The Serial Killer's Wife

by Robert Swartwood

  She snapped her bag shut. “Believe it or not, I don’t need your approval on who I can and cannot date.”

  “That’s not what I meant. I just—”

  “Jim, not right now.”

  He held up his free hand, shook his head, took a step back. Just like they were teenagers again.

  She glanced across the street at the church.

  Jim said, “Who are you waiting for anyway?”

  “Mark Webster.”

  He snapped his fingers. “That’s right—the lawyer. How do you know he’s in there?”

  “I don’t.”

  “Do you even know what he looks like?”

  She remembered the day she first met Mark Webster, the young brazen lawyer coming to her house and sitting in her living room and talking to her like they were old friends.

  “I’m sure he hasn’t changed much in five years.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure about that. Working in Manhattan does something to your genes. Scientists still haven’t figured out what it is yet.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out an iPhone. “What law firm does he work for?”

  She didn’t answer him at first, only smirked.

  “What?”

  “I never thought I’d see the day you had a cell phone. You used to be one of those doom and gloom people, always certain they would bring brain cancer.”

  “That’s still inconclusive. Besides, after living in pretty much squalor for two years, you begin to miss all kinds of technology. So having a super smartphone in my pocket, yeah, I’m okay with that now.” He looked at her again. “The law firm name?”

  She gave it to him and he typed it in and moments later he had brought up the law firm’s website, then the page that gave brief bios of all its lawyers, including pictures.

  “Here he is,” Jim said, handing her the phone, and the face that stared back at her was one she wasn’t entirely surprised to see. Yes, it was Mark Webster, but the Mark Webster she remembered—the arrogant little shit lawyer—had fallen away like a cocoon and the man she saw now was somehow more handsome, with stronger, sharper features, darker hair, a better complexion. It wasn’t the genes that were affected so much working in Manhattan, she thought, but rather the work of a skilled personal trainer.

  “So again,” Jim said, “how do you know he’s in there?”

  “He has to be.”

  “Maybe he went to an earlier service.”

  “No.”

  “Maybe one of his kids is sick and he stayed home with them.”

  “No.”

  She realized she was shaking and handed back the phone.

  “Liz, you have to be realistic here. This is not going to have a happy ending. I know all about Clarence Applegate. After all the shit he wrote about you, how could I not know about him? The guy is a psycho. He’s not going to let you or your son live even if you don’t go to the police. I mean, seriously, aren’t you worried about your son?”

  “Of course I am. But it’s not just about him anymore.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Those trophies that Clarence wants—the fingers and the wedding rings. They need to be found.”

  For the first time she could remember, Jim looked at a complete loss. “Why?”

  “What Eddie did to those women was vile and disgusting and evil. But when I saw Clarence last night, saw that he was still wearing his wedding ring, it reminded me about those women’s husbands, and their families, and everything they left behind. And until those fingers and rings are found, those women’s spirits will never be able to rest in peace.”

  She expected some kind of response from her brother, some kind of rebuttal, but he didn’t say anything, not at first. He just stared back at her for a long moment while around them the city still continued to breathe its strange sense of life and the rain soaked the street and sidewalk and dripped off the umbrella.

  Finally he said, “So now what do we do?”

  “We wait.”

  • • •

  THEY DIDN’T WAIT long. A half hour passed before the service ended and the doors opened and people began exiting the church. Mark Webster wouldn’t be one of the first—he would want to lag behind, share small talk, make sure his boss saw him—but when he did exit it would be through the main entrance, down the steps. Five minutes passed, ten minutes, and then there he was, Mark Webster and his wife and their two children, all wearing their Sunday best, looking like the perfect American family as they huddled under a pair of large black umbrellas and descended the steps one unhurried step at a time.

  CHAPTER 44

  THEY WATCHED MARK Webster and his family walk to the end of the block, then wait at the corner for the light and cross over Fifth Avenue toward their side.

  Jim said, “How much do you want to bet they’re headed to the subway station at Rockefeller?”

  Elizabeth stood silent beside him, the rain beating at the umbrella. She watched as the family headed down East 50th Street, disappearing from their sight, and then said, “Let’s go.”

  She led the way, not quite sure yet how she was going to do this. What she would say, what she would do—these were all things she had been worrying about since the moment they entered her mind, and she had always assumed that when the time came everything would fall into place. It hadn’t, though. No, if anything she was at an even greater loss for words or actions, and as she rounded the corner and spotted Mark Webster and his family farther down the block, she hurried her pace.

  “Elizabeth,” Jim said behind her, but she ignored him and continued on, crossing over the street to Mark Webster’s side, the rain assaulting her now, her hurried pace matching three strides for every one stride the Webster family took.

  Then, before she realized it, she was right behind them, the only thing separating her and the family a thin sheet of rain, and before she could second-guess herself any further, she called out Mark Webster’s name.

  As one unit the family paused, and Mark Webster shifted so he could glance back at her.

  Elizabeth said, “Could I have a moment of your time please?”

  “Mark,” the man’s wife said, annoyed, and Mark Webster sighed, said, “Listen, if this is about the Rodriguez case, a statement was already issued Friday afternoon. And come on, this is Sunday. I’m with my family.”

