Every step, every movement was sharp, rhythmic. He never looked their way.
“Mr. Bennett,” Stacey called out, her heels clacking against the pavement. “Congratulations on your CEO of the Year Award.”
He stopped. Turned. Smiled into Lizzy’s camera.
Stacey was brilliant. She knew exactly what would get his attention.
“Hi. Stacey Whitmore with Channel 10 News.”
He nodded. “What can I do for you?”
“You have gotten a lot of bad press lately despite all the great work you do with the underprivileged kids. I thought it was only fair that someone point out the good you’ve done for our community.”
He straightened his tie, stood a little taller.
“The Sacramento area is home to a vast array of top-notch companies, and it’s the CEOs who get the job done,” she went on. “How does it feel to be included on the roster of those to be rewarded?”
“I am honored to have been selected and to be in such good company.”
“Could you tell us about your organization outside of SRT, and about some of the work you do to help so many young men and women in Sacramento?”
He fairly beamed. “I’d be happy to. Five years ago, I started Opportunity Knocks, a nonprofit company that receives sponsorships and donations from many of the area’s businesses. SRT is the biggest contributor. My team works closely with underprivileged kids who are right out of high school. We give them a crash course in technology and then teach them necessary social skills. Basically, we build a bridge between those less fortunate and the companies that end up employing them because they have been through our program. We have a very high employment rate.”
“I understand you work especially closely with young disadvantaged women who might not otherwise have the chance to intern with large companies like SRT.”
“That’s right,” he said. “Well, young men and young women. Every young person in our program has gone through a rigorous selection process that ensures that every participant is well motivated and eager to learn. Their only disadvantage is the environment they were born into. In six months’ time, they are ready to go out into the world and interview for jobs they would have otherwise had no business seeking. Over fifty percent of these gifted men and women are given internships and then go on to accept well-paying jobs.”
“One particular young woman has been extremely outspoken about the work you do. Her name is Tammy Walters. Her sister, Miriam Walters, has been missing for five days now.”
Bennett stiffened. Through the camera lens, Lizzy saw the muscles at the hinges of his jaws pulse. Stacey was holding her own, refusing to flinch. At the bottom of the frame, Lizzy saw his left hand roll into a fist. At first Lizzy worried he might take a punch at Stacey, threaten her at the very least, but his voice was calm when he said, “I think I read something about this in the newspaper, but I don’t know either of the women, so I really can’t add anything to the discussion.” He glanced at his watch. “Time has gotten away from me. I do need to run.”
He was not going to get away that easily. Leaving Stacey behind, Lizzy followed Bennett to the entrance. “Are you saying you’ve never met Miriam Walters?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying.” He stopped short and turned, as if he’d just realized it wasn’t Stacey asking the question. He looked Lizzy over, his eyes hardening. “Do I know you?”
The double doors slid open, and Mr. Bennett slipped away without waiting for an answer.
“No,” Lizzy said, “but you will.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Kitally came through the front door with a newspaper in hand and a smile on her face. “We did it.” She laid the newspaper on the coffee table in front of the couch where Hayley was sitting. “It worked. Wallace is going to jail.”
Lizzy had just entered from the main hallway. She crossed the room to see for herself. “For how long?”
“Ten years.”
“Better than nothing,” Hayley said, clearly not overwhelmed with excitement.
“Are you kidding me? Ten years is a long time. Wallace will be sixty-two by the time he gets out.”
“This is a good start,” Lizzy said. “Our number five man is off the street. Cross him off the list.”
To make it happen, they’d targeted a well-known thief in the area, filched some already stolen merchandise, and then planted the goods in the rapist’s garage. It had been Kitally’s idea. Stealing from one criminal to put away another. Not a bad deal.
“We really did it,” Kitally said again, self-satisfaction scrawled across her face. “We put away a rapist without using violence.”
“You did good,” Lizzy agreed.
“What about Bennett?” Kitally asked Lizzy. “Any luck with that today?”
“Bennett isn’t going down easy. The man owns half the town—judges, cops, elected officials, you name it. Deep pocketbooks buy loyalty.”
“What did he have to say about Miriam Walters?”
“Said he didn’t know her, but the good news is that now we have it on tape.”
“What good will that do?” Hayley wanted to know.
“Bennett killed Miriam Walters. I’m sure of it. By the time they find her body, I plan to have enough proof to bring him in for questioning. If I can get my hands on a picture of the two of them, anything that will prove that Bennett knew Miriam Walters, I will have the video showing he lied. Why would the man lie about knowing the girl if he was innocent and had nothing to do with her disappearance?”
“I suppose,” Hayley said, then shook her head. “I don’t understand how the judge could let him off. Three different women were willing to appear and swear to his guilt. It makes no sense. Now that he knows who was willing to talk, he might use intimidation to shut them up.”
Lizzy said nothing. Bennett’s lawyers had ripped all three of the women’s reputations to shreds, convincing first the public, then the judge, that all three of them were after Bennett’s money. The lawyers harped on the fact that the women had waited a year to make any accusations. Why so long? Because they wanted his money.
Lizzy had talked to one of the women involved. Instinct told her she was telling the truth. But now they were all scared, she’d told Lizzy. One of their friends—Miriam Walters, a very pretty eighteen-year-old—was missing. And all three women had a good idea who was responsible.
It was midnight when Hayley drove slowly through West Sacramento. Her window was rolled down. The only noise was the rattle of her engine, and Kitally, who couldn’t stay quiet for more than a few minutes at a time.
“So who are we going after tonight?” Kitally asked.
“It’s the only woman on the list. They call her the Ghost, but the problem is we don’t have a name.”
“What’s the deal with her anyhow?”
“I used to spend a lot of time on these streets. A while ago, a shop owner in the area pulled me aside and told me that his people, as he likes to call the
homeless in the area, were being harassed by a crazy woman. The police, if they’re even looking, haven’t been able to catch her, so I figured she needed to be put on our list.”
Kitally watched the road ahead. “She steals from these people who have nothing?”
“It’s worse than that. She attacks the homeless . . . usually while they sleep. Both women and men, young and old, it doesn’t seem to matter—beats the shit out of them. One elderly man almost died from head trauma. Apparently, she attacks for no reason at all. I talked to two different people who got a pretty good look at her, but we’re going to need to track her down somehow, see what else we can find out. She’s been described as slender-bodied. She has a thin face with high, pointy cheekbones and light-colored eyes. Someone else called her a sinewy white girl with spiky blonde hair, bushy eyebrows, and pale skin.”
“Sounds like she would be easy to spot, even in the dark.”
“I thought so, too, but I’ve been making the rounds for a while now and I have yet to get a glimpse of her. Apparently, many people in the area have heard of her. They’ve even rounded up a posse to look for her, but she’s elusive. She’s cocky, too. Comes back to the same exact places, time after time.”
“That’s a little freaky. She must have eyes in the back of her head if everyone is watching and waiting for her and yet she manages to show up at the precise moment when nobody’s paying attention.”
Hayley made a left at the stop sign, and then pulled to the curb, parked, and turned off the engine.
“What are we doing?”
“Just taking a stroll through the park, since one of the people I talked to spotted her here once. Long shot, but we have to start somewhere.”
They climbed out. Kitally hitched her bag around her shoulder and followed close behind.
Hayley had been to this same park many times before. It always felt like home. Tonight was a quiet night. If she didn’t know better, she would guess all the criminals and rapists in Sacramento had taken the night off. The thought made her smile. Not because she thought it was remotely possible, but because it was so damned absurd.