Kill Her Again (A Thriller)

by Robert Gregory Browne

If Susan’s attorneys were successful in their bid for a new trial, they might be able to use this book as evidence of a sustained diminished capacity. Although two minutes in a room with her would pretty much prove that.

  “No, no,” Susan said. “I hid it. A long, long time ago. Right before Ben was born.”

  “Maybe I can bring it to you.”

  “Really? You’d do that?”

  “Just tell me where it is.”

  “But if I told you, it wouldn’t be a secret.”

  “You can trust me,” he said. “I won’t tell anyone.”

  Susan considered this a moment, but her thoughts seemed to wander to another time and place, and when they returned she looked from Pope to McBride, then back to Pope again, and frowned. Suspicious.

  “How do you know Jillian? I never told you about her.”

  No shit, Pope thought. There were quite a few things she’d left out. But he was losing her and needed to get her back on his side.

  “Jillian came to me,” he said. “She wants to help me. And you.” He paused, forcing himself to continue. “To bring us back together.”

  “Really?”

  He watched as Susan’s ravaged face lit up with such joy that he almost felt guilty.

  Almost.

  “The book, Susan. Where can we find the book?”

  “What book?”

  “The one about the bogeyman. The one you hid.”

  She smiled, suddenly remembering. “I showed it to Ben, you know. I wanted him to see. To understand what kinds of monsters are out there, watching us. The demons who prey on children.” She stared directly at Pope now. “That’s why I did what I did. To protect him from the monsters and the demons. You can understand that, can’t you?”

  Pope had to restrain himself from putting a fist through the glass. Unable to sit there anymore, he stood, turning away from her. He couldn’t stand the sight of her.

  And even worse, he couldn’t understand how he’d lived under the same roof as this woman and not known how truly twisted she was. He had loved her then. But what he’d loved was a fraud.

  She was the demon. And he’d failed to see that. Just like he’d failed to protect his son from her.

  “What’s wrong, Danny? Did I say something wrong?”

  He turned, his voice flat. “The book, Susan. Where can I find the book?”

  “Ahh,” she said, and nodded. “I put it in the attic.”

  “Of our house?”

  “Yes. Under a floorboard. I marked it so I wouldn’t forget where it was. Every once in a while I’d pull it out again and look at it. To remind myself of what can happen to us if we aren’t careful.”

  McBride leaned forward. “What kind of mark?”

  Susan looked at her as if this were the most idiotic question she’d ever heard. “I swear to God, Jillian, sometimes you can be such a dumbo.”

  Pope’s patience was at an end. He wanted to get the fuck out of here. “For chrissakes, Susan, just tell us.”

  He knew he’d spoken too harshly the moment the words were out of his mouth.

  She looked stung. “You don’t have to get mad.”

  “I’m not mad,” he said, softening his voice. “I’m just anxious to get the book and bring it to you. You want it, don’t you?”

  Another vigorous nod. “Yes. Very much.”

  “Then, please, just tell me how you marked your hiding spot and I’ll go straight home and get it.”

  She said nothing, as if weighing whether or not she could trust him. Then, glancing around the room to make sure no one else was watching, she pressed a finger to the glass and made a small, tight circle.

  A wheel, Pope thought.

  She’d marked it with a gypsy wheel.

  32

  THE GHOST DID not consider himself a violent man.

  To violent men, killing things is a form of therapy. A release of stress. A need to be fulfilled at regular intervals, as the pressure becomes too much to bear.

  The Ghost felt no pressure.

  He was a businessman. And because his business was violence, many of those with whom he worked believed that he enjoyed himself while carrying out that business.

  Unlike Arturo, however, who was a brute disguised as a gentleman, he found no joy in killing people. Derived no pleasure from a slit throat, or punctured kidney. Was not aroused by the smell of blood.

  Certainly, he liked what he did or he wouldn’t do it. But his emotional satisfaction came only from a job well done, a plan well executed, not the infliction of pain. Unless his specific mandate was to elicit information, he tried his best to keep his target’s discomfort to a minimum.

  It was always easier that way. Less messy.

  Unless, of course, it was meant to be messy.

  Although he had been working for Anderson Troy for several months now, The Ghost did not feel like an employee.

  This had nothing to do with Troy himself. Troy treated everyone like a slave and expected unwavering loyalty.

  But The Ghost was, as he always would be, a free agent. He had no respect for his so-called master. Considered him some thing of a punk, in fact. A spoiled brat who had no business ordering anyone around.

  But Troy had money.

  And that, in a nutshell, was what The Ghost respected. That, in a nutshell, was what all of Troy’s employees respected, save possibly Arturo, who wouldn’t take a shit without Troy’s approval and seemed to derive great satisfaction from the man’s constant abuse.

  So Troy may have been a spoiled brat, but he paid well. And because Troy paid well, The Ghost did as he was instructed and asked no questions. Even when he thought those instructions were ill-advised.

  Or downright stupid.

  He did not offer advice or counsel. He did not pretend to be a friend.

  He was a messenger. Pure and simple.

  And his message, more often than not, was death.

