Killing Season
Page 1
Dedication
For Jonathan
and welcoming Zoe
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Rainstorm Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Snowstorm Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Windstorm Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
About the Author
Also by Faye Kellerman
Copyright
About the Publisher
Rainstorm
As the casket of a young girl, aged sixteen, was lowered into the ground, her sister, through tearful eyes and a choked voice, sang “Amazing Grace.” Her brother stood awkwardly in a suit and tie, dry-eyed and stoic. Her parents sobbed and wept and clutched the loose earth, desperately trying to hang on to something physical. All four knew that there was no longer a silver lining to dark clouds, that life had unalterably changed and there was nothing anyone could do to ever make it whole again.
Prologue
No wonder the South lost the war.
No one could tolerate this kind of sweltering heat, with afternoon temperatures rising above the hundred mark and humidity off the scale—blistering and relentless. It was the kind of heat that charred the lungs and seared the skin. It burned his eyes and cracked his lips.
In the city, the people around him kept apologizing: telling him that it was a heat spell, that usually the humidity wasn’t this bad, and that it usually cooled down at night. But the night was just as hot, with radiant heat coming from the asphalt in shimmering waves. The road had been periodically illuminated as he drove to the woodlands, but once inside the miles of untamed terrain, it was black as tar. And sticky. From where he stood, drenched in sweat, he was miserable and tired and dealing with a multitude of bugs.
Mosquitoes, the palmetto bugs known to most as cockroaches, and the clouds of gnats. The forest hummed with bugs especially since he was near water. The insects were merciless: buzzing his ears, dive-bombing his nose and mouth. And the chiggers, clinging to his socks and trousers, smelling the salt and sweat, waiting for the hem of his pants to ride up or the tops of his socks to fall down to sink their teeth into his flesh.
Because of his heavy dress, his tools, and his knapsack, he was overloaded. He was having trouble breathing. He was having trouble moving. He had always been steady and meticulous. He had always been painstaking. This time, he was just plain sluggish.
Too bad because he wanted to relish the final phase of his handiwork. Tonight, if he was smart—and of course he was very smart—would be the last time he went digging.
Tonight should be the last time. Tonight needed to be the last time.
Except for the tedious niggling fact that despite his best efforts, things hadn’t worked out perfectly. And that preyed upon him more than the heat, humidity, or any of the carnivorous insects.
Sweat in his eyes, dripping off his nose. He was clothed head to toe, from shoe covers to his hat: a living sauna.
He plodded on.
Hunting for the right spot that was clear enough, close enough, and soft enough. Lugging the shovel over his shoulder, he had to squint hard to see the flashlight beam, giving him barely enough illumination in the smothering darkness. Using his ears, the sound of the river as his guide.
He was getting too old for this. After this, he would stop. He had to stop.
He paused, took a deep breath in and out. Put down his knapsack and opened the front pocket. He took out his measuring tape and cordoned off the spot—a perfect three-by-five. He’d go four feet deep, maybe more if the ground was soft enough. It would take him hours to get it right. It would take him all night. He would finish before daybreak.
Always finish before the sun came up.
He plunged the shovel into the ground. The crypt had to be precise.
He’d be back to fill it up.
For the last time.
Maybe.
Chapter 1
They were whispering about him, this time to the new girl.
She had arrived at River Remez along with the New Mexican monsoons of summer. He had been out driving—running an errand for his mom—when he had noticed her with Chelsea and Shannon and Lisa Holloway walking down Arroyo Way. It had been four in the afternoon, the typical time for the mountain skies to open up, but the storm that day had been particularly strong. Blustery winds and blinding lightning strikes were followed by ear-shattering thunder, the distance between sight and sound growing shorter as millions of volts of electricity loomed dangerously close. The rains were flooding the sinewy roads and hillsides, red clay soil oozing from the mountains. It was coming down so fast that he had almost pulled over as pea-sized hailstones bounced off the windshield of the SUV. But the wipers were batting the hail away with rhythmic efficiency.
The girls were soaked to the skin, dodging ice pellets, running with their T-shirts pulled over the tops of their heads, showing inches of tanned bare skin along the belt line. He was about to offer them a lift, but at the last moment they beelined under the portal of JD’s house.
Their hushed voices in the school’s lunchroom howled like a tempest. Not that he could hear them—they were too far away—but he knew what they were saying because it’s what everyone said. Shannon and Chelsea were talking in tandem.
“That’s Vicks over there sitting by himself.”
“He’s kinda weird. A lone wolf. Especially after his sister died.”
“Raped and murdered.”
“Strangled.”
“She was only sixteen.”
“Almost seventeen.”
As if her age mattered. But it was always the addendum because Ellen had almost been seventeen. The new girl would be shocked and scared. “Who did it?”
