The Serial Killer's Wife

by Robert Swartwood

“You know why.”

  “I don’t.”

  “We need help.”

  “That’s obvious.”

  “I can’t go to the police with this. Cain said he would”—Elizabeth swallowed—“do something bad if we did that.”

  “Of course he would say that.”

  “You think he’s bluffing?”

  Van sat another moment with a thoughtful look on his face, then shook his head. “No, I don’t. But tell me—what do you want?”

  “For starters, weapons would be nice.”

  “Weapons aren’t a problem. Harlan?”

  Harlan stepped forward from his place against the wall. He walked toward Elizabeth, withdrawing his gun, turning the gun around in his hand so it was extended to her with the grip out.

  Elizabeth stared at it for a moment, then said, “I’m not taking that.”

  “What’s wrong with it?” Van asked.

  “Nothing’s wrong with it. But it’s Harlan’s.”

  “You think that’s his only one? Take it.”

  Elizabeth took the proffered weapon.

  “Now that that’s out of the way,” Van said, “what are you really here for?”

  “You know people.”

  “I know a lot of people.”

  “I was thinking maybe you would know people who could trace those texts.” She motioned at the BlackBerry on Van’s desk. “Like, find out where the signal is coming from.”

  Van picked up the BlackBerry, began scrolling through the pictures. Elizabeth had already forced herself to look at them. All of Matthew, all with him tied to that bed. There really wasn’t much difference in any of the pictures except that the bright red glowing digits above his head kept decreasing by one hour.

  “There’s no guarantee these pictures are even real.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “This guy could have already taken one hundred pictures, just changed the time on that countdown clock and snapped away. He keeps sending you pictures every hour, you keep thinking your son is still alive when he’s really not.”

  This wasn’t what she wanted to hear but she had to admit the thought had crossed her mind.

  “I spoke with him, though. He’s still alive.”

  “Eight hours ago he was, yes. When this Cain calls you back, ask to speak to him again. Make him give you proof of life.”

  Elizabeth was silent, thinking about that morning, what felt like a thousand years ago, packing Matthew’s lunch, pouring him a bowl of cereal, dropping him off at school.

  Van said, “Those people you mentioned, I might know a couple.”

  “Where are they?”

  “Not here.”

  “Van.”

  “It’s going to take some time.”

  “How much time?”

  “How the hell should I know? Depends on who I can contact first. Maybe an hour. Maybe two.”

  “We can’t stay here long.”

  “Yes,” Van said, nodding slowly, his gaze shifting past her at Todd on the couch. “Now let’s run over this again, shall we? This guy—this Cain—wants your husband’s trophies. Which, I’m assuming, are the ring fingers of the last four women he killed. Maybe the rings themselves, too, but I’m guessing this guy is fixated more on the fingers. Fair assessment?”

  Elizabeth said nothing.

  “And so this guy, he obviously knows what he’s doing. He’s planned this thing out to the very last detail. Except your boyfriend over there, that wasn’t according to plan.”

  Behind her she could hear Todd shift on the couch. When he spoke, his voice was strained. “What are you trying to say?”

  “Me, I’m not trying to say anything. If Elizabeth says you have nothing to do with this, then you have nothing to do with this.”

  Elizabeth said, “Are you actually insinuating that—”

  “Look,” Van said, “I just sat here and listened to what you told me. I don’t know what you’ve done in the past three years. I don’t know that man other than his name. So right now, right here, I’m questioning everything. Do you have a problem with that?”

  The question was directed at Elizabeth but it was Todd who answered, his voice still strained. “I was just bringing her flowers, that’s all. She was in a bad mood and I thought leaving flowers outside her door would cheer her up. If I’d known this was going to happen, I never would have ...”

  But he didn’t finish the thought; he didn’t have to. Elizabeth knew very well what he had meant to say, and she couldn’t blame him for it.

  Van sat silent for a long time, staring back down at the BlackBerry. Finally he nodded and stood up and said, “Elizabeth? I’d like to speak with you alone.”

  CHAPTER 23

  THE FIRST THING Van did when they got to the apartment on the third floor—the same apartment she and Matthew had stayed at when they were last here—was turn and take Elizabeth into an embrace, hold her head to his chest and whisper, “I’m sorry.”

  She let loose then, the tears from before nothing close to the ones she shed now, her entire body racking with sobs as she took the expensive fabric of his shirt in her fingers and balled her hands into fists.

  They stood that way for several minutes, Van simply holding her as she cried, until Elizabeth calmed down, wiped her eyes, and stepped back.

  Van said, “You know what this means, don’t you?”

  Wiping at another stray tear, Elizabeth nodded.

  “I can’t even imagine how you’re going to get in to see him.”

  “I’ll find a way.”

  “How? You’ve been gone nearly five years. You expect to just show up at the prison asking to see your serial killer husband and they’ll let you in?”

  “Look, I don’t know how it will happen, but it will happen. It has to.”

  “You hope.”

  “I don’t have much else keeping me going right now, Van. My son ...” She looked away, shook her head. “You need to help.”

  “I am helping. I already sent out an encrypted email to two of those people we spoke about. They’re probably already on their way.”

