The Serial Killer's Wife

by Robert Swartwood

  • • •

  “SO,” THE DARK robotic voice said, “how was the family reunion? Was it everything you dreamed it would be?”

  They were on the four-lane highway now, headed toward Reading. Bradford was doing easily ten miles per hour over the limit.

  “What do you want?” She didn’t bother asking Clarence how he knew they had already visited the prison.

  “What I want is to talk to you. I called your phone but it went straight to voicemail. What’s wrong—has the battery gone dead?”

  She dug in her pocket, pulled out the BlackBerry, and turned it on. “There, it’s on.”

  “That doesn’t matter now. I’m already talking to you.”

  “What do you want?”

  “You know exactly what I want. Now the question is, can you get it for me?”

  She closed her eyes and was silent for a moment. In that moment the BlackBerry had powered up completely and, like with Bradford’s phone, she heard that familiar ding. She whispered, “Yes.”

  “Good. Very good. When?”

  “Soon.”

  The dark robotic voice’s tone quickly soured. “When exactly is soon?”

  Elizabeth didn’t answer. She wasn’t sure what to say. The truth was she had no idea how to get Clarence the trophies. If Eddie had tried to give her a hint—and why he just couldn’t come out with whatever it was he wanted to say, she still didn’t know—then he had failed, because yes, she remembered Denny the Dragon, but where was it now?

  “Elizabeth?”

  “I’m working on it.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question.”

  “Soon.”

  “Again, I ask you when exactly is soon?”

  Again, Elizabeth didn’t answer. Bullshitting a man this insane was not a good idea, and yet she was trying the best she could, and she knew she was being sloppy.

  “Okay,” Clarence said. “Let me ask you this then instead. Has Special Agent Bradford done what was needed of him?”

  She risked a glance at the man behind the steering wheel. He quickly glanced back at her, mouthing, What?

  Shaking her head at Bradford, she said into the phone, “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “What I mean is has Special Agent Bradford done what I instructed him to do? He got you in to see your husband, and your husband told you where you can find what I want. Correct?”

  She was staring forward at the highway in front of her. She could feel Bradford watching her—could even sense Julia Hogan watching at her—but she forced herself to not acknowledge either of them.

  “That’s correct.”

  “Good. Then get rid of him.”

  “What?”

  “Get rid of him. Do you need me to spell it out for you?”

  “But what about his son?” she asked, and the car swerved suddenly as David Bradford’s grip on the steering wheel twitched.

  “His son will be fine. Believe it or not, I do consider myself a man of my word. And my word is that his son will remain safe. Of course, they won’t be reunited just yet—not until you get me those trophies—so that last part is up to you. Are we on the same page?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Now make it happen. As evidenced by the last picture that was sent to you, you have fourteen hours left or else I kill your boy.”

  He clicked off.

  Elizabeth kept the BlackBerry to her ear for several more seconds. Then she blinked, turned in her seat, and extended the phone to Bradford.

  He snatched it at once. “What was that about?”

  “You need to let me out.”

  “Say that again?”

  “Clarence says your part in this is through.”

  “What about my son?”

  “He said your son will be safe as long as I can still get him the trophies. But you need to let me out.”

  Bradford’s fingers were white around the steering wheel. He glanced up at the rearview mirror to see Julia’s reaction to all of this. He seemed to think about it for another couple of seconds, and then shook his head.

  “No.” The car’s engine gave a meaty roar as Bradford pressed his foot down on the gas. “No, that is not going to happen.”

  “Please,” she said. “Be reasonable.”

  “Reasonable?” He laughed. “You are asking me to be reasonable? Are you fucking insane?”

  “David,” Julia Hogan said quietly in the back.

  Bradford shook his head again. “No. What we’re going to do now is call the Bureau. That’s the smart thing to do. It’s the only thing to do.”

  The car’s needle was up to eighty now, the car swerving from lane to lane.

  Elizabeth leaned back in her seat. She stared out her window. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and retched.

  Bradford said, “What is it?”

  Her eyes still closed, she retched again, holding her stomach. “Remember ... how I felt ... before we went ... into the prison?”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “I think ... I’m going to ... throw up.”

  CHAPTER 56

  DAVID BRADFORD MOVED over into the right lane and slowed the car until they came to a stop. Elizabeth threw off her seatbelt and opened her door and nearly fell onto the ground, dry heaving, crawling away from the car up the grassy embankment.

  This patch of highway was moderately busy, traffic streaming past in both lanes. Still she could hear Bradford’s door opening and closing (he’d left the keys in the ignition, the car ding ding ding dinging while the door was open), the crunch of gravel as he came around the front of the car. Bradford saying, “Elizabeth, what’s wrong?” and then saying, “If this is a ruse to keep me from calling the Bureau, you’re wasting your time.”

  She stayed where she was on the ground, on her hands and knees, continuing to dry heave. She could hear the car’s door opening and closing again, only this time it was the back door, Julia Hogan asking, “Is she okay?”

