You’d think the guy would have a thicker hide by this time. It’s not like this was his first rodeo. These were all strangers. Take me, for example. After laying out hundreds of obituaries, I could probably place my own grandmother’s and not shed a tear.
“All right, I’ll give you a couple hundred words,” Moretz said. “Just make sure Kavanaugh doesn’t get a copy before it hits the street.”
“This isn’t Facebook. This is real life.”
“Yeah. Let’s just hope they don’t find any Rebel clippers in my desk again. Kavanuagh might start beating me to the murder scenes.”
“You say that like you expect the murders to continue.”
“After you run that headline, this is going national. We’ll probably even draw the big magazines and cable news networks.”
“I have faith in you, John. You’ll beat them all.”
“Including Kavanaugh?”
I hadn’t decided that yet, but I saw no reason to upset him before he finished the article. “You’re my Number One with a bullet.”
16.
Sure enough, the vultures flew in. Fox News, MSNBC, 60 Minutes, The New York Times, and USA Today ran bulletins, mostly compilations of our published clips, the lazy way out for modern armchair journalists. The Washington Post was the only traditional media outlet to send a real reporter. Deadspin and TMZ sent stringers, proof that the lines of celebrity gossip, hard news, and journalistic integrity had blurred into a murky, blood-colored stew.
To his credit, Hardison rose to the challenge, holding another press conference that was a mirror of the first, only this time he was prepared to answer questions. Well, he didn’t really answer, but at least he responded.
“No possibilities have been eliminated,” he said to the audience of three dozen as the district attorney stood to the side. “This office is cooperating fully with the SBI and Sycamore Shade Police Department to bring the perpetrator to justice.”
“So there’s only one perpetrator?” asked a crew-cut guy with a microphone who had a face made for radio. But he was loud enough to make up for any other shortcomings.
“In a manner of speaking,” Hardison said.
“Do the fingernail clippers have any significance?” shouted one of the TV heads.
“Blame the dang old Internet,” the sheriff said, in a rare display of candidness. “We’re working to trace them, but they could have come from anywhere. Anyone with any information is encouraged to come forward, and a Crimestoppers reward is being offered.”
The D.A. stepped to the mike and added, “The reward is only valid in the event of a successful prosecution, offer not available where prohibited by law.”
“Sheriff, have you made any solid connections between any of the four victims?” Kavanaugh asked, though I knew she’d already asked him the question one-on-one. She was across the room from Moretz and me, preferring to keep our relationship out of the public eye.
I knew even Hardison was too smart to come back with something sarcastic like, “Well, they’re all dead.” He let his jowls sag a little more than usual, making him look like a beaten hound.
“We’re going through family histories,” Hardison said. “All of the victims were locals, and it’s possible their paths crossed from time to time.”
“Can you release additional details on the latest murder?” Moretz asked, raising his pencil even though he was taking notes on his laptop.
The sheriff glowered at him, and then me. “All information has been made known,” Hardison said. “Plus some information that’s not known.”
A couple of hands shot up at the confusing remark, but the sheriff held both palms up. “That’s all today,” the sheriff said. “These crimes don’t solve themselves.”
The national attention spawned a bunch of orders by mail, so the publisher upped the print run by an additional 3,000 copies.
Our subscriptions had increased, too, and Westmoreland had even dared mention the possibility of raises for the writing staff. And they say journalists are cynics.
17.
I met Kavanaugh for dinner five days and two editions later. She’d gone to Raleigh to file a few stories and work on a big government scandal, but we kept in touch via text messages. Moretz thought I’d been feeding her inside information, but the deal cut both ways. Kavanaugh didn’t have Moretz’s knack for being on the spot, but she was pretty sharp at analysis and spin.
After another round of garlic entrees at Roman Joe’s, I suggested we visit the scene of the first murder and take a moonlit stroll around the lake brainstorming connections between the victims, making working up a retrospective series to let our readers relive the crimes. And, of course, buy more papers.
“Romantic,” she said.
“Plus we can bill for mileage,” I said.
“Combining business and pleasure. That’s even better.”
We reached the lake in 20 minutes. The original crime scene was no longer roped off, and it had become a bit of a tourist attraction. Beer cans and burger wrappers littered the woods. I was a little sad that the murder site had not become some sort of memorial shrine, but I knew from vast experience that yesterday’s news was yesterday’s news.
“He was standing right here,” I said, measuring the distance to the lake. “Maybe he’d already planned the whole thing, or maybe he just came across the paddle and went insane.”
What she said next surprised me, but it probably shouldn’t have. “You think it’s Moretz, don’t you?”
I was silent for a moment, listening to the crickets, bullfrogs, and the gentle lapping of the water. “He’s Johnny on the Spot, first one to the crime scene. Maybe the sheriff is keeping a closer eye than we thought.”
“If so, the sheriff blew it by letting a couple more people get killed before making the arrest. His career is dead in the water.”
“Just like the third victim. With a straight razor.”
“What’s that?”