  “This isn’t about the Rodriguez case,” Elizabeth said. Jim had caught up and now stood behind her. “This is about Edward Piccioni.”

  Mark Webster’s eyes narrowed slightly at the name, and he stared at her with a renewed kind of interest.

  “Mark,” his wife said again, the children standing between them—a boy and a girl, completely adorable just as they were expected to be—looking up at their father as if seeking some kind of wisdom.

  He shifted his gaze away from Elizabeth to his wife. “Head inside. I’ll meet you there in a minute.”

  “Mark,” she said again, now glaring at him, and he said forcefully, “Julia, it’s okay. Head inside and I’ll meet you. I won’t be more than a minute.”

  Julia Webster—a beautiful blonde in her thirties with piercing green eyes—glared back at Elizabeth for a second before she said something to her children and ushered them ahead, around the corner into the courtyard of Rockefeller Plaza. The moment they were gone, Mark Webster cleared his throat.

  “From what I read in the news,” he said, “the police are looking for you.”

  “I’m being setup.”

  “Is that right?”

  “A man abducted my son. If I don’t do as he says and get him what he wants before a certain time, he’s going to kill him.”

  Mark Webster didn’t seem impressed by this news. He glanced past her and nodded at Jim. “Who’s that?”

  “My brother.”

  “So this is like a family event, huh?”

  “This is a serious matter.”

  “I’m sure it is.”

  “The man doing this is Clarence Applegate.”

  Mark W
ebster nodded slowly, this news not seeming to impress him either. “I’m familiar with the name.”

  “He wants my husband’s trophies.”

  “That’s nice.” The man stood stock-still, holding his umbrella up straight, the space between them less than ten feet. “Why are you bothering me with this information?”

  For an instant Elizabeth didn’t know what to say. She’d thought her reason for coming to him would be obvious, and she realized after a moment that maybe it was. Mark Webster had been an asshole five years ago, and it looked like he was an asshole now. Just a bigger, more experienced, and better paid one.

  “I need you to get me in so I can speak to my husband.”

  Mark Webster shook his head. “I’m afraid that’s not going to happen.”

  “Without speaking to my husband, I won’t be able to get Clarence what he wants.”

  With a bored expression Mark Webster held his umbrella with his right hand, jerked the wrist of his left hand so he flashed an expensive Rolex. He glanced at it and said, “I’ve given you more than your minute. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be on my way.”

  He turned and started down the sidewalk.

  Elizabeth glanced at Jim. Jim glanced at her. She opened her mouth but no words came out. Her entire body shook. Her blood boiled. Before she knew it she was moving, hurrying down the block, coming around the corner into the plaza and catching up with Mark Webster.

  “You have to help me,” she said, stepping in front of him.

  “I don’t have to do anything.”

  “He’s going to kill my son.”

  “I don’t give a shit.”

  “How can you say that?”

  “I tried to help you five years ago, but you wouldn’t let me. Instead you disappeared. You ruined my case.”

  “Eddie was going to jail whether I stayed or not.”

  “Perhaps. But I needed you as a character witness.”

  “I wasn’t going to step foot inside a courtroom. Not for him.”

  Mark Webster said, “My family is waiting for me inside. I’m going to go meet them, and when I see the next police officer I’m going to tell him that Elizabeth Piccioni is out here. So if I were you, I would get the fuck out of my face.”

  He went to step around her and she moved to block his way again. Beyond him she could see Jim standing a couple feet back, just watching her, a look of complete helplessness on his face.

  “Just call and put me on the list,” she said. “Please, I’m begging you.”

  The corners of Mark Webster’s mouth twitched. “Begging me? That’s rich. I’d have you get down on your knees and beg, but something tells me you’re just so desperate enough you’d actually do it. I’m sorry, but none of this is my concern. If I were you, I’d go to the FBI.”

  He went to step around her again and this time Elizabeth didn’t move. She stared past him at Jim who stared back at her, and then she noticed movement beyond her brother—something more than the passing traffic and the other people in the plaza—and there was Clarence Applegate, bundled up in a trench coat, coming around the corner and reaching into his pocket, his hand shifting just enough for her to see the flash of gunmetal in the rain.

  CHAPTER 45

  LATER, SHE WOULD review the events in her mind, thinking of all the different possible ways she could have reacted so that what happened did not have to happen. In the end she knew it was trivial, though, because in that moment with the rain falling around them in the courtyard, she acted on pure instinct.

  Seeing Clarence Applegate appear out of nowhere wasn’t what put her into action. She was already feeling defeated, Mark Webster having stepped around her, heading toward his wife and children inside, and in that instant she understood this was over. Then she looked at her brother, and beyond her brother she saw Clarence, and as Clarence headed toward them, coming quickly, he reached into his pocket and began to pull out a gun—not the same gun he had used last night to threaten her and to shoot Todd in the leg with, but no doubt just as dangerous.

  And Elizabeth had no choice but to do the only thing she could do.

