23
Smith watched Shelby walk out of the woman’s house. He smiled. He’d intended the planting of the knife to serve as a distraction. He hadn’t known it would prove so effective. The rift between Shelby and the sheriff must be deeper and more rancorous than he’d realized. The sheriff’s determination to find Shelby guilty of something would bias his investigation, leaving Smith free to follow this adventure with the woman through to its conclusion. Her death, if indeed it came to that, would be blamed on Shelby, at least initially, giving Smith more than enough time to vacate the area.
He smiled again. His feelings toward the woman had brought Smith a sense of anticipation—almost nostalgia—that had been missing for a long time. Since Lara, in fact. She was the only other person who had elicited such a strong and not-wholly unpleasant surge of emotion.
Thoughts of Lara initiated an abrupt shift in mood as Smith was dragged back in time. It was such an odd contradiction: the new experience with this woman was pleasant in part because it reminded him of what he’d had—or thought he’d had—with Lara. And yet, thinking of Lara created a deep darkness inside, which then battled with the levity created by the new woman in his life.
The darkness brought thoughts of his baby, and he remembered seeing Lara return home from the hospital. Her mother carried a tiny bundle, and Smith’s heart thumped when he saw it—his baby. Then he saw her father and another person, a young man…Smith’s heart thudded again as he realized this must be the fake father, the one whose family had money. Hatred rose within Smith’s chest and threatened to choke him. How could Lara have done this? He would have worked hard to provide for the baby and been an excellent father. He knew what bad parenting was, thanks to his mother. He would not have been that kind of parent. He would show her.
Over the next couple of weeks, Smith continued watching the house. He noted the comings and goings of the family. At first, it seemed random, but soon settled into a pattern as everyone figured out their new roles.
And then Smith made his move.
He was inside the house and moving up the stairs when he heard the baby cry. It was a thin, pitiful sound. There was movement on the landing, and he saw Lara moving across his field of vision. She was unbuttoning the front of her nightgown, probably going to the nursery to feed the baby…his baby.
He felt emboldened, as if he belonged in this house. He didn’t feel like an intruder at all. He wasn’t the one out of place. It was the young man, the one with the money.
Smith walked up the rest of the stairs, turned the corner, and stood in the doorway to the nursery. Lara sat in a rocker, his baby sucking contentedly on her breast. It made tiny gulping sounds as it ate. Lara looked up. Her face paled and she started to stand.
“Don’t stand up,” Smith said, “and don’t make a sound.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I wanted to see my baby.”
Lara clutched the baby tighter. The movement dislodged the nipple, causing the baby to squawk in protest.
“Don’t hurt the baby.”
Smith reached inside his jacket pocket and pulled out his knife.
Lara began to cry. “Please. Think of the baby.”
“I am. You’re a selfish bitch, just like my ma. No child of mine will go through what I did.”
“It’ll be a good life. I promise!”
“Because your man is rich? If he’s so wonderful, why isn’t he with you?”
“He’s in the other room. He’ll hear you and come help. So will Pa.”
“And I’ll kill them all. Let me see my baby.”
Lara responded by holding the baby closer.
Smith moved forward and tried to wrest the child from Lara’s arms with one hand, the other holding the knife.
“No! You can’t take my baby!”
“It’s not your baby! It’s mine! Mine!”
The knife came down and penetrated the left side of Lara’s neck, eliciting a pulsing stream of blood. Smith pushed her away and clutched at the baby. Lara opened her mouth in a scream that was nothing but a gurgle. She slid sideways off the chair, still holding the baby, with Smith continuing to wrestle it from her grasp. The baby shrieked and Smith knew it had to die. He couldn’t allow it to live now and condemn it to the kind of life he’d had to endure.
The knife came down and the baby shrieked again.
“Get away from her!”
Smith turned. A man, around forty years old, stood in the doorway. He held a revolver pointed at Smith. His gun hand trembled. Smith guessed it was Lara’s father.
