“ ‘When asked if Havershaw had ever described this man, her friend said, “Not really. Just that he looked like some kind of circus freak.” ’ ”
McBride lowered the page and stared at them.
“What’s the date on that thing?” Jake asked.
“September third, 1971.”
“This guy’s defying all the stats. Most serial killers usually get their jollies, then retire after a while. What does this put him at? Forty-something years?”
“Maybe longer than that,” Pope said. His gaze was on another photocopy in the stack, its protruding corner showing a handwritten year in the margin: 1954. He recognized Susan’s handwriting.
Reaching across the table, he pulled it free, and stared down at a two-paragraph article titled “Police Baffled by Bizarre Ritual Killing.”
“ ‘Dayton, Ohio,’ ” he read aloud. “ ‘Police continue to be baffled by the bizarre stabbing death of thirty-year-old housewife Anita Dallworthy, who was found on her living room floor in what officials have determined to be a ritual killing. Her assailant or assailants used Dallworthy’s blood to create a circular symbol on the carpet. Sources wouldn’t confirm, but it’s believed that one of the victim’s body parts was incorporated into the symbol’s design.
“ ‘Police are currently looking for what witnesses have described as a severely deformed man of possible foreign descent, who was seen lurking near the Dallworthy home just days before the incident. Their search, however, has so far proven fruitless.’ ”
Pope looked up at them. “It’s dated January fourteenth, 1954.”
“This is impossible. It can’t be the same guy.”
“Can’t it?” Anna said. “Take a look at these.”
She was holding a stack of photographs she’d taken from a small manila envelope clipped inside the notebook. As she laid them on the table, Pope immediately recognized them as crime scene photos—several shots of the victims in question.
Each one of them showed a savagely gutted victim lying next to a bloody gypsy wheel, a severed finger in place of one of the spokes. Pope was reminded of the photos of satanic ritual killings he’d once seen when he took a class in cultural anthropology.
They all studied the photographs silently; then Jake said, “How did Susan get hold of these?”
“I’m sure it took her years and a lot of determination,” McBride said. “She didn’t stop until she got what she wanted.”
Pope tapped one of the photos. “Take a look at the date on this one.”
It was a high-angle shot of a young woman lying in the middle of an alley, her intestines exposed by lateral slashes across her stomach, another bloody gypsy wheel beside her on the asphalt—complete with severed finger. The legend in the bottom corner was written in a foreign language. Russian, maybe. Pope couldn’t be sure.
Slavonian?
Whatever the case, it meant the killings weren’t limited to the U.S.
“1924,” McBride said. “Thirty years before Dallworthy. And the M.O.’s the same.”
Jake shook his head. “This is bullshit. We’re talking over eighty years ago. He’d have to’ve started this when he was a kid, and the guy I shot was no goddamn senior citizen.”
“The evidence doesn’t lie, Jake.”
“But what about Kimberly Fairweather? She still had all her fingers, and I didn’t see any friggin’ gypsy wheels near her body.”
“She was a mistake,” McBride said.
“A mistake?”
“That’s what he told me before he grabbed me on the football field. He said he’d made a lot of mistakes.”
“Which means that these could be just the tip of the iceberg,” Pope said. “There could be a lot more Kimberlys out there.”
“Exactly. It’s like he’s searching for someone special, but he doesn’t always find her.”
Jake heaved an exasperated sigh. “You people aren’t listening to me. This is not possible.”
“No, you’re the one who’s not listening,” McBride said. “Danny’s right. We’ve seen enough craziness the last few hours to throw possible right out the window.” She paused. “Check out the pattern in these photographs.”
“What pattern?”
McBride pointed to each of the crime photos. “Look at the wheels. They’re all incomplete, just like the tattoo on the back of his neck. 1924, it has twelve spokes, if you include the victim’s finger. 1954, thirteen spokes. 1971, fourteen. And 1981, fifteen. Each one is a progression. Like he’s working his way toward completing the wheel.”
Pope stared at the photos, stunned. He’d been too busy looking at the carnage to see the pattern. But there it was, as plain as can be.
But then another pattern began to take form in his mind. One that sent a chill rippling through his body.
“Look at the dates of each of these killings,” he said.
“What about them?”
“We already know Jillian died in 1981, the same year Anna was born.”
Jake frowned. “So?”
“Check the others. Jillian was ten years old when he took her. Which means she was born in ’71, the same year the high school girl, Mary Havershaw, was murdered. Probably the same day.”
“Oh, my god,” McBride said. “You’re right.”
“Havershaw was seventeen, and seventeen years earlier, Anita Dallworthy was killed.”
“And Dallworthy was thirty. That puts her birth year at 1924, when the woman in the alley was found.”
“Which means what?” Jake asked.
“It’s hard to tell from these photos,” Pope told him, “but remember what Susan said when she saw Anna?”
“She thought she was Jillian.”
“Right. Because of her eyes. She said, ‘All of his victims had your eