Kill Her Again (A Thriller)

by Robert Gregory Browne

  “Look at you,” she said. “When’s the last time you had a full night’s sleep and a decent meal?”

  “Don’t start,” a voice told her.

  Pope.

  “We’ve been worried about you, Danny. Especially Jake. You’re so isolated out there. And living so close to the prison—that’s just creepy.”

  “Turns out I’ve been evicted,” Pope said. “I won’t be going back anytime soon.”

  “Good. We’ve got plenty of room here.”

  “That might not be a good idea.”

  “Why?”

  “Take my word for it,” he told her.

  “Because of your friend? Invite her to stay awhile, too.”

  A small laugh. “We aren’t exactly friends. I barely know her.”

  “You wouldn’t have gone to all the trouble of bringing her here if she didn’t mean something to you. She could just as easily be lying in the back of an EMT wagon.”

  “Somebody collapses in your arms, you tend to feel responsible for them.”

  The woman smiled. “Of course it doesn’t hurt she looks like a supermodel.”

  “Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

  “Oh, please. Just tell me this isn’t another one of your conquests.”

  “You don’t think much of me, do you?”

  “What’s to think about?” the woman said. “Back in high school, you would’ve come after me if Jake hadn’t put a stop to it.”

  “Good old Jake,” Pope said. “Ruined it for everyone.”

  They laughed. And while the laughter seemed a bit forced, even melancholy, there was a warm camaraderie between them that Anna envied. She had few friends and less family and spent most of her time on the job. She’d never been close to her father. After her mother died, she’d been cared for by a succession of nannies, some good, some bad, but none of them worth remembering.

  She hadn’t known Pope for more than a couple hours, yet she knew he was a man who kept his pain private. But at least he had the option of sharing it with people who cared about him. Like this woman.

  Anna didn’t have that option.

  She did, however, know where she was now.

  Worthington’s house.

  Why they had a special room for Benjamin Pope wasn’t quite clear.

  As the woman and Pope continued to laugh, the woman’s gaze shifted slightly. “You still hungry, hon? You want another bowl of cereal?”

  “No thank you.”

  Evan. Subdued yet polite.

  “You want to go lie down again? I can put the TV on. Find some cartoons.”

  “Is Kimmie coming here?”

  The woman’s smile froze on her face as Anna’s gut tightened. They hadn’t told him yet.

  Why hadn’t they told him?

  Turning, she moved to the TV set on the dresser and quickly searched through the pile of movies. When she found the one she wanted, she stepped into the hall and a moment later was standing in the kitchen doorway.

  “Hey, kiddo, look what I found.”

  She held up a copy of The Jungle Book.

  Three pairs of surprised eyes turned to her. Evan, who sat at a small dining table next to Pope, flew across the room, wrapping his arms around her waist—a move that both startled and pleased Anna.

  She tousled his hair. “Easy, hon, I’m a little banged up.”

  “Did you find Kimmie?”

  “We’re gonna have to talk about that. But why don’t we give good old Mowgli a spin first?”

  Evan nodded. “Okay. Will you watch with me?”

  Anna exchanged looks with Pope and the woman, who she could only assume was Worthington’s wife. She gave Evan a squeeze.

  “I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” she said.

  MOST PEOPLE IN law enforcement would agree that the best way to break bad news to a family member is to simply come out and say it. But it’s never easy. Never tidy. And reactions may vary, but they’re never good.

  Evan’s was no exception.

  They were sitting in the Worthingtons’ living room, halfway through the movie, Evan’s interest in Mowgli and the bare necessities waning, when she finally told him.

  “Kimmie won’t be coming home,” she said.

  Evan looked up at her. “Why not?”

  “She’s with your mommy.” Red Cap’s words tumbled through her head. “She’s with the angels now.”

  “No,” Evan said. “I want her back. They have to come back.”

  But he knew that wouldn’t happen and he burst into tears, throwing himself against Anna, pressing his head into her chest. And she did her best to comfort him for the second time in the last several hours, murmuring softly that he’d be okay, that everything would be okay.

  But it wouldn’t be.

  All these years later, Anna still lived with her pain. And while the worst of it had passed, a dull, persistent ache continued to plague her and she knew it always would.

  She supposed the fact that Evan’s father was still in the picture was some small consolation for the boy, but she didn’t imagine Mr. Rock and Roll’s involvement in his life would ever amount to much.

  Something she could relate to.

  They were orphans. Both of them. And as she glanced at Pope, who sat in an armchair across from her, she saw the face of yet another orphan.

  What a sorry bunch they were.

  What a sorry bunch indeed.

  21

  “I’LL SHARE MY secrets, if you share yours,” Pope said.

  Evan was asleep again, curled up next to Anna on the sofa. Worthington’s wife—Ronnie—had run to the market despite Pope’s insistence that they wouldn’t be staying.

  It may have been Anna’s imagination, or simple intuition, but Pope seemed uneasy. The way he kept glancing out the front window, she wondered what kind of trouble he’d gotten himself into back at the Oasis.

  “Secrets, huh?”

  “Share and share alike,” Pope said.

  “Then you won’t mind telling me who you’re running from.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Am I that obvious?”

