Each case was more elaborate than the last, yet each death less gruesome. The first mother found children's blocks on her doorstep: four numbers that represented a time, the time the killer intended to shoot her son dead in cold blood. When the clock struck 14:15, military time, a bullet broke through the glass of her living room and killed her son while he sat watching cartoons. That was it. It was over.
Victim number two was a little girl. She was taken and executed on a recorded video. No ransom was requested. The only evidence tying the case to the Cape murderer was the stack of blocks in the back yard that spelled out the location of the box where a pre-recorded video could be found.
By this time the Cape murderer had developed a style. He began looking for ways to communicate with the mothers of his victims, apparently as some form of self therapy, always making references to how difficult it was to live life as the child of a degenerate mom.
Victim three was a beautiful little chubby blond girl. Police had found her in a dumpster wrapped in plastic. The cause of death: suffocation. Victim four was a little boy, age five. Cause of death: sleeping pills. In the last two cases the Cape murderer sent several messages, first with children's blocks, but later by other elaborate means. His notes all had the same accusatory tone and all were a reminder that he was not responsible for the death of the children, because he wasn't the one who chose to have them.
Dan poked his head into the kitchen. "Hey, Holly. Want me to pop out and get us some sandwiches or pizza or something?"
She pulled her hair back and glanced up at him. "Do you think the police will let you back in?"
"I can ask."
"I don't think I can keep much down, but a slice of pizza might make my belly ache less."
His face beamed. "I'll run down the street and be back in a few minutes. Here," he said. He came into the kitchen, leaned cautiously over her, and brought up a sticky note on his computer. "This is my cell phone. If you hear anything, call me, and I'll come back immediately."
She avoided eye contact. "Thanks."
He backed away. "Are you sure you're okay with this?"
She was almost amused by the fact that she would dread his departure. He wasn't much company, but the apartment felt safer with someone in it.
"Yes. I'm fine."
"Okay. Call me. I'll just be down the street." He left the room, then, in classic Dan fashion, sprung back into the kitchen. "What do you want on your pizza?"
"Anything is fine. I probably won't eat much anyway."
"Okay." He smiled again, then was gone.
She turned her attention back to the website and continued to dig. With each post the composite sketch of the killer solidified in her mind. This was a man filled with hatred. He was angry about his difficult childhood and looking for someone to accuse, probably because the one who had caused him so much pain, his own mother, had passed away.
He had mentioned Holly being one hypodermic needle away from leaving Gabe alone in the apartment, wondering when his mom would come home. Was that the killer’s own experience?
She brought up the picture of Gary and stared at it. Had he ever mentioned losing his mother, or dealing with trauma as a child? Had he ever shown a bitterness toward teen moms? She couldn't remember, but she didn’t think so. It seemed like all the times she could remember him coming over she was high on something. Remnants of conversations swam around in her drug-impaired memory.
She pushed away from the computer, irritated, but not entirely out of frustration for her inability to remember her conversations with Gary—there was a low beeping noise she could not ignore any longer. It was probably the furnace or some appliance she’d left on. It was barely audible, but was enough to bother her.
She left the kitchen, searched the bathroom, the hall, and then her bedroom, turning her ears to find the sound. It was definitely in the bedroom, but seemed to be coming from everywhere. It repeated in a loop, three short beeps then five seconds of silence. What did she own that made three short beeps? The only thing she owned that beeped was the phone in the living room. It beeped when the battery was dying, but it didn't sound like this.
She checked the closet and the dresser drawers. She looked behind the bean bag in the corner and under the bed. The noise was stronger under the bed. She circled and found it to be strongest on the right side, but there was nothing on the floor and nothing attached to the bottom of the box spring. She placed her ear to the mattress. There could be no doubt, the noise was coming from inside the bed itself. She ripped the covers up onto the bed. On the side of the mattress a hole had been stitched. She dug at it with her fingers, but the stitches held. The thread was thick and black so it would be noticed easily. There was no doubt, this was the work of the killer.
She got to her feet and ran to the kitchen. Her fingers fumbled for a steak knife and she pulled it to her chest. She had no idea what she was doing; each action was commanded by impulse, but she had to know what was in that bed. There was no thought of the danger, though her heart beat rapidly in her chest. If she had thought of the danger, she would have stopped herself. Instead, she ran into the bedroom and slid across the wood floor to where the black stitches marred the side of her mattress. She drove the knife into it, cutting at string and mattress with desperation.
Once a hole was formed, she plunged her hand in and groped for the source of the sound. Her fingers touched something, it was hard with round edges, and could only be pulled out with index finger and thumb. She slid it back and forth until the device pulled free. It was a two-way radio, but not like anything she had ever seen at a store.
A tiny red light blinked on the top. Next to the light was the word "Page.” She watched the light blink on and off as if it were the only thing that existed in her universe. Here was her connection to the cold-blooded killer she had read so much about. She knew his methods. This was how he planned to torture her before finally killing her son. There was no doubt in her mind. Yet, still, she pressed the button, and forced herself to speak.