“I told you to get away from her,” the man said. “Now. Or I’ll shoot.”
Smith released his grip on the baby. He heard Lara hit the floor, but he didn’t take his eyes off the man with the gun.
“It’s too late,” Smith said. “I’ve killed them both. You’re not going to do anything.” He had no idea where he got the balls to face the gun, but he felt empowered as he did so. Invincible. He stepped forward, his knife held out in front, dripping blood—Lara’s blood.
The man’s face whitened and his hand tightened around the gun. Smith knew little about shooting weapons—he preferred blades—but he knew tension was bad for accuracy; the man’s shooting hand quivered like an aspen.
“Put down the knife,” the man said.
Smith grinned. “Fuck you.”
The man’s finger jerked on the trigger. A loud pop, a muzzle flash. Something zinged past Smith’s ear. As the bullet passed harmlessly, he closed on the man. He led with the knife and the blade slipped between two ribs as another pop sounded. Something burned his side, as if a hot poker had pressed lengthwise. The knife came out and back in, until the man’s shirt front was stained red and there were splatters on the walls. Smith could only imagine what he looked like himself. He felt warm droplets of blood on his face. A trickle slid down his neck. His side ached and felt wet; he’d been shot.
The man had first dropped to his knees and then fell back, his face a twisted mass of pain and fear. Again, Smith experienced a surge of power and authority. A victim’s fear was a source of pure energy. Like an animal, he could smell fear. It gave him strength and daring.
Smith stood over the man, looking down at the crimson tableau, and marveled at his own lack of emotion. He felt empowered, but that was all. No fear, no regret, no sadness…but his senses were working and he thought he heard a siren somewhere in the distance.
He began to turn back toward Lara and the baby but caught sight of a figure standing motionless on the landing. A young man, about his age. The rich kid. Smith knew he needed to finish the job. This spoiled rich shit couldn’t be allowed to live, not after stealing his girl, his baby. Smith stepped over the man on the floor. The young man didn’t move, only stood and watched Smith approach.
“What’s your name, shit?” Smith said.
“Benton. Who are you?”
“I’m the one who’s going to kill you.”
Whatever his other faults might have been, Benton was no coward. He met Smith head on and grabbled for the knife. There was no fear in him—or if there was, it hid beneath decisive action—and its absence left Smith with an uneasy sense of inferiority. For a moment, he thought the young man might be his match, as Benton used both hands to steer the knife in Smith’s direction. Then Smith brought his knee into his opponent’s groin, a brutal blow that loosened Benton’s grip enough to allow Smith a moment’s advantage. He pulled away, rolled, and came to his feet in one fluid motion. Benton hesitated for a split second, on his hands and knees, gasping for air—and within that space of time, the knife flickered and sank deep into his back. In, out, back in and out.
Cars screeched to a halt outside, and red and blue lights flashed through the windows. A crash downstairs—the front door giving way. The pounding of heavy footsteps on the stairs. Smith looked back once at his baby, lying against Lara’s stained body, and fled across the landing.
“There he goes!” a voice shouted.
&
nbsp; Smith ran into the room across from the nursery. A woman—Lara’s mother—cowered in the corner, the phone still clutched in her hand. He didn’t have time for her. Smith fumbled with the latch on the window. It was old and stiff.
“Surround the house!” the voice shouted. “He’s making a run for it! Get around back!”
Smith gave up on the latch. To his left was a dresser, on top of which sat a small box of the sort women use to store jewelry. Smith grabbed it, hefted, and used it to smash the glass. The heavy footsteps were behind him now and he felt a tug on his jacket as someone grasped with strong, rough hands.
Then he was up and over the windowsill. He hit the ground and rolled, trying to break the force of the fall. A stab of pain shot up from his ankle and when he came up to run, his foot twisted under him. But he kept moving, spurred on by shouting voices and the stabbing beams of flashlights in the darkness.