  Anna shrugged. “To trained eyes, I suppose.”

  “Then let’s just say I got on the wrong side of a wannabe bad boy with some very nasty friends.”

  “Let me guess,” Anna said. “Gambling debts?”

  “Among other things. But the cops are already on to him and I made a promise that I wouldn’t talk to anyone about it. Especially the FBI.”

  “If it means anything to you, I’m about to be retired.”

  “A promise is a promise,” Pope said.

  “Just tell me this: Are you expecting one of those friends to show up here?”

  “That would be pretty stupid of them, but the sooner I get out of here, the better I’ll feel.”

  “So what’s stopping you?”

  Pope hesitated. “Evan, for one. He’s just lost everyone he has and I don’t want him to feel abandoned.” He paused. “Besides, it’s not every day you stumble across a psychic kid.”

  “You’re still on that kick?”

  Pope looked at her. “I don’t think you’re as skeptical as you pretend to be. The way you reacted to the news, I’ve got a feeling there’s a whole lot going on inside that brain that you’d just as soon not talk about. So maybe I’m not the only one who’s on the run.”

  Touché, Anna thought. And it struck her that perhaps Pope wasn’t just some peripheral player in this drama. That he was as much a part of this thing—this cosmic plan—as she was.

  But to what end?

  “Do you believe in fate?” she asked.

  Pope took a moment to answer. “I guess certain things happen for a reason, but I also think we make our own fate. The universe gives us guidelines, and it’s up to us to either follow them or discard them.”

  “You’ve thought about this.”

  “When your wife poisons your kid, then fries him in the family car, you tend to think about a lot of things.”

  H
is bluntness caught her off-guard. “Your son’s name was Benjamin, right?”

  Pope nodded.

  “And that room you put me in. That was his?”

  Another nod. “Thanks to Susan, Ben spent a lot of his time in and out of hospitals. First in Vegas, then here in Ludlow. Jake and Ronnie wanted him to have a place to stay where he felt comfortable.”

  “That’s very generous of them.”

  “They’re generous people,” Pope said. “But enough about that. It’s your turn now.”

  “For what?”

  “We’re sharing secrets, remember?”

  Anna felt the internal wall go up, about to tell him that she hadn’t agreed to anything.

  Why was she so reluctant to talk about what was happening to her? Was she afraid he’d laugh? Call the loon patrol? Or was it simply a matter of conditioning? Maybe she’d spent too many years alone inside her own head, never sharing more than superficial thoughts and feelings, even with the handful of men who had flitted in and out of her life.

  Pope was staring at her now, waiting. She’d never seen eyes so . . . unnerving. A gaze that was trying to reach beneath the surface.

  But there was something about him. Something familiar. And maybe it would be in her best interest to trust him.

  “Be careful what you ask for,” she said.

  “I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t want to know.”

  Feeling as if she were about to paddle straight for the rapids on an increasingly dangerous river, Anna took a deep breath and said, “I don’t think Evan is the only one who’s psychic.”

  POPE LISTENED INTENTLY as McBride laid it all out for him, everything she’d been going through these last few weeks. It came out of her in a rush, as if she were purging the data banks, her voice trembling sometimes, just as her hands had.

  She spoke of strange visions, and a little girl in danger, and tattoos, and doubts about her sanity, and the growing belief that fate had brought her here to Ludlow, that what she was seeing in her mind, what she had experienced out on that football field, could well be a preview of things to come.

  Pope tried to listen without judgment, the rational part of his brain wanting to dismiss it all, but he knew that this stuff was real. What he’d seen happen to Evan was neither illusion nor coincidence.

  And maybe McBride was right. Maybe fate did have a hand in this. Maybe the universe was working in its own mysterious way to bring them all together. McBride, Pope, Evan, Jake, and—yes—the man in the red hat.

  When she finished, McBride looked both embarrassed and anxious. “I don’t suppose you believe a word I’ve just said.”

  “Am I that hard to read?”

  She paused, uncertainty in her eyes. “Then you do believe me?”

  “What can I say? I’m a big fan of The Twilight Zone.” He smiled. “The truth is, I’ve always straddled the fence when it comes to this kind of stuff, but fifteen minutes in the car with Evan was enough to convince me there’s something to it.”

  “Then maybe I’m not crazy.”

  “Either that or we both are. But I’m willing to gamble. So tell me about the girl.”

  “That’s the thing,” McBride said. “There’s not much to tell. Until this morning, all I got were glimpses of her, and those always faded away so quickly I sometimes had to wonder if I’d seen them at all.”

  “But this morning was different.”

  She nodded. “It was like I was there, this time. Inside her head. I was the girl.”

  “And you didn’t feel that way before?”

  “No,” she said, then paused. “I mean, I don’t think so. I’ve never really remembered enough to know. Just enough to turn me into a flaming fruitcake.”

  A sudden thought came to Pope. He looked at her scar, gestured to it. “How long ago did that happen?”

  McBride touched the side of her face. “Why?”

  “Indulge me.”

  He could see that he’d provoked a memory she’d just as soon not dwell on. “A little over a month ago.”

  “How?”