  “How long?”

  “Like I told you, it could be an hour, it could be longer. But the real question you need to ask yourself is what will you do if it works?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Say we are able to trace where the texts are originating from and determine this guy’s location. What then?”

  Elizabeth said, “You and Harlan go kill him and bring back my son.”

  Van smiled. “As much fun as that would be, let’s be realistic here for a second. Say we can’t trace those texts and you’re forced to continue. What if there are no trophies?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Your husband cut off those fingers but what if he didn’t save them? Cain’s doing all of this on the assumption that these things are saved somewhere, somewhere easy to get to. But what if they’re not?”

  “I don’t even want to consider the possibility.”

  “But you have to.”

  Elizabeth forced herself to take a deep breath. “Don’t you think I know that already? Don’t you think I’ve been thinking about it for the past eight hours?”

  She turned away from him, started toward the couch—the same pull-out couch that had once been her bed—but then redirected herself toward the window overlooking the street. She stood there, her arms crossed, staring out through the blinds. She remembered staring out them years ago, knowing that while she was in this building she was safe, that nothing out there on the street or in the city or even in the entire world could hurt her.

  Van came to stand beside her. When he spoke, his voice was just above a whisper.

  “You have to accept the fact that Cain does not plan on returning Matthew. Most likely he’s going to kill him and you, and now your boyfriend, too.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “But I do know that, and so do you. And once you understand it and accept it, then you’ll have
an advantage over him. Right now he thinks you’re a woman who has everything to lose, but in actuality that’s not the case.”

  She turned her head just slightly, frowned at his shoes. “Are you insane? I’m not gambling my son’s life away.”

  “But don’t you get it? You don’t have a choice. Right now Cain wants something, and to get to that something he needs you. You, Elizabeth, you have the power.”

  There was a knock at the door.

  Van turned slightly, called, “Come in,” and in came first Harlan, then Todd.

  “Is everything all right?” Todd asked.

  Van said, “Harlan, why don’t you take the boyfriend here and get us all some food. Grab us some pies and some cheese steaks from Gino’s.”

  “I’m not leaving Elizabeth,” Todd said.

  Van smiled again, only this time it was without mirth. “That’s very noble of you, but right now we’re not in your house, you’re in mine.”

  Elizabeth watched a shadow of fear cross Todd’s face. He lowered his head, nodded, and turned toward the door.

  After Todd and Harlan left, Van said, “Not much of a backbone.”

  “He’s a great guy. He shouldn’t be here right now.”

  “Neither should you.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Just how the hell was this guy able to track you down? I’m assuming of course you did as I told you and never contacted anybody from your old life.”

  She hesitated only a moment before saying, “Of course I didn’t.”

  “Right.”

  They stood there then in silence, staring out the window at the street below, that safety Elizabeth had once felt in this room now completely gone.

  CHAPTER 24

  HARLAN AND TODD returned with food twenty minutes later, Harlan carrying two pizza boxes, Todd with a large brown paper bag.

  Todd set the bag down on the table, pulled out a Styrofoam container. “I got you onion rings. I know how you like them.”

  Elizabeth felt a familiar pang in her chest at his thoughtfulness, even at a time like this. Their first date hadn’t been at a fancy restaurant but at a pizzeria, not Todd’s idea but hers because ... well, she couldn’t remember the reason anymore. They’d ordered a pizza, she had ordered onion rings, and when the rings arrived Todd had crinkled his nose.

  “What’s wrong?” she had asked.

  “Onion rings. I’m sorry, but they’re just so disgusting.”

  “Oh really. And have you ever even tried one?”

  He had tilted his head from side to side, shrugged, and admitted he hadn’t.

  “You’re like my son,” she said. “He doesn’t like to try new things either.”

  “Well,” Todd said, reaching toward the basket, “I can’t let you think I’m not open to new things, can I?”

  Now, less than six months later, Todd forced a smile at her as he pulled two cheese steaks from the bag. Harlan set the pizzas down next to the container on the table, then turned to her.

  “Where is Mr. Riley?”

  “Back in his office, I think. You know him—all business, all the time.”

  Harlan said, “Well then, I will leave you alone to enjoy your meal,” and left without another word.

  When the door closed, Todd said, “That guy weirds me out.”

  “Who—Harlan? He’s harmless.”

  “I don’t know. Something tells me he could probably kill me with his pinkie.”

  Elizabeth came away from the window, met him at the table. “Not with his pinkie. His index finger, though ...” She forced a smile that quickly faded. “I’m sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “All of this. Getting you into this mess.”

  “It’s my fault. I should have just gone home and watched SportsCenter.” He forced a smile of his own. “I hate to admit it, but I’m starving.”

  They opened the food. Two large pizzas, one with pepperoni, one with extra cheese, two cheese steaks, and the onion rings.

  Elizabeth took a bite of an onion ring, widened her eyes. “Hot,” she said. Then, “You want one?”

  “No thanks.”

  “Oh, come on.”

  “Hey, I tried it that one time, didn’t I?”

  “Yes, because I guilted you into it.”