He ran, stumbling and hopping and skipping, until the pain in his side, both from running and the bullet wound, forced him to stop. He sat down heavily beneath a big tree. He didn’t know where he was, but he could no longer hear the voices or see the lights. It was then he realized he still carried the jewelry box. If he was lucky, the police would think robbery was the motive.
Smith lived the next few months in fear of being apprehended. He kept moving, working his way across the country—but no one was looking for him. His connection with Lara, at least as far as anyone else knew, was tenuous and incidental. No one knocked on his door, no heavy hand landed on his shoulder, no authoritative voice shouted his name. No one knew who he was or what he had done. He was a nobody again, a far cry from holding the power of life and death. Many times, he wanted to tell someone about that night. He wanted to watch their eyes widen with newfound respect and, perhaps, a tinge of fear. But he never had. He had carried the secret alone and, after a year, followed it up with another killing. And it was with that killing he began to employ the strategies he’d used instinctively the first bloody night: watching the target, noting their schedule, reducing their lives to little more than an equation. He even maintained the cover of robbery by taking various valuables he found in the houses of the victims. What had occurred through panic and happenstance turned out to be an effective way of confusing local law enforcement. More than once, newspapers reported that authorities believed the killings were a result of a robbery gone bad when the homeowner caught the burglar in the act. Smith built on this narrative by staging the crime scene, even going so far as moving the bodies postmortem. But he was careful. He was not an expert in forensic science and knew it would be easy to outsmart himself. A well-trained forensic unit could recreate events, which might end up not matching Smith’s preferred story. With this in mind, he targeted smaller communities unlikely to possess the resources, expertise, and manpower to properly investigate in case he made a mistake an elite department might pounce upon.
Smith regretted that Lara’s killing had been necessary. Of course, it was her fault. If she hadn’t mistreated him, none of it would have been necessary. She had led him on and stolen his baby. But he could never regret the feelings she had unleashed within him. Lara had introduced him to the unbelievable high of the kill. Smith had at last discovered a way to feel powerful, relevant, and in control of not only his destiny but those of others. When he killed, he knew he mattered. The look in the eyes of his victims gave him a reason to live. In some way he didn’t fully understand, death provided life purpose by giving it context. By taking the lives of his victims, Smith received validation for his own. And that had always been enough.
Until he’d seen Carly.
Now, as he sat watching her house and waited for her to leave for work, he both appreciated and resented her for reawakening the deeper feelings lying dormant since Lara.
Smith watched as Shelby went to his Jeep, got in, and started the engine. As the man drove away, Smith continued to watch, starting his own vehicle and pulling onto the road as the Jeep disappeared around a curve in the road.
24
As he drove toward the campground using the most circuitous route possible, Shelby was aware this was not the first time he’d avoided the law. He wouldn’t say he was “on the run.” He could feasibly profess ignorance were Wilkes to track him down and attempt arrest. And the sheriff knew nothing about Quinn’s visit to his house. If he did, Quinn would be facing her own legal problem. This made Shelby dismiss a niggling suspicion that Quinn was, in fact, working for Wilkes and was setting him up for an easy arrest. He felt convinced she had an ulterior motive; he didn’t believe her claim she was being the champion of a Wilkes victim. That might be part of it, but Shelby knew it wasn’t the entire story.
Thinking of Quinn reminded him he’d agreed to call her once he decided on a plan. He debated but got out his cellphone and the card she’d given him. He punched in the number. It rang several times before voicemail answered. Shelby left a brief message and then hung up.
He kept a close eye on both the road before him and his rearview mirror. He played every turnoff through in his mind and calculated the distances between them. If he spotted Wilkes, his plan was to use one of these turnoffs as a hiding place…but it would only work if he saw the sheriff before the sheriff saw him. Shelby slowed down as he approached crossroads, looking for the telltale front end of a patrol car.