  “Is this really necessary?”

  “I won’t know until you tell me,” Pope said.

  McBride sighed, then took a moment to gather her thoughts. “I was attacked. My partner and I were working undercover in conjunction with the DEA, posing as buyers, in contact with a local narcotics distributor who was said to have ties with a cartel out of Hong Kong.”

  “This was in Victorville?”

  She shook her head. “Up in San Francisco. We spent months developing those contacts, and I stupidly came to trust someone I shouldn’t have.”

  “The story of my life,” Pope said.

  “I was the lead agent on the case and was pretty full of myself, thought I could do no wrong. But when the bust came down, the person I’d trusted turned on me, and I didn’t pull the trigger when I should have.”

  “You considered him a friend.”

  “Whatever that means,” she said. There was a bitter tinge to the words. “But that’s no excuse. Thanks to me, the perps escaped, my partner wound up with a bullet lodged in his spine, and I got a three-day stint in the hospital.” She gestured to her face. “And this.”

  “I’m sorry,” Pope said.

  “So am I. I fucked up and people got hurt.”

  Pope shrugged. “You’re human. You made a mistake. Show me someone who hasn’t.”

  McBride looked at him, smiled. It was a weak one, but it looked good on her. “You sound like a man who might be ready to move on.”

  The notion surprised Pope, but maybe she was right. Could it be that all he really needed was a purpose?

  “Let’s get back to you,” he said. “Besides the cut, how badly were you hurt?”

  “A few bruises, and a pretty nasty concussion.”

  “Were you out for any length of time?”

  She nodded. “Several hours.” “And these visions. When did they start? Before or after the incident?”

  “After. One of them woke me up in the hospital.”

  Pope thought about this. “I’m no expert,” he said, “but I’ve heard that sometimes when people are victims of severe head trauma, certain doors can be opened.”

  “Doors?”

  “Doors that normally stay closed.”

  “You think the concussion somehow linked me psychically to this little girl?”

  “Based on what you’ve told me, the link may have been there already. All the concussion did was trigger the memories.”

  McBride frowned. “Memories?”

  “You aren’t psychic,” Pope said. “What you’re seeing is not something that’s about to happen. It’s something that already has.”

  The frown deepened. “What exactly are you telling me?”

  “That the little girl in your visions is you.”

  22

  TO POPE’S SURPRISE, the idea angered McBride.

  “Are you saying that what I’ve been experiencing is some sort of repressed memory?”

  “More or less,” he told her.

  “That’s absurd.”

  “This whole subject is absurd, but we both know that something’s going on here that defies rational thinking.”

  “Then why do you seem to be looking for a rational explanation? I think I would’ve remembered if some fruitcake had kidnapped me. And not in bits and pieces.”

  Pope held his hands up. “Before you go getting a snake up your butt, calm down a minute and let me finish.”

  “If this is the kind of bullshit you’re shoveling, I’m not sure I want you to.”

  Pope shook his head. “You haven’t even heard the bullshit yet.”

  “Meaning?”

  Pope sighed. This topic was fine for late-night poker games with psychopathic computer nerds, but this woman was truly hurting. She needed an explanation for what was happening to her, and the one he was about to provide would undoubtedly provoke more questions than it answered.

  But he plowed ahead anyway. “Have
you ever heard of something called PLR?”

  She thought about it a moment. “Not that I remember. But maybe I’ve been blocking that out, too.”

  He ignored the sarcasm. “PLR stands for Past Life Regression. It’s a form of hypnotherapy that explores memories of our previous lives.”

  She flinched slightly, as if she’d just been pinched. “Reincarnation? That’s what you’re selling?”

  “Look,” he said. “I know how it sounds.”

  “I’m not sure you do.”

  “A couple minutes ago you were asking me about fate and telling me you think you might be psychic. Is the idea that our souls have been around for a few thousand years really that much of a stretch?”

  She took another moment to think about that, allowing herself to calm down. Then she said, “Maybe you have a point. But like I told you, I’m not a falafel and whole grains kind of girl.”

  “This isn’t restricted to New Age wack jobs,” Pope said. “Eastern religions teach it. I have colleagues who believe in reincarnation as fervently as some people believe Christ rose from the dead. There are highly educated psychiatrists who think past-life trauma may have a direct causal relationship to nightmares and anxiety attacks.”

  “None of which tells me what you think.”

  Pope saw no reason to lie to her. “I’ve done a bit of past-life therapy in my time, but nothing that really swayed me one way or another.”

  “So why push it now?”

  “Because, based on what you’ve told me, it seems to fit. What you’ve described sounds more like memories than psychic visions.”

  McBride shook her head. “There’s a flaw in your theory.”

  “What?”

  “If I’m tuning in on memories from some past life, how could the perp be the same guy? One creep in a red baseball cap is bad enough. But two? I don’t think so.”

  “How old are you?” Pope asked.

  The question threw her. “Twenty-eight. Why?”

  “Twenty-eight years isn’t all that long. Maybe you were born the moment that little girl died.”

  McBride seemed stunned by this possibility, but remained unconvinced. “So this guy kills me once, then tries again nearly three decades later?”