"I'm here."
Chapter 19
Jake slammed the door behind him, startling Aiyana. She was once again sitting on a cardboard box in the hallway, her tablet still in her lap.
"I'm sorry," he said, "I didn't know you were there."
She scanned him with her blue eyes. Her eyebrows rose in the center and scrunched. "Did you have a fight?"
"Ah, no, not a fight," he said, downplaying his embarrassment. "It's just boy girl stuff."
"Oh," she said, making a face.
"What's that look supposed to mean?" he said, forcing a smile.
"Don't worry," she said, "you'll grow out of it."
He stared at her. "Out of what?"
"This phase of your relationship."
He rolled her words around in his mind. What eight- or nine-year-old says phase of your relationship? Could this girl be one of them? As soon as it came into his mind, he was beating himself up for thinking it. She was the next-door neighbor's child. He saw them moving in this morning. He laughed inwardly at himself. Get a grip, Jake. You're starting to see ghost-children everywhere.
"Yes,” he said. "This phase of our relationship will pass. It’s astute of you to know this. Is your mom or dad a marriage counselor or something?"
"No."
"Then how do you know so much about relationships?"
She thought about it. "I don't know anything about them. I just know that there is a season for everything under heaven.” She shrugged. "A time to laugh and a time to mourn, a time to build and a time to tear down. This season you're going through won't last forever. You'll move past it into something else."
Again Jake stared at her. A season for everything under heaven...? What child talks like that? "You're smart for a little girl. Do you read a lot of books?"
"Not yet, but I hope to."
"You hope to what? Read?"
"Yes. I love using my imagination, like making up adventures with heroes and villains and dragons."
>
"So you want to be a writer too?"
"No. I might do that a little, but not much."
"So, you're going to focus on being an artist."
"I love the feel of the paper and the way shapes play with each other in the grey mists.” She blinked, and her eyes sparkled. "It’s like a song only I know how to sing, and I sing it with my finger tips."
Jake marveled. "What are the grey mists?"
She held her hand up, revealing the pencil lead coating her palm and fingers. "When I look at the white of the page, I see a land filled with brilliant white light, and, as I slide my hand across," she made the motion with her dainty fingers, "the grey mists appear."
"Oh. I see."
"And in the mists the shapes play with each other." She rubbed the face of the drawing tablet. "Then I give them life."
Jake was mesmerized by the little girl. There was no doubt she was different from every other child he had ever known. But it seemed likely she was just some sort of artistic savant. Her grasp of abstract concepts far exceeded Jake's own knowledge of the subject. A ghost wouldn’t have an understanding of such things. Would they?
He thought back to the first little girl. She’d had a similar air about her, as though she were aware of concepts only an adult would be aware of. But the boy at his work and the chubby girl who terrorized him at Holly's were definitely childlike in their behavior. Maybe they were all different—and maybe Aiyana was one of them.
He could solve the problem quickly enough by knocking on the neighbor's door and asking where their daughter was. If she was real, they would be quick to say she was right behind him. But if she wasn’t real, and they didn’t have a daughter, they would wonder why he was asking—then what would he give for an answer?
Perhaps he could welcome them to the building and see if they happened to talk to Aiyana during the conversation. Jake strolled toward their door; doing something was better than doing nothing. All he had to do was keep cool and only speak to Aiyana if they spoke to her first. The last thing he needed was for his new neighbors to think he had lost his marbles.
He raised his hand to knock, but just then a door opened and closed down the hall. Maybe he didn’t have to bother his new neighbors. He headed toward the elevator to see who it was. At the intersection he ran into the red-haired woman with her green-eyed daughter Abby.
The woman stumbled slightly when she turned. Jake noted a slight wobble in her walk, and there was a definite sluggishness about her as well.
"Hi again," said Jake.
Her face lit up. "Hi! You're the guy from the elevator! I mean, you don't live on the elevator, you know what I mean."
He could smell alcohol on her breath as she neared.
"Yeah. I live up the hall."
Her eyelids were heavy. She took in a breath and looked up the hall. "Oh? Are you moving in?" she slurred.
"No, actually, these boxes belong to the people across the hall."
"Oh," she said.
"Can I ask you something?"
"Shhure," she said with a subtle bob of her head.
He stood with his back to Aiyana, and lowered his voice. "What do you see at the end of the hall?"
Her brows lifted. "At the end of the hall?" She swayed to the side. "Boxes, windows—coupla doors."
He turned and looked. Aiyana had not moved from her perch.
"Boxes and windows and doors? Are you sure you don't see anything else?"
She looked again, this time with a squint. "Is this a game? Like where's Waldo?" Her hand came up and gripped his tricep. Her eyes opened wide. "I see a boat."
"A boat?"
"Yeah,” she slurred. "In the shadows on the floor. See the two masts and the sails and the hull right there?"
The way the shadows fell on the floor did create the vague shape of a boat, if one were to really stretch their imagination. Jake was happy to use it as an excuse to end his game; he had what he needed.