  “She’s fine.” Bradford directly behind her now, only a few feet away, the sun positioned just right that she could see the top of his shadow next to her. Then, talking into his phone, “Yes, this is Special Agent David Bradford. I need to speak to the Special Agent in Charge immediately.”

  Elizabeth dry heaved again. She stared down at the grass, stared at the top of David Bradford’s shadow. Only a few feet behind her.

  “Agent Bradford?” she said weakly.

  The shadow grew just slightly, the man advancing a few steps. “What is it?”

  “I’m”—another dry heave—“sorry.”

  The shadow grew even more. “For what?”

  Instantly she was on her feet, spinning around and driving her fist into David Bradford’s solar plexus. He let out an oomph and doubled over, the BlackBerry falling from his hand, and she managed to grab it with one hand before it hit the ground and turned into him, reaching for the gun holstered to his belt. She unsnapped it and pulled out the gun just as Julia Hogan shouted at her.

  “Freeze!” Julia Hogan was slowly advancing up the embankment, her own gun aimed straight at Elizabeth’s head. “Drop the weapon!”

  David Bradford groaned and was standing up straight when Elizabeth stepped behind him and pressed the gun into his side.

  “I don’t want to shoot you,” she whispered into his ear.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” he said.

  Julia Hogan shouted, “Put down the weapon now!”

  “Stop right there,” Elizabeth said to Julia. “You’re not going to shoot me.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”

  Elizabeth whispered into David Bradford’s ear, “Move toward the car.”

  He began moving toward the car, Elizabeth behind him. “You’re fucking nuts. What do you think you’re going to do?”

  “I told you what Clarence told me.”

  “So you do know where the trophies are?”

  “Not exactly. But I have an idea.”

  They stopped at the hood
of the car. Elizabeth’s gaze hadn’t left Julia Hogan this entire time.

  Julia Hogan said, “Let him go.”

  “You’re not going to shoot me.”

  “I’m going to count to three.”

  “You won’t do it.”

  “One.”

  David Bradford said, “Just give this up. It’s not going to work.”

  “Two.”

  “The gun isn’t even loaded,” Elizabeth said, staring straight back at Julia Hogan, and immediately understanding crossed the woman’s face. Her gaze shifted from Elizabeth to the car. “That’s right. They’re still in the glove box. You—”

  Julia made a break for it, running straight for the car, assuming Elizabeth wouldn’t fire. She was wrong.

  Elizabeth held out the gun and fired into the grass just feet away from the female agent. Julia Hogan went motionless at once, her face suddenly pale.

  “Jesus Christ,” David Bradford shouted.

  Elizabeth pushed him away toward Julia. She walked backward, around the hood, to the driver’s-side door.

  “I didn’t want it to be this way.”

  “Yeah?” Bradford said. “What way did you want it to be?”

  She balanced the gun on the roof, aimed at the two of them. She set Bradford’s BlackBerry beside it, reached into her pocket and pulled out her own. She dialed the number to Todd’s throwaway. It rang three times before he picked up, and she spoke into it quietly, the rush of traffic behind her hiding her words from the two FBI agents only yards away. When she was done, she disconnected the call, slipped it back into her pocket, and skimmed Bradford’s BlackBerry over the roof to him.

  “If I come up with anything, I’ll give you a call.”

  “Wonderful,” Bradford said dryly. He held up the phone. “You know I’m just going to call the state police once you leave. They’ll pull you over within minutes.”

  “No you won’t. Because deep down inside, you know your son is still alive. And the only way to get him back is through me.”

  “They’re going to pull you over and arrest your ass and then both of our sons will die.”

  “Well, then,” she said, opening the door, “I better drive really fast, huh?”

  And then she was inside, the engine started, her foot on the gas, whipping out onto the highway and leaving the two FBI agents behind.

  • • •

  SHE DIDN’T HAVE to drive far. She had told Todd where they were most likely going to end up. That it would be a good idea to try to find a midway point between Lanton and Graterford if for some reason she needed to contact him. This happened to be Reading. So after she had called, he started down the highway toward her, and they met halfway in Douglassville at a Wawa Food Market.

  Elizabeth parked the car around back and slipped into the Prius.

  Todd did a double take. “Elizabeth?”

  “Come on”—she was leaning forward in her seat, staring out at the road, watching for cops—“let’s go.”

  “What happened to your clothes? What happened to your hair?”

  “Just drive, Todd.”

  He silently put the car in gear and got them back out on the road. Elizabeth used the BlackBerry to try Foreman for what felt like the twentieth time and then disconnected the call.

  “Shit.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I can’t get hold of Foreman.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’s not answering his phone. It keeps going straight to voicemail.”

  “How did things go at the prison? Did you get in? What happened to that FBI agent?”

  They were all fair questions, each and every one of them, but Elizabeth didn’t answer. Instead she stared out through the window, thinking about Eddie and Matthew and how both of them, in different ways, were sentenced to death.

  “Elizabeth?” Todd touched her arm. “What’s wrong?”

  She looked at him, tears threatening, and whispered, “Everything.”