  Shouting her brother’s name, she stepped forward, pushed him aside, and in the same moment reached with her other hand inside her jacket, pulling out the gun she had tucked in the waistband of her pants. She raised this gun at the same moment Clarence Applegate raised his gun out of his trench coat pocket.

  They stared at each other, less than thirty yards apart, the rain tapping at her baseball cap and dripping off the brim.

  Clarence had his teeth clenched. His face was red. He wore no hat and his hair was soaked and he looked so harmless, so pathetic, nothing like the monster he had proven himself to be. But she could see the hate in his eyes, the pure and intense hate, and she said the only word she could think to say.

  “Don’t.”

  Clarence fired first.

  Elizabeth closed her eyes and pulled the trigger, once, twice, three times, and then there was silence except for the rain and she opened her eyes again and saw Clarence was moving away from her, holding his left arm, the gun he’d just fired several times abandoned on the ground.

  She stood frozen for a moment, completely stunned, certain that she had been shot but just not certain what part of her body had taken a bullet. Hadn’t she read somewhere that the first thing you felt was numbness? Or did you feel instant pain? She didn’t feel anything—no pain, no numbness, nothing—and before she could even begin to check herself Jim called her name.

  Spinning around, the last thing she expected to see was the blood on her brother’s hands. It wasn’t his blood, though. He was on his knees, holding Mark Webster, who had been shot in the chest.

  Instinct took over again and she flicked the safety back on the gun, returned it to the snug comfort of her waistband as she hurried forward and crouched down beside Jim and Mark Webster.

  “What happened?”

  “What do you think happened?” Jim said. “He was fucking shot!”

  The chest wound was worse than it had first appeared. Mark Webster had been shot two times, once in what looked like the heart, once in his stomach. It was his stomach that was pumping out most of the blood.

  She glanced up past Mark Webster—who was already gone, his face completely pale in the rain—and saw the trio of faces staring at them through one of the doors. Other faces were staring at them, too, even people who had been caught in the rain when the gunfire started had begun to stand back up, confident now that the shooting was over. But the faces she saw now were those of Mark Webster’s wife and children. Julia Webster screaming, tears in her eyes, hysterical, while the twins—the boy and the girl—simply stared back at Elizabeth.

  “We have to get out of here.”

  Jim was still cradling Mark Webster, visibly shaken. “What?”

  “The police will be here in seconds. We need to move.”

  “We can’t leave now. This man just died.”

  “My son—”

  “Elizabeth,” Jim said, staring at her hard, but then, suddenly, the hardness faded and he nodded. “You’re right.” He gently placed Mark Webster’s body on the ground, stood up, pointed toward where Clarence had gone. “I’ll go that way. You go that way. Hopefully at least one of us makes it.”

  He started around her and she reached out and grabbed his arm and said his name.

  “I’ll get in contact with you if I can,” he said. “And if I don’t, good luck.”

  Then he was running, faster than she thought possible, around the corner and gone.

  She realized that from the moment Clarence first appeared not even two minutes had passed. She glanced once again at the window. Julia Webster was gone but the children were still there. Staring out through the glass, both of their eyes vacant and listless. Elizabeth wanted to go to them, take them into her arms, tell them how very sorry she was. But she couldn’t do any of that, because she had her own child to worry about right now.

  Elizabeth ran.


  CHAPTER 46

  AGAIN, INSTINCT TOOK over. Elizabeth didn’t think about running; she just ran, as fast as she could, and when she came around the corner of the building and almost collided with the two cops coming her way—a black and white combo, both bundled up in rain slickers—her mind didn’t even light on the fact she had a weapon concealed on her body.

  “Oh my God, help!” she screamed, one hand to her mouth, the other jabbing a finger at the courtyard. “They shot him!”

  The two cops already had their hands on the butts of their guns, and now they drew them, stepping around her. She turned, walking backward, watching them disappear around the corner of the building, and then she spun around, walking forward again, picking up her pace.

  The rain was still coming down hard, the drops drumming her hat, which reminded her that she would have to lose this hat, as it was one of the easiest ways to identify her. She doubted Julia Webster would know her, not until she calmed down and reviewed the brief conversation Elizabeth had had with Mark Webster in her presence, and for the time being the only form of ID Julia might be able to provide the police was the simple fact Elizabeth had been wearing a baseball cap.

  She had just crossed underneath the NBC Studios marquee when she heard the shouting behind her.

  Elizabeth paused briefly and glanced back over her shoulder and there were the two cops again, their weapons in hand. They weren’t running exactly but they weren’t walking either. She could hear one of their voices through the rain, telling her to stop.

  She turned back around and kept walking, a little faster now, playing it off like the cops weren’t talking to her. But they were—it was obvious—and after a few seconds she picked up the pace until she found herself sprinting, now both cops shouting at her as they gave chase.

  As she reached the intersection the light had just turned, the traffic stopped, and she sprinted across Sixth Avenue. Weaving through the scattered crowd of people, almost tripping over the sidewalk curb on the other side of the street, her hand slipped into her bag and brought out the throwaway. She flipped it open and called the only stored number and waited three rings before Todd picked up.