What he’d heard around the table covered: Wilmington. Whiteville. Fayetteville. Asheboro. Clayton. Raleigh. Cary. Winston-Salem. Greensboro.
People were sitting back, meals finished. Wouldn’t be long before they went back to their rooms, and tomorrow was the last day. He had to say something. Bounce the idea off them and make sure he wasn’t crazy.
“You guys realize this makes nine murders?” Faces looked over at him, some thoughtful, others surprised.
He read back the cities to them. “And I had two. The ones in Cary and Raleigh. Both of them were shot. On one, the guy stabbed another family’s pets.” He grinned when he said, “The pets were a pig and a cow. But he ended up dead.” He sat back as they absorbed it. “And the one in Cary. Do you guys know about the Belk geese?” Several people asked about them.
“Well, there was a kid screwing around with them. Broke the wing of the male. Busted the eggs of the female. He liked to skate around the mall parking lot, drinking and smoking weed. He was found shot to death. It’s being called drug-related.”
“You think there’s a connection?” Malcolm said. “But why haven’t we heard anything? And didn’t you say there were three different shooters?” He looked around the table. “That is what you’re saying, right? That there’s some kind of serial killer or killers on the loose?” He looked at Grayson. “Seriously. You think someone or three someones are out there killing animal abusers?”
“You had me until the three shooters. If it was the same gun, I’d totally agree.”
Another said, “No guns recovered. No shell casings. Got to be drug- or gang-related.”
“Coincidence on the cruelty charges,” said the soft-spoken woman. “The feds would be involved. This would be all over the news with some kind of catchy name for the killer.”
“Yeah,” Malcolm agreed. “Probably Twitter accounts rooting for the killer.”
Grayson raised his voice. “Hear me out. Look at what we know. It sounds like they were all unsolved homicides. They’ve all been marked as drug-related or gang-related or suspicious or whatever. It isn’t three shooters. It’s one person with three guns.” He held up a hand. “I agree the fact the guns are unregistered would point to drugs, but I think they’re just old guns. And the cops don’t know they have a vigilante on their hands. But if I’m right…”
The woman looked at him, nodding. “There will be more murders.”
“But there’s been not a single word that any of us have heard about any kind of serial killer. That tells me the cops don’t know yet.”
Grayson’s internal alarm was blaring so loudly he could hardly hear himself think.
The other woman with them said, “Or maybe it’s just an incredible coincidence. North Carolina’s a big state. A lot of people from the north and other areas have moved in. Crime levels are up. We have a huge gang problem in several counties. We’ve become a major drug destination. I think it’s coincidence. We all know these people start out harming animals and move on to people. So it makes sense to me that people who’d been in trouble for drugs and gangs would have cruelty convictions.”
A lot of them nodded. And Grayson knew it was rational. But it still felt off to him.
Malcolm chuckled. “And all the animal rights groups would be calling the killer a hero.”
Grayson finished off his beer. “You guys have a point. It makes sense. And yet you know how I feel about coincidence.”
On one hand he was glad those who deserved it were getting punished for what they did. The current laws didn’t have any teeth behind them. The primitive part of his brain was happy someone had stepped up, taking revenge for the animals. But the law-abiding part of him felt like he needed to do something. When he got back to Raleigh, he’d call Kevin and see what he knew.
As they broke apart, a couple of the officers made a point of speaking to him. “If I hear of any other shootings in conjunction with a case, I’ll let you know.”
One of the women added, “I have a friend in the bureau. If there’s more, I’ll call him.”
Grayson didn’t see the dark-haired guy with the scar. He’d wanted to ask him a question, but he must have slipped out. He knew he was right. But someone else would have to die to prove his theory. Whoever you are, I’m onto you.