"You found it!" he said.
She beamed and put the weight of her warm body against him.
"Well," he said, uncoiling himself from her, "I just wanted to see if I was crazy, but, sure enough, there's a boat there."
She took his nonverbal hint and backed off. Her fingers went to fixing her hair as she tried to hide a look of dejection. "So," she said, trying to comprehend the situation with her groggy senses, "you're all set then?"
"Yup. I just needed a second opinion. Thanks."
"She pressed a fingernail into the elevator button, and the doors immediately opened. "Call me anytime, hun," she slurred and got on the elevator. Her daughter weaved her way on behind her.
Jake looked at Abby as she spun forward. Her eyes had the same heaviness as her mother's, and there was a distinct sluggishness in her head and neck. Was she drunk too? Jake struggled with the words to say, but before he could get anything out, the elevator doors had closed and his opportunity to confront her had passed.
What kind of a mother would get her little girl drunk? His mother, even with her infinite flaws, had never sunk that low!
His mother had unwittingly exposed him to everything as a child. By three he knew what beer tasted like, and at nine he had already tried pot. The reprobates she invited over to the trailer were liberal with their vices, or negligent to leave things lying around where children could reach them. But she never knowingly allowed him or Holly to get stoned or drunk in her house. That was another whole echelon of bad parenting.
Jake shook it off. There was no time to dwell on other people’s problems; his plate was filled with his own. But he had hope now. His delinquent neighbor had managed to do one good thing this evening. She had confirmed Jake's suspicions.
Aiyana was one of the ghost-children.
Chapter 20
Holly held the radio in her numb fingers and waited for the response.
The radio crackled. "Are you alone?" It was the same digitally altered voice she had heard on the video.
"Yes," she squeaked, "I'm alone."
"Are you listening closely?"
"Yes."
"It is important that you understand what I am about to tell you."
She hung on his every word.
"I do not intend to kill your son."
Her body seized up, and her gut rolled. Could she possibly believe him? This was a cold-blooded killer. But in all that she had read, he had never promised anyone their child would be saved. Never. His communications were always centered on punishing the mothers for the evil they had done by not providing a safe home for their child to grow up in.
"Did you hear me, Holly?"
She swallowed hard. "Yes," she said, "I heard you."
"It is important for you to understand this point. Yours is the last child I'm going to take. He is not like the rest. The others led up to this important event. The media is ready to hear what I have to say, and you are going to tell my story."
The radio went silent for several seconds, and a panic arose inside Holly.
She ground the radio button with her thumb. "I'll tell your story. I- I'll do anything you say! Please don't hurt my son! He's all I have!" She released the button and stared at the radio in her shaking hands.
"There is one rule,” the voice returned. "If you reveal to anyone that I am speaking to you, your son will be like the rest, and I will wait another year to finish what I have started. Do you understand?"
"Yes. I won't tell anyone. I promise. I'll do everything you say."
"I will kill your son, and I will make him suffer, if you fail." His words touched a vulnerable spot deep in her gut.
"I won't fail."
He spoke again, as if he knew her deepest fear. "You can't go running back to the Oxys. They won't just kill you, they’ll kill your son."
Hearing him speak the name of her vice drove home the horror that this killer knew her intimately.
"Reach into the mattress again and feel around."
She set the radio down and did as he instructed.
"There is a box deep inside."
She couldn't feel it.
"Pull it out of the mattress."
It wasn't there. Her fingers dug deep into the cotton with desperation, but there was no box.
"Do you have it?"
She grabbed the radio. "I don't feel the box. I can't feel it. I'm looking."
"Find the box, Holly."
She jammed her hand further into the mess of stuffing, and something scratched the side of her arm. She slid her arm out and groped that area. The object was hard with rounded edges. It was the box! She was sure of it. Her fingers gripped it fiercely and pulled it free from its socket.
"I have it! I have the box!"
"Open the box, Holly."
The plastic box opened on a spring loaded hinge. Inside, on top, was a linen cloth, and beneath this were two items: a small, sealed, hard plastic cylinder, and a device with a key holder on top. Holly didn't recognize the symbol, but she was sure it was a car brand.
"The cylindrical item in the box is a bomb. If you open it, it will go off."
Her hand snapped back.
"The other device is a digital key. If the key is within a foot of the lock it is programmed for, it will disengage that lock, allowing the door to be opened. Do you understand the items that are in the box?"
"Yes."
"Good. I have made an appointment for you," said the digital voice evenly, "at the Doris Boardman Woman's Health Center tomorrow at 9:00 a.m.”
Holly’s mind reeled. He was connected to the clinic!
"This is what you will do. You will be escorted past the bullet-proof glass where the receptionists sit, and they will put you in one of two examination rooms. Make sure it is examination room B. It must be examination room B. Do you understand?"
She pressed the radio button. "Yes. I understand, examination room B."
"When you are left to get undressed, I want you to go to the office directly across the hall. The device in the box opens the door to that office, and only that office. If the device is in your pocket the door lock will turn green. Do you understand?"
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