  THE GHOST’S FIRST assignment of the day had been a trip to a Las Vegas casino parking lot, where he had arranged a rendezvous with one of Troy’s law enforcement contacts. Two minutes into the meeting, the contact had been eliminated with a bullet to the brain.

  This was followed by a drive to the Ludlow County Sheriff’s Department to assess any possible damage done by the twin defenders. Posing as their lawyer, he was able to learn that they were currently being held for assault and possibly attempted murder, but would not be formally booked until further investigation of the matter.

  That investigation, however, was currently on hold because the department had its hands full with a multiple homicide across town. The family Pope had told them about.

  Despite this distraction—or perhaps because of it—The Ghost was granted a ten-minute private conference with the pair. And when he walked into the room, they reacted much as he suspected they would.

  With immediate, undisguised fear.

  The Ghost assured them that he meant them no harm, but had merely been dispatched to secure their guarantee that they would remain faithful to their employer. For a special bonus, of course.

  Not surprisingly, they told him they would. What they didn’t know was that they’d never have a chance to spend that bonus. But that was a project to be saved for a later date.

  There was, unfortunately, the small problem of their cell phones, each of which had been programmed with Anderson Troy’s private number. And a search of their tax records would reveal that they were security consultants for the Oasis. But none of this linked Troy directly to the incident in question, and as long as they stuck to their story, Troy was in the clear.

  That story, it was decided, would involve a private poker game between the defenders and Daniel Pope. A poker game that had resulted in a significant amount of money being owed to them by Mr. Pope. They had merely been trying to collect their debt when the hypnotist attacked them.

  Based on his conversation with the deputy who brought them in, it was The Ghost’s understanding that Pope himself had yet to make a formal stat
ement about the matter.

  This was good news.

  Because The Ghost’s third assignment of the day was to make sure he never did.

  HIS NEXT STOP was the cousin’s house. It was located in a working-class neighborhood, fairly empty this time of day. There were two cars in the drive. A gray Suburban, and to the right of it, looking like a pygmy in comparison, a red Toyota Tercel.

  Parked at the curb out front was an unmarked sedan with a small scanner antenna on top.

  This would be the cousin’s car.

  The Ghost drove past the house twice, checking the windows, but the shades had been drawn and there was no way to see inside. The presence of the cars, however, was a fairly good indication that Pope was still here and wasn’t alone.

  Feeling the need to assess the situation, The Ghost parked under some trees near a vacant lot about two blocks north of the house.

  The cousin was undoubtedly inside questioning Pope about his altercation with the twin defenders and the events that had led up to it. Pope had clearly threatened Troy over the phone, promising to spill his guts if he wasn’t left alone, so The Ghost had to assume that that was exactly what he was doing. Which meant that a single mark had now become multiple targets, the number of which depended on how many people were in that house to hear what Pope had to say.

  The Ghost would have to kill them all.

  This did not make him happy. He considered, for a moment, simply driving away and telling Troy he was on his own with this one. It was Troy’s own paranoia that had created this mess in the first place.

  Instead, he picked up his cell phone and dialed.

  A moment later, Troy’s voice was on the line. “Talk to me.” “You’ve put me in an impossible situation,” The Ghost said. “He’s not alone in the house and there’s no way to know how much he’s told or who he’s told it to.”

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “Nothing. I don’t make suggestions. You know that.”

  “So, in other words,” Troy said, “you want more money.”

  “That would be the gist of it, yes.”

  “How much?”

  The Ghost thought about it.

  “Why don’t we do it this way. Take whatever the hypnotist owes you and multiply it by five.”

  “Are you fucking nuts? That’s a lot of cash.”

  “Do you want this situation contained, or don’t you?”

  There was a long beat of silence on the line. Then Troy said, “All right. Whatever you want.”

  “Make sure it’s in my Cayman account by close of business day. I’ll be checking. And if it’s not there . . .”

  “Relax. It’ll be there. Just make sure you shut that son of a bitch up.”

  “Consider it done,” The Ghost said. And as he clicked off, he couldn’t help but smile. Troy’s constant paranoia never ceased to amuse him.

  Truth be told, Pope was not really all that much of a threat. He was a gambler and a womanizer and could easily be painted as an unstable, unreliable witness if it came down to that. And what he didn’t know about Troy’s business activities would probably fit in a small ware house.

  No one had to die over this.

  All Troy had to do was make a few adjustments, shred a few documents, rely on his “contacts” in the police department and Federal Prosecutor’s Office to grease a few wheels and make sure that Lady Justice turned a blind eye to his lawlessness. He was a rich man, and that’s what rich men do. Always have.

  But Troy was also a man who lived in fear. And The Ghost was more than happy to reap the benefits of that fear. A couple more scores like this and he’d be a rich man himself.

  He was thinking about what he might do with all that money when he noticed movement down the street.

  Grabbing his field glasses, he aimed them toward the cousin’s house. The door was open and two men and a woman were moving quickly down the walkway, Pope among them, followed shortly by a another woman carrying a small boy in her arms.

  The boy looked listless. Sick.

  What was this all about?