CHAPTER 51
AN OCTOBER 24 SHOOTING LEFT a beloved family dog missing an eye when a bullet fired in the middle of the night struck him in the head. The dog was found in the early morning in distress, bleeding from the nose and eye. Veterinarians at NC State University’s College of Veterinary Medicine removed the dog’s left eye and fragments of a bullet from his head. The Orange County Sheriff’s Office suspects a .22-caliber firearm, Chief Deputy Norman Andrew said. Investigators are actively working on the case. A $500 reward has been offered for information leading to an arrest.
The article makes my head pound. What is wrong with people? The tartness of the Goody’s Powder on my tongue signifies relief. It’s bitter as can be, but the powder is fast-acting and I absolutely love the stuff. I’d never heard of it until I moved to the South.
As I spend the day planning Gary’s demise, I wonder how I managed my day job and my night job and Jackson. Oh right. I didn’t, or I wouldn’t have lost my job or Jackson.
My days are filled with following who’s next on the list and investigating others as their crimes come to light. Before I never used to take naps. Now I always take a nap the day of a reckoning.
It’s Sunday. Good old Gary always stays home on Sunday. Prepping for the week to come. It’s great he’s successful at his job. But I care nothing for his success. All I care about is the poor animal he has locked inside that tiny room and is slowly starving to death. Gary usually goes out for an early dinner then comes back and is in bed by eleven.
True to form, he leaves, dressed casually. After waiting fifteen minutes to make sure he’s not coming back, I get out of the SUV. I’ve parked a street over and several houses down. It’s another teardown, and no one’s on the construction site on Sunday. I’ve seen cars parked in front of it before. No one blinks an eye.
When I get to his house, I use the key I pilfered last time I was here. The side door opens into the garage. When I step into the mudroom, the whimper is followed by a scratch at the door. I speak softly as I turn the knob. “It’s okay, boy. It’s me.”
When I asked Gary about his ex, he spewed vitriol for a while and ended by saying she’d moved to LA. He hadn’t talked to her since. The woman obviously knew what kind of a jerk he is—but then again, maybe she doesn’t. To give him the dog as some kind of farewell told me she thought he would never do anything to harm the animal. I think about trying to find her, tell her what happened, but I figure if she hasn’t bothered to check in, she’s written the dog off. And I’m only willing to push my involvement so far.
“Hey, it’s me.” The dog wags his tail. He looks like one of those Australian dingoes. The room is a disaster. Gary can’t even be bothered to let the dog go outside and use the bathroom. After I clean the dog’s room and feed and water him again, I think about taking him outside and leaving. But while I’ll save the dog, Gary will be free. And who knows what he may do to the next girlfriend’s pet?
So I push the door shut and sit down next to the dog. Gary will never look in here. And if by some infinitesimal chance he does, I’ll simply put on my brightest smile and say I’ve been waiting for him. Right before I shoot him in the face.
It’s eight o’clock. Seeing I have a few hours, I stretch out next to the dog. He puts his head on my lap with a doggie sigh. Petting him lets me fall away. Meditate. Center myself for what’s about to come. Unleashing the dark thing inside always takes a lot out of me. When it’s all over and I’m back home, then Hope will return. The darkness rattles the door in my head, wanting back out. I didn’t call it—she or he, it simply is.
A while later I hear Gary come in, whistling as he walks through the mudroom without a glance or even pausing at the door where the d
og is. The dog stays quiet, content to sit by my side. He looks at me and I shake my head. I don’t know if he understands, but he doesn’t whimper or make any noise.
Gary walks through the house, footsteps echoing as he goes up the stairs. The concrete floors are probably easy to keep clean, but they make sound carry. It’s dark downstairs, no light shining under the door, but still I wait. If he turns in at eleven, I’ll wait until midnight.
When I get to my feet, I’m stiff. I stretch to work out the kinks. I squat back down and take the dog’s head between my hands.
“Don’t worry. It’s almost over. You’re going to go to a good home with people who love you.”
I kiss him on the nose, and as I turn to go, he lets out a soft whimper. I look at him and shake my head. “Stay quiet.”
Home invasion will do nicely for this one. I open all the drawers and cabinets in the kitchen. Go into his office and scatter papers everywhere. The TV is mounted to the wall, so I leave it alone, but I take the laptop and the iPad.
Walking on tiptoe, I make my way up the stairs. He gave me a tour of the house before he passed out the last time I was here. It was the only way I could keep him off me. The master bedroom is in the back right corner. Outside the door, I pause. It’s dark and I can hear the sound of him breathing. Some kind of machine.
Tonight I have the blue gun. It feels comfortable in my hand. Reassuring. I step into the bedroom. He’s in the center of the bed, taking up most of it by lying diagonally. He wears a mask over his face. It takes me a moment to figure it out. Sleep apnea. I hold my breath, waiting to see if he will wake, but he doesn’t.
As I raise the gun, I think about my getaway. The house behind this one looked empty—maybe the owners are on vacation. The people in the house on the left are definitely home. They will hear the gunshots. The question is, will they do anything?
And across the street? There are three houses up for sale, all three empty. I called about one pretending to be interested, and was told the owner is in a nursing home. The same with the other two. Looks like the kids couldn’t wait to make some money.
I count to thirteen, like I always do when I aim. His head jerks when I pull the trigger. Head shots are my favorite. There’s a lacquered box containing a Rolex and cufflinks. Both go in my bag. Yanking drawers open, I throw some of the clothes on the floor, all the while trying to keep track of the time, worrying that the neighbors called the police after they heard the shot.
The wallet goes into my bag, and I’m turning to go when something in the closet catches my eye. Pushing the door open, I see it’s a mirror. As I yank down the clothes from the hangers, I knock a box over. Cash spills out. There’s so much cash. Can’t make this look like a home invasion and not take the money. I find a duffel in the closet and stuff it full. In the kitchen, I pause, wipe the key off on the towel, and throw it on the floor with the mess I’ve made. And the door? I leave it wide open. I look immediately to the house on the left, but there are no lights on. So either they aren’t home or they’re asleep and the gunshot didn’t wake them.
My adrenaline is flowing. I’m hyperaware of everything. Swear I can hear the moths’ wings as they flutter around the streetlights.
What if no one calls? He may not be found for days. The dog will die. When I see the fairgrounds up ahead, I pull into one of the parking lots. If I go any further in, I’ll run into a guard, but in this lot, no one will bother me.
Changed and back on the road, I pull into the restaurant by the PNC Arena and toss everything into the dumpster. On Hillsboro Street, where the NC State campus is located, I find a parking spot on a side street. Wearing another pair of gloves, I take the cash out of his wallet. Two thousand. Who carries that much cash?
After tossing the wallet into the gutter, I put the window up and drive away. Periodically, I reach in the bag and throw out the cufflinks and chains. And on a side street, I toss the Rolex. It seems like a waste, but I hope maybe a homeless person or someone else in need of money will find it and be able to sell it without getting in trouble.
And the cash? If I throw it out and some good samaritan finds it and turns it in—well, that will ruin my whole home invasion plan. So I keep it. After all, I’m unemployed and can use the money. All in all, it’s a good night’s work.
My last stop is IHOP. Once I’m seated and have ordered, I make a show of looking through my purse. There’s a large group of buzzed college kids next to me. That was never me. I was too focused on classes, a bookworm.
“Excuse me? I lost my phone tonight and don’t know where to meet my friends. Can I use somebody’s phone?”
A couple of the girls shout. One looks at me with half-focused eyes. “That is the worst thing in the entire world. I would literally die without my phone. Shane, honey. Give her your phone.”
The cute boy next to her hands me his cell.
“Thanks. It’s so loud, I’m just going to step outside to call. Don’t eat my food, okay?”
He grins. “No promises. We’re hungry.”
When I step outside, the noise quiets. Wonder what trouble this guy gets into or causes. Maybe juggling multiple hookups? He has the burner app on his phone.
“911. What’s your emergency?”
“Quick. I heard gunshots. A man went running from a house at 3458 Leonard Drive. Hurry. Please!”