“Unsolved for over two years.”
“Lots of suspects, no one ever arrested.”
“Some people, at first, even thought that Vicks did it.”
The new girl’s eyes would get big. “Did he?”
“Nah, Vicks is just Vicks. Weird but harmless.”
“He rides his bike everywhere even though he can drive. It could be pouring outside and there’s Vicks pedaling his bike up the mountain.”
“You know how it is. Those nerdy math types.”
“He’s a genius in math.”
“Yeah, if you need help for your SATs, just put on a smile and he’s a sucker.”
Giggles all around.
Then suddenly the whispering would stop and they’d move on to gossiping about someone else.
His eyes moved back to his book, some ludicrous sci-fi thriller, but his concentration wasn’t there and his mind shifted into default mode: thinking about his sister . . . both sisters, but mainly Ellen. Ben was now older than his sister had been when she passed.
That day when his mom got the phone call, they’d been driving back from Albuquerque. At fourteen, he had maxed out in high school math and was taking college calculus at UNM in Albuquerque. The school year was days away from over. He was tired, grumpy, and hungry, and traffic was a bitch on I-25. Between rush hour and construction, the highway had become a parking lot. He’d been arguing with his mom when Dad’s call cut through the Bluetooth. The day: Wednesday. The time: ten after five.
“Do you know where Ellen is?” he asked.
“She isn’t home?” Mom waited a second. “She should have been home two hours ago.”
“She’s not home, Laura.” An awful pause. “How far away are you?”
“I don’t know . . .” Panic had seeped into her voice. “I guess about forty-five minutes.”
“Just get home. I’ll keep making phone calls.”
The ride home was unbearably long and silent.
Four hours later, the police were sitting on the living room couch. Detective Samuel Shanks did most of the talking. Back then, Ben had thought Shanks a big man: tall as well as hefty. Three years later, they were around the same height, although Shanks still outweighed him by fifty-plus pounds.
The detective spoke earnestly. He asked questions: Has she ever done this before? Any problems at home? At school? What about with her friends? With a boyfriend?
Ellen had no problems with anyone. Everybody loved her.
Ben’s younger sister, Haley, sat stone-faced with her best friend, Lilly. They were two little eleven-year-old sticks, huddled together. Finally, Mom noticed their terror. “Ben, take the girls outside.”
“Outside?” he said. It was dark.
“No, not outside.” Mom was flustered. “Call up Lilly’s parents and tell them to pick her up.” Then Mom changed her mind again. “Ask if Haley can stay over there.” And a third time. “No, just have them pick her up . . . Lilly.” Finally, she had lost it. “Just . . . go to your rooms right now. I need to think.”
Then Sam had asked to speak to their son privately. His father seemed confused. “Ben? Why?”
Shanks didn’t answer the question. “Just for a few minutes.”
Once in the privacy of his room, Ben felt numb. Shanks tried the sympathy approach. “I’m sorry this is happening to you. A lot of times, these things just work themselves out.”
Ben nodded, but he was dubious.
“You know, brothers are kind of protective of sisters, right?”
“Ellen’s older than me.”
“But she’s still your sister. I bet you notice things, being closer in age than your parents. Do you think your sister might be keeping something from your parents?”
“Like what?”
“You tell me.”
“Nothing to tell. Ellen doesn’t do drugs. She doesn’t have a secret boyfriend. She doesn’t have a secret life. I’m not making her perfect, but everyone loves her.” Ben locked eyes with the detective. “This isn’t like her. Something’s wrong.”
Shanks moved to his desk and picked up a picture. “Your friends, Ben?”
“Yeah.”
“This one over here.” He pointed. “He’s big for fourteen.”
“He’s fifteen.”
“Yeah?” A pause. “Being your friend, he must have known Ellen.”
Ben felt himself stiffen. He knew what this Shanks guy was implying. “No.”
“No what?”
“Just no.” End of private talk.
Lists were made—phone numbers and addresses of friends and acquantainces. Then Sam passed out cards with his cell number. It was dutifully entered into all of their contact lists. Within a day, Ben had committed it to memory. His former life ceased to exist. He was hurled into overdrive.
First was the passing-out-flyers phase: have you seen this girl?
Next was the endless-searches phase: on the hiking trails, in the mountains, and at the riverbeds, in neighboring towns to Albuquerque and beyond.
Mom calling Shanks ten times a day; Dad calling him twenty. Shanks became a household word—what he did, what he didn’t do, what he was doing. Shanks this and Shanks that.
“Ben, call up Shanks and tell him that she was seen on the Plaza in Taos.”
“Ben, call up Shanks and tell him there was a sighting of her at the caves in Carlsbad.”
“Ben, call up Shanks and tell him someone spotted her in Las Vegas.”
He called and reported the latest sighting to Shanks.
“New Mexico or Nevada?” Shanks asked.
Ben cupped the house-phone receiver. “Mom, was it Las Vegas, New Mexico, or Las Vegas, Nevada?”
She yanked the phone from his grip. “I’ll do it myself.”
Hundreds of calls along with hundreds of leads that went nowhere. Every weekend, Ben rode his bike to the mountains and searched, hiking on and off the trails until almost every square inch of the Sangre de Cristos had been trampled. Most of the time the searching became ritualistic, done without conscious thought. Always on his own, always alone. And then after Ellen was found—
“Hey, Vicks.”
Ben jerked his head up from his book. He’d been on the same page for the last five minutes. Back to the present. Exactly where he didn’t want to be. “JD.”
“You busy?” He sat down without asking.
Ben studied the guy. Over the summer, he had really grown into his quarterback status: six three and muscular as hell. Remez High was all about football and JD was the football god. He could pass, he could run, he could anticipate, he could fake, and he could score because JD was smart. He won a lot of games in his junior season. Senior year was here and everyone was waiting for the sweep. JD was being scouted by almost every major university. Not just scouted—wooed. JD was the BMOC with his brown feathered hair falling across his forehead, his cleft chin, his swagger, and his white-toothed smirk. JD’s favorite line was “After JC, it’s JD.” The guy wasn’t really a friend, but he wasn’t an enemy either.
Not that Ben had any enemies . . . or any real friends, for that matter.
Unless you considered Sam Shanks a friend.
“How’d your summer go?” he asked.
“’S’right. I saw a lot of suits going in and out of your house,” Ben told him.
“What can I say?”
“You make a decision?”
“Schools are like girls. So many options, so little time.”
“It’s a hard life but someone has to live it.”
“Exactly.” JD smiled with his white teeth. “I’m leaning toward Duke.”
“Good choice. Free ride?”
“All the way.”
“Sweet.”
“I still want to keep my options open for the Ivies. Most of them don’t give athletic scholarships, so I’ll need merit. Which means . . .” JD handed Ben two sheets of paper filled with calculus problems. “It’s for entrance to AP Calc. Twenty-four problems. Could you look them over?”
“You’re not supposed to get help on the entrance exam.” JD waited for a more favorable response. Ben said, “So you want me to cheat for you?”
JD said, “Hells yeah.” A pause. “Just look over my answers and say yes or no.”
Ben took the papers. Ninety-three seconds later, he said, �
��Look over eighteen and twenty-four. The rest are right.” He handed the test back. “Who’s teaching AP Calc this year?”
“Lowen.”
“He’s a good guy.”
“I’m just looking for the A for the first grading period. Then it’s party time.” A wide shark’s-tooth smile. “Are you TA-ing for him, Vicks?”
“For Lowen, yes, but not AP Calc. This year I’m doing regular calc and geometry.”
“Which regular calc?”
“Afternoon session.”
“Ro’s in that class. Say hi for me.”
“Ro?”
“The new girl who moved here in June.”
“The blonde.”
“So you’ve noticed her.” JD smirked.
Not many girls here were blond. Besides, she was exquisite—around five six with long hair and long legs. Big, round blue eyes. It would take a moron not to notice. Ben said, “So her name is Ro? Like the Greek letter?”
“R-O not R-H-O. No matter how you spell it, she’s on fire.” JD touched an imaginary flame and made a sizzling sound. “Hot! We’re an item.” He held out a twenty. “For your efforts.”
“Nuh-uh,” Ben said. “You’re not buying me off. Besides, I didn’t do anything.”
“Up to you.” JD pocketed the bill and left.
The bell rang. Ben got up and dumped his paper-bag lunch into the garbage and headed for his TA calc, where no doubt Ro—not the Greek letter—would be looking at him with a strange expression on her face.
Tucked into the front corner, Ben sat about five feet from the teacher’s desk, trying not to pay attention to the new girl. She, on the other hand, was brazen, clearly sizing him up. He wasn’t much to write home about: five ten, one-forty with pale brown eyes and dark curls that brushed his shoulders. He needed a haircut. His looks qualified him as boyish except when he didn’t shave. School prohibited facial hair and that meant that every other day he had to plow through a sizable amount of stubble.
Lowen came in and class began. The first week was review starting with Algebra 2. Ten minutes before the bell rang, Teach told everyone to close their books.
“Let’s see who was really paying attention,” he said. “Everyone get out a sheet of paper and a pencil. Five points to the first one to solve the problem I put on the whiteboard.” When he was sure all textbooks were closed, Lowen wrote the problem and then turned to Ben. “Take over, Vicks. I’m grabbing a cup of coffee.” As soon as Lowen left, the noise level went up. Not that anyone was cheating, but talking was another thing.