  “Well, you’re a woman. Guilting men into doing stuff they don’t want to do is what you’re good at.”

  A slight grin played on his face, and Elizabeth found herself grinning, too. It felt good to produce a smile that wasn’t forced, to find some joy, no matter how small, in this situation. But then, just as quickly, their grins faded when they remembered where they were and why they were here and where they needed to go next.

  Todd said, “So.”

  “So.”

  He looked around the room again. “You, what, lived here once?”

  “For a while, yes.”

  “What did you do? I mean, as a job.”

  “I tended the bar.”

  “Seriously? Like mixing drinks and stuff?”

  She nodded.

  “Huh,” Todd said. “I never would have pictured that.”

  Elizabeth didn’t say anything, letting the silence remind him there was a lot he would probably have a hard time picture her doing.

  Todd turned to the table, grabbed a slice, held it for a moment before setting it back down.

  “So this guy, Donovan Riley, he’s what—a drug dealer or something?”

  “Not quite. He doesn’t deal drugs. In fact, he detests drugs.”

  “But he’s, like, connected somehow, right?”

  “Honestly, it’s best if you don’t even think about it.”

  Not thinking about it, though, was something Todd couldn’t do. She knew that, just as she couldn’t stop thinking about this place herself. How she had lived here and worked here and then, with thoughts of killing her son swarming in her head, had begun cutting herself here. She thought she could even feel the scars now, almost tingling, as if they too sensed this place was where they had been born.

  Todd turned away, picked up his slice again.

  Elizabeth watched him, thinking about her scars and why she hadn’t let her intimacy with Todd continue more than it had. They had kissed, yes, had even made out several times, but every time Todd tried taking it to the next level, she always pushed him away. She couldn’t explain why—telling him about the scars would then prompt even more questions, like where they had come from and what brought them on—and she was certain he wasn’t going to put up with it much longer. But, surprisingly, he had remained patient with her, and that made her care for him even more.

  She opened her mouth, wanting to tell Todd something (what, she wasn’t even sure), when the door opened.

  “Look at you two,” Van said as he approached them, carrying two books, “you couldn’t even wait for your host before you started filling your faces.”

  Elizabeth said, “Hey, you snooze, you lose.”

  Van opened a pizza box. “Ah, extra cheese. My favorite.”

  Another thing she had forgotten about Donovan Riley—he was a pseudo-vegetarian.

  “Are those what I think they are?” she asked, meaning the books in his hand.

  “Yep.” Van pulled up a chair, placed the books on the table, grabbed himself a slice. “I figured you might want to catch up on some light reading.”

  Todd craned his head to read the titles. “Never Coming Home: The Edward Piccioni Murders and The Widower Maker.” He glanced at Elizabeth, frowning, then back at the books. “Wait. Isn’t that one by—”

  “You guessed it,” Van said, chewing his slice. “The one and only Clarence Applegate.”

  Elizabeth sighed, shaking her head.

  Van said, “Elizabeth here isn’t much of a Clarence Applegate fan. The truth is, the guy is a god-awful writer. He thought of himself as the next Ann Rule but he didn’t even come close. Of course, now he keeps that blog of his, and has thousands and thousands of followers on Twitter. He d
oes for serial killers what Perez Hilton does for celebrities.”

  There was a long silence. Elizabeth sat very still, staring down at her plate. She didn’t want to think about Clarence Applegate, about the book he had written and the crusade he had taken to try to track her down.

  Van took a large bite of his slice, chewed loudly (another thing she had forgotten), and said, “This is the best pizza you’ll find in the city, hands down.” Then said, “Hey, Todd, you curious to know what Elizabeth was like when she worked here? Well, have I got some stories for you.”

  CHAPTER 25

  IT FELT WRONG, it really did, the three of them sitting around the table eating pizza and laughing, like this was poker night and her son wasn’t held captive by a madman, a bomb strapped around his neck.

  But there they were, laughing despite themselves, Todd the loudest of the bunch, Van telling stories about Elizabeth when she worked here, the kind of trouble she caused.

  “I swear it’s true,” Van said, taking a swig of bottled water (he was a steadfast teetotaler), “she kneed him right in the balls.”

  Elizabeth couldn’t help herself, she was laughing, too, though it was a kind of embarrassed laugh.

  Todd raised a Miller Lite bottle to his lips, paused, gave her a look. “In the balls?”

  She gave an innocent smile, shrugged.

  Van said, still laughing, “I wish I had it on video. This fight starts up by the pool tables, all my guys go over there to break it up, and this guy—this greasy skinny brother—starts flirting with E. Guess he sees his chance, that nobody’s watching, so as she’s trying to make her way back to the bar he keeps stepping in her way, trying to talk to her. E, she’s being professional about it, just trying to do her job.” He glanced at her. “All true so far, yes?”

  Elizabeth, now taking a sip of her Diet Coke, only gave a slight nod.

  “Right, so he keeps trying to talk to her but she keeps trying to walk around him, until this guy, he starts to get angry. He says something to her, something rude, and he grabs her arm. E’s holding her tray at this point, has glasses and bottles stacked on top, but she doesn’t lose her cool. Remember what you told him, E?”