  They climbed into the gray Suburban, and before the tail-lights lit up The Ghost tossed the field glasses aside, uttering a curse as he started his engine.

  Moving targets are always problematic. This assignment was getting far more complicated than he’d like.

  It looked as if he was really going to have to earn his money today.

  AN HOUR AND a half later, The Ghost found himself parked, of all places, in a gas station just off the Oasis lot, his field glasses trained on the front gate of the neighboring Nevada Women’s Correctional Facility.

  He could not fathom what these people were up to. A trip to the hospital had been followed by a straight trek out here, leaving the child and the second woman behind. He would not harm a child, but the woman was a loose end he knew he’d have to take care of at the earliest possible opportunity.

  Following the Suburban, he at first thought they were headed to the Oasis to confront Troy directly, but rather than make the turn, they had continued on to the prison.

  The only reason he could figure for this stop was a visit to Pope’s wife. The child killer.

  But why?

  It made no sense.

  Unless it had nothing to do with Troy at all. Unless they were up to something that was entirely unrelated to Troy’s paranoia.

  The Ghost had to admit he was curious. But when it came down to it, none of this made a difference. It was not his job to understand these people and their motivations. His only concern was logistics.

  The assignment might have become more complicated, but it hadn’t changed.

  Troy wanted the spillage mopped up.

  The situation contained.

  And all The Ghost could do was wait for the perfect opportunity to strike.

  33

  IT WAS GROWING dark by the time they left the prison.

  Anna could tell that Pope was in no mood for conversation, so she sat quietly in the backseat of the Suburban, thinking about Susan’s words.

  And about her madness.

  As much as she understood Pope’s desire to see the woman dead or locked up here forever, Anna didn’t believe she deserved either. What she needed was help. A long, heavy dose of psychological therapy. And even that wouldn’t guarantee she’d ever be whole again.

  Anna knew it all stemmed from that moment in the alley. If Susan’s terror had been only half of what Jillian’s was—or Anna’s, for that matter—then it was more than enough to permanently damage her.

  Then again, maybe Susan wasn’t so crazy after all.

  She believed that her son had visited her, had forgiven her for her sins. But if Anna’s mother could pay a visit, why not Ben? Perhaps the dead return when we need them most. To reassure us. To guide us.

  To save us.

  If nothing else, Anna now knew that the world did not quite operate the way she once believed it did. There were entire levels of existence at play that most people never even knew about.

  So where did she draw the line when it came to deciding who was crazy and who was not? Or what was real and what was merely fantasy?

  Did ghosts inhabit our homes? Were aliens among us? Did parallel universes exist? Were there tears in the fabric of time?

  And oh, yes—

  What about the bogeyman?

  POPE’S HOUSE WAS located several miles north of the Las Vegas Strip, in an upper-middle-class neighborhood. Anna had grown up in Northern California, where most homes had wide green lawns, but the houses on Pope’s street had front yards full of rocks and cactus.

  Pope’s was also full of weeds.

  It was a two-story, Spanish-style home that stood in the middle of a cul-de-sac. There was activity in both of the neighboring houses, but Pope’s stood silent, its windows caked with a year’s worth of dust and grime.

  “Never thought I’d see this place again,” he said, as Worthington pulled to the curb out front.

  “You neve
r thought you’d be face-to-face with Susan again, either.”

  “Thanks for that, Jake. It was a treat.”

  “Don’t mention it. You think she was telling the truth?”

  “The part where she was completely off her rocker? Or the one where she was only mildly insane?”

  “About her bogeyman book.”

  Pope shrugged. “Maybe you should’ve asked me that before we drove all the way out here. We don’t even really know what we’re looking for. Could be a book full of random gibberish.”

  “So you’re saying you don’t believe her?” Anna asked.

  “Who the hell knows? Right now you wouldn’t have much trouble convincing me the Earth is flat, so I guess I’m pretty much up for anything.” He popped his door open. “But there’s only one way to find out, so let’s get this over with.”

  POPE’S KEYS WERE in a drawer in his hotel room.

  He’d seen no use for them when he fled the place, so it looked like they’d have to resort to some good old-fashioned B and E.

  They decided to go in through the back and were surprised to discover that someone had beaten them to it. The glass in the rear-door window had been shattered and the door was unlocked.

  Squatters, most likely.

  Both Jake and McBride shifted into law enforcement mode and pulled their weapons. Jake brought out a flashlight, flicked it on, then gently pushed the door open.

  “County sheriff,” he called. “Whoever’s in there, identify yourself.”

  Silence. No response.

  “We have weapons,” he said. “Identify yourself now or risk getting hurt.”

  Nothing.

  He and McBride exchanged glances, then stepped inside.

  Pope took up the rear. One thing he had learned during his encounter with the twin defenders was that he was no hero. Let the people with the guns and expertise lead the way.

  As he stepped through the doorway and took the place in, he was overcome by a sudden feeling of sadness.

  The kitchen was on the right, with its checkerboard floor and double-wide refrigerator. There was a breakfast nook in one wall, where he and Susan and Ben had spent many a morning, slurping bowls of oatmeal and talking about the day to come.