  CHAPTER 57

  BY THE TIME they reached Lanton, two hours had passed, and by the time they reached Foreman’s house (what had once been Elizabeth’s house), another half hour had passed. Todd drove no more than five miles over the posted speed limit, wanting to ensure they didn’t get stopped for speeding. Elizabeth tried calling Foreman every ten minutes, always getting his voicemail. She left a number of messages, each one more frantic than the last, but still he never returned her call.

  Which meant he had done just like he said and went into hiding. Or the police had picked him up and he was behind bars right now, or in an interview room, being sweated by detectives. There was a chance David Bradford and Julia Hogan had gotten the word out on her, and as Foreman had obviously been her contact, they would have this place watched.

  Todd dropped her off two blocks from the house. As she walked down the sidewalk, she was aware that most of the people in these houses were the same people who had lived here five years before. Not that she would have recognized many of them or even known their names except for a select few, but they had been here, eating and sleeping and fucking less than a quarter mile away from her, and she wondered how what had happened that Saturday afternoon five years ago had changed their lives. After all, it wasn’t an every day occurrence for the FBI to suddenly show up and arrest someone for being a serial killer. Not on this block. Not in this town. So sure, some would have remembered the incident well, recalling it months if not years later, always a good anecdote at a dinner party or picnic (“Hey, did you know I used to live a block away from a serial killer?”), but by now, how many would remember?

  Five years ago she had kept a spare key in a magnetic box behind the shrubs just beside the front door, and here it thankfully still was, albeit covered in cobwebs. She let herself in the front door, looking back over her shoulder just once to make sure the street was deserted. Once inside she pulled the BlackBerry from her pocket and dialed Todd to let him know she was in. Then she slipped the phone back into her pocket and called Foreman’s name.

  No answer.

  Despite the urge to hurry downstairs and start rummaging through the plastic containers, she went into the garage and watched through the window for the Prius. When it appeared, she hit the button and listened to the screeching noise as the garage door slowly rose. Once Todd pulled in (the other space empty, Foreman clearly gone), she hit the button again and the door began to lower.

  Inside the house, Todd said, “Where to first?”

  “The basement.”

  Foreman—God bless him—had been kind enough to label the contents of each container. So it made their job easier, bypassing the containers filled with kitchen utensil and appliances, containers filled with bathroom towels and dishcloths and oven mitts. They pushed all these aside until they got to the ones labeled with anything related to baby—toys, diapers, blankets—and these Elizabeth opened by herself, digging through each, shoving the contents away in disgust when they didn’t reveal what she wanted.

  At some point Todd had stopped searching through the containers and stood watching her. It pissed her off and it made her work even more furiously, one time even punting an empty container across the room like a football. This was when Todd finally spoke.

  “Stop.”

  But she didn’t stop, going to the next container despite the fact she had already gone through all the baby ones, this container full of DVDs and CDs, movies and music she and Eddie had once shared together, had laughed at and cried to together, and the thought of it all made her sick. The lid off, she hefted the plastic container (it weighed about fifty pounds) and then upturned it, the jewel cases and plastic cases avalanching across the floor.

  “Elizabeth, stop!”

  She shot Todd a glare, menace in her eyes, and said, “Why the fuck aren’t you doing something?”

  “What else is there to do? We’ve looked through all these containers. It’s not here.”

  “That can’t be,” she said, though she knew it was tru
e, she could see it with her own eyes, the fact that every container worth opening had been opened. She began to shake her head, whispering, “No, it has to be here, it has to,” and before she knew it she had kicked another empty container across the room. It sailed for a couple of feet and hit the wall with a dull thud.

  “Maybe ...” Todd cleared this throat. “Maybe we should search the rest of the house.”

  She collapsed to the floor, first to her knees, then over onto her side. Her body shook but there were no tears in her eyes.

  Todd stood motionless for several seconds before turning and disappearing upstairs.

  In her pocket the BlackBerry dinged. She went to reach for it, pull it out, see what new picture Clarence had sent her, but her hand froze. She couldn’t move it. She couldn’t do anything. All she could do was lay there on the floor, shaking.

  Above her she heard frantic footsteps and Todd’s voice calling her name. Then the basement door opened and he said, his voice hoarse, “Elizabeth, you need to see this.”

  • • •

  FOREMAN LAY MOTIONLESS on the queen size bed in the master bedroom. He looked peaceful enough, despite the wire wrapped tightly around his neck. It had cut deep into his skin, causing him to bleed, and for however long he had lain there, the pillow and the rest of the bed had been absorbing the blood. His face pale, his eyes shut, and his hands clasped on his chest, like he was prepped and ready for the coffin.

  Elizabeth stood just beside the bed, staring down at him. Downstairs, she had cried without any tears, but here, in the place she had once slept with her husband, she had tears but did not cry.

  “This is my fault,” she whispered. “All of this, it’s my fault.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “But it’s true.”

  “Elizabeth, you can’t blame—”

  “First Van and Harlan, then Mark Webster, then Jim, and now ... now Michael.” She shook her head as if to clear it. “And Reginald Moore. I can’t forget him. He was the first.”

  Todd came up behind her and placed a hand on her shoulder. She instantly turned and held onto him, burying her face into his chest.