“Patterns. The paddle thing was an aberration. But then you had a strangling, a razor to the neck, and then another strangling. Despite that clipper gimmick, it sounds like he has a thing for necks.”
“You seem to enjoy mine,” she said.
“Along with everything else.” I took her in my arms and gave her a soft kiss. I was growing fond of Kavanaugh. I was about to make my move when the spotlights blasted us with five thousand watts of white brilliance, momentarily blinding me.
“Don’t move,” bellowed a male voice.
“Hands where we can see them,” commanded another.
I didn’t think it would go down that way. For all their bungling, Hardison’s crew came through as professionals when it mattered most. I pulled my hand from my pocket and let the folded razor drop to the ground.
I thought about reaching for the clippers in my other pocket, but figured any sudden moves might kill any chance for a follow-up.
Kavanaugh gasped in shock, the cops closed in and did their thing, and it was a blur after that. When they got to the part about “Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law,” I simply said, “Mistakes were made.”
18.
My defense attorney agreed to allow Moretz to interview me. She thought I’d get sympathy from the people who would eventually comprise the jury pool, assuming the trial wasn’t moved. Or at least the interview would provide plenty of ammo for the insanity plea we’d probably render.
“I read your articles on my arrest,” I said, sitting at the table in the bare concrete room, a burly sergeant watching us. “Award worthy, for sure.”
Moretz’s eyes were as dark and devoid of human compassion as ever. “Like you said, it’s the subject matter that wins awards, not the reporter.”
“Did I say that?”
“Yeah.”
“I especially liked the part where you booted up my computer and saw I’d laid out the next day’s headline.”
“Reporter Slain At Lake. I wouldn’t have figured it out if you had
n’t typed the lead line.”
I quoted myself. “Police were stunned when the Rebel Clipper’s fifth victim was discovered at the scene of the first murder. Kelsey Kavanugh, 33, a reporter for the News & Observer, had been covering the case when she died from injuries apparently inflicted by a sharp instrument.”
“Even after you edited so many of my stories, you still can’t write was good as I can.”
“‘Well.’“ I said. “The correct grammar is, ‘You still can’t write as well as I can.’“
“The editor always has the final word,” he said.
“How’s Kavanaugh?”
“Haven’t you heard?”
I looked at the concrete walls, the little glass two-way mirror, and the stoic guard. I shrugged. “I don’t get out much.”
“She was on ‘Good Morning America,’ got an agent and six-figure book deal, and she’s going to be the subject of a one-hour Showtime special.”
“Nice kid. She deserves it.”
Moretz leaned forward, studying me. “Why did you do it?”
“Is this off the record?”
“You taught me that nothing is off the record.”
I shrugged again. I had affected a convenient case of jailhouse elan. “Deadline pressure. It gets to you after a while.”
“You type the headline, get everything ready, hint to me where the body’s going to be found. I’m on the scene just in time to get it in the next edition. Right under the wire, so nobody can scoop us.”
“More or less. If the Picayune had gone daily like I’d wanted, everything would have worked out much better.”
“Hardison almost pulled me in because of it. He thought we were conspiring. I was on the crime beat, after all.”
“That paddle, that was a stroke of genius, inspired by all that death and carnage that hit like the Biblical plagues when you came to town. It gave me the idea of a way to build up circulation. After the first one, I was hooked. Not on the murdering, that was just unpleasant work that’s likely to break your fingernails. But selling papers was a rush.”
“You’re insane.”
I smiled. “That’s an editorial opinion, not a clinical diagnosis.”
“You wanted to build circulation and get some acclaim. I get that part. But there’s no real pay-off. What was this really all about?”
I’d been wondering that myself, but I think I’d finally come around to the answer.
“Obits,” I said.
“The obituary column?”
“You read enough of those, and they all blend into one big, bland bowl of oatmeal. Homemaker, retired mechanic, former Marine, school teacher. I just pictured my bottom line, my final word, and all I saw was the title ‘Newspaper editor.’ Not so memorable in the grand scheme of things. Sure to be set in small type.”
“And now you’re famous. A headline. Howard Nance, the Rebel Clipper.”
“Well, I could have come up with a better name, but I blame the deadline pressure.”
“We all write our own obituaries, Chief,” Moretz said. “Day by day.”
The guard interrupted and told us our five minutes were up. Moretz remained sitting while I stood, the handcuffs clinking. “You can’t type so well in handcuffs,” I joked.
“We’re all in handcuffs,” Moretz said, getting the final word at last. “They’re just invisible most of the time.”
THE END
Table of Contents
###
Julia Stone will remember, even if it kills her.
THE SKULL RING
By Scott Nicholson
Copyright ©2010 Scott Nicholson
Published by Haunted Computer Books
http://www.hauntedcomputer.com/
For Miranda and Lexie and our ring of love. May the circle be unbroken.
THE SKULL RING
CHAPTER ONE
I locked the door.
Didn’t I?
Julia’s sweating palm gripped the doorknob, the click of the tumblers still echoing inside her skull. Would he be inside, waiting, his lungs holding a hateful breath? The years fell away, and for a moment, she was a child again. A scared little helpless–
No.
That was Memphis, this was Elkwood. This was the new and improved Julia Stone, the one who was on the path to healing. Imaginary Creeps no longer stalked the alleys of her mind. Thanks to Dr. Forrest.
She glanced behind her at the woods, which seemed to have crept closer to the house since yesterday. The Appalachian Mountain shadows reached out like fingers, and she searched there for movement, any sign that people were watching. That he was watching.
Julia let the door swing open and squinted into the dark throat of the house. Nobody home. Nothing to fear, just the bland patterns of her furniture to welcome her. Just another day in her new normal life.
Nonetheless, her hand went into her purse and touched the cool canister of mace. She went inside, not letting herself look back. When you were cured, you didn’t care what was behind you. Forward was all that mattered. Coat rack, recliner, sofa, television. Forward, another step, even though something was wrong with the coffee table.
At first she thought they were small boxes of food, maybe delicate chocolates or caviar, arranged in a line across the table. Something Mitchell would buy her to make up for a slight. But how did the packages get inside?
Her legs carried her closer, her fist clenched around the mace. The row of squares weren’t boxes. She touched them in the dimness, let her fingers track over the raised surfaces. A child’s wooden blocks.
She picked up the nearest one, her breath catching. Tilted toward the window, the embossed letter caught enough light to show its cruel hook, its sharp teeth.
J.
She placed the block back on the table, casting a look down the shadowed hall. Nothing there but dark and darker.
Her hand trembled as she picked up the next block in line. She lifted it six inches before she dropped it, and the wood clacked against the table’s surface and tumbled under the couch like an oversized dice.
She didn’t need to read the letter to know what it said. Because the next block was the same, and so was the next.
O.
She slapped the blocks off the table and knelt on the carpet, her heart playing her ribs like a mad xylophonist, the melody broken, the rhythm spastic, the blows landing much too hard.
A noise behind her, louder than her heartbeat. Nothing, she knew. She would be strong, because this was Elkwood, North Carolina, and bad things couldn’t follow her here. She wouldn’t look, because cured people didn’t jump at every imagined sound.
Kurr-chack chack.
Nothing but the wind pushing branches against the house.
Chack.
Only in her head. She couldn’t help it. She turned.
The Creep stood on the porch, six-foot-two.
Metal glinted in his fist.
The fish-eye lens of panic both distorted and magnified her vision. Julia tried to scream but had no breath, she rose, glanced frantically for the canister of mace she had dropped, knowing it was too late, it had always been too late, they’d had her since she was four.
The Creep’s hulk blocked the doorway, a belt loaded with weapons circling his waist. His eyes were hot and steely, his mouth open in passionate rage.
He had long, long fingers.
The blade flashed, quivered.
Her heart had been set afire and shot from a catapult.
The past had reached her, despite all her running and hiding and pretending. It was here, now, come to towering, fire-breathing life. She would never make it to the bedroom door in time. If she fled, his pleasure would only intensify, and her legs were like stacks of wooden blocks shot through with string.
Why fight any longer?
The Creep was silhouetted against a backdrop of sun and light blue sky, the wild colors of autumn wreathing his head like a halo.
Julia lifted her forearms out of instinct, shut her eyes, and waited
for the swift delivery of his decades’-old promise. But first would come the benediction, the words that would cut deeper than any blade.
His voice came, not in the thunder of a murderer, but in a soft, shocked exhalation. “Jesus, lady.”
She peeked from behind her arms. The stranger’s eyebrows furrowed in concern. His eyes were light green, the color of a murky pond under sunlight. Light green, not red like The Creep’s. His arm lowered to his side, and she saw that it was a screwdriver he held loosely in his fist, not a knife.
The man took two steps backward, almost losing his balance at the edge of the porch. “I was sent here to check the windows.”
“Windows?” She managed to squeeze the word through her constricted throat.
“With winter coming on and all. The landlord sent me.” He paused, squinted, and continued, his vowels stretched by his native Southern Appalachian accent. “This is 102 Buckeye Creek Road, isn’t it?”
She forced her head to nod twice. She saw now that the weapons at his waist were only tools, a hammer, tape measure, a couple of screwdrivers, all tucked into his leather belt that had pouches on each hip.
“I was just going to knock when you popped around the corner,” he said hurriedly, as embarrassed as she was. He patted his chest with exaggerated force. “Whew. About made my heart jump like an electrified frog.”
She nearly grinned in relief, but the muscles of her face were frozen. This was no Creep, after all.
Or was it? Sometimes they were clever, took their enjoyment more from the playing of the game than from the final victory. They’d played their games for years.
But she had asked the landlord two days ago if all the windows could be checked, both the sash locks and the weather stripping. Unless this Creep had tapped the phone line and knew–
No, Dr. Forrest wouldn’t like that line of thinking. I’m new and improved, remember?
Looking past the handyman, she saw an old green Jeep parked off the far edge of the road. It was parked under the trees where she wouldn’t have seen it while driving up.
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