About a mile from Carly’s house, Shelby noticed a car on the road behind him. He didn’t recognize it—not Wilkes. It wasn’t following close; in fact, it seemed to be holding back. Shelby felt the prickle on his neck…was he being followed?
“That’s stupid,” he said.
There were plenty of reasons for someone to take this way. General traffic and tourists were nowhere to be seen this early, but the wealthier vacationers often owned summer homes in the area. It wasn’t unusual for a family to hire a contractor to perform work on the house or cabin prior to the season, getting it prepared for their arrival. This was when additions, improvements, and repairs were made so the owners didn’t have to listen to the sounds of construction during their vacations. No doubt the car behind him belonged to either a local or someone up here doing seasonal work.
Even so, Shelby’s unease continued, and as he approached the campground, he considered driving past it to see how long the car would follow him.
“That’s stupid,” he said again.
Shelby pulled into the campground but watched in his rearview until the other car drove past. It did so without slowing down, and the driver didn’t so much as glance in his direction. Shelby chuckled at himself. It wasn’t like him to fall prey to a case of nerves. This business with Wilkes and Carly’s secret admirer must be affecting him more than he’d thought.
He was relieved not to have seen any sign of Wilkes or a deputy. He wasn’t afraid of Wilkes the man, but an impending arrest was not something he looked forward to facing. As much as he hated Wilkes, the man had the authority of his office behind him. Shelby couldn’t be sure it would be a peaceful interaction, and the last thing he needed to do was add assaulting a police officer to the list of charges.
He got out of the car and walked toward the camp office. He opened the door and stepped inside. The clerk sat behind a battered desk, working at an ancient computer. Shelby waited, finally resorting to rapping his knuckles on the desktop.
“Could I get some service here?”
“Welcome to Pine Lake,” the clerk said, not looking up.
“Spare me the bullshit, Fritz.”
Fritz raised his head and peered at Shelby over tiny square glasses. “Oh, it’s you. And I was having a decent day.”
“Glad to be of service. I know being happy makes you uncomfortable.”
“It does at that. When you’re happy, things can only get worse from there.”
“You’ve always been a ray of sunshine.”
“Glad to be of service.”
“Make up your own lines,” Shelby said. “You have the cabin ready?”
“Yeah, I g
ot it. Cabin 5. Still a little, what you say, musty. First use this season.”
“It wasn’t my choice.”
“On the run, eh?”
“You know it.”
“You realize you’re gettin too old for this shit, don’t ya?”
“Like I said, it wasn’t my choice. I’d much rather be home and drinking a beer in front of the fireplace in my underwear.”
“Hell, I got beer. And I hooked up a space heater in the cabin.”
“That was thoughtful. What got into you?”
“Havin old geezers freeze on my campground is bad for business.” Fritz passed a weathered hand over his hair, or what was left of it. He was mostly bald on top and what few strands remained he wore long and slicked back, where they congregated with the hair on the back of his head to complete a greasy ponytail. He was unshaven, with about a week’s growth on his face and neck, and sported a handlebar moustache. He reached around to a board of keys, took one down, and tossed it to Shelby. “There ya be. Get yourself moved in and I’ll come round later with a six pack.”
Smith kept driving as his quarry turned into the campground, making sure not to glance over as he passed. So this was where the man was planning to hide out. As long as he knew that, Smith felt confident enough to head back toward Carly’s house.
Carly…his Carly. It surprised Smith how he had warmed to the idea. It was as though by recognizing her influence on him, he had opened his heart to love again. Yes, the feelings he now entertained could complicate things. It would be more difficult to kill her. Smith had to admit not killing her had occurred to him. Was it unthinkable she could return his love? Was it possible for one person to experience the depth of feeling, as he was, and yet the other remain cold? It didn’t seem right, as if the world’s order wouldn’t allow it. Smith knew the world was capable of much crueler things, and so didn’t allow himself to fantasize about the possibilities of being warmly received. He would be received, though. That much he knew. Voluntarily or otherwise, he would get to know Carly better, and she would know him.
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