I end the call. Inside, I hand Shane the phone. “Thanks. My friends are waiting for me.” I make wide eyes at my plate. “I can’t eat this. I’ll get fat.”
“I’ll eat it.”
After handing the guy my plate, I ask the server for a to-go cup of sweet tea and give her a wad of cash. “Let me take care of their tab. And here’s an extra hundred. You’ll earn it with this crew.”
She laughs and returns with my cup. I lean in close. “By the way, I was mad at my boyfriend. It’s his cash, so I was never here…”
The waitress tucks the hundred in her pocket. “Nothing but the usual tonight. Bunch of drunk college kids.” She winks at me.
“You’re a lifesaver.”
If the cops figure out where the call came from, the kids will be long gone and the waitress won’t tell. That small exchange steals every bit of energy I have left.
It’s becoming harder and harder to remain civilized. On the positive side, I sleep soundly almost every night. And I’m no longer afraid of the bad people in the world—I’ve become one of the baddest.
CHAPTER 52
“DIDN’T YOU GO TO A conference? How was it?” Grayson is coming home as I’m going out. Seems like we’re always running into each other coming or going from the building. And we both favor the same Chinese place down the street. He has a bag in his hand.
“My favorite place.”
He grins. “I’ve eaten there three times this week. I think tomorrow night I need to order a pizza.”
“Or you could cook something.”
He laughs. “I’m a terrible cook. That’s why I need a wife. Didn’t you hear the smoke alarm a couple of nights ago? It cleared the entire building.”
“Nope. I was out.”
“It was three in the morning. Must have been some lucky guy.”
Not going there, since I was at IHOP. “But maybe this new wife wouldn’t cook either, and then you both would have to order takeout,” I say to lighten the mood.
He laughs. “The conference was really good. But this year…”
“What? You’re not leaving, are you?”
“You know, it’s funny you say that. I’ve been thinking a lot about transferring to Asheville. It’s so beautiful there.”
“I could just see myself in a cabin on a lake. Of course, I think I’d want to be off the grid—you know, in case of a zombie apocalypse.” I laugh, and he laughs with me.
He pushes his sunglasses up on his head, and I don’t like his gaze so fully turned to me. Assessing. So I make a show of looking for something in my purse.
“One of the great things about the conference is getting a chance
to talk to colleagues all over the state. The funny thing is, there’s been nine cases between us all where the person ended up dead.”
“Oh my gosh, how awful. I thought you guys didn’t carry guns?” And then I look at his bag. “You know, I’m keeping you from dinner. We can pick this up later.”
“I ordered way too much food. You want to join me? Let’s grab a table by the pool. It’s really nice tonight. Maybe we’re almost done with the heat. It’s too bad they couldn’t keep the pool open longer.”
“Let me run up to my apartment for plates and utensils.” I turn to look at him over my shoulder. “Wine okay?”
“Wine always works.” He leans back in the chair. He must’ve come home and changed after work. He’s wearing a t-shirt and jeans.
As I rummage around the kitchen pulling together a makeshift picnic, I look down at my own clothes. When was the last time I did laundry? I’m wearing a pair of jeans and a gray t-shirt with a suspicious-looking mark down by the hem. A discreet sniff near my armpit tells me I don’t stink. So I guess I showered today. I’m starting to lose time. Sometimes days pass and I have to look at my phone to know what day it is. Weekends no longer have meaning for me. And other times—hours are gone and I don’t know where they went. Can’t remember anything.
I jog down the steps, my flip-flops slapping against the concrete. Only in the South can you get away with wearing flip-flops at the end of October. If it stays as warm as they’re predicting, I’ll still be wearing them at Thanksgiving.
“I almost started without you.”
I hold up the bottle of wine. “But then you’d miss out on this. Pinot Grigio okay?”
“You got me hooked on that Cupcake wine. Pour me a generous glass.”
We dig into the food. “So you were saying something about people getting shot? Was it at the conference?”
“No. Cases we’ve worked. I’ve reworked my theory. Hear me out before you call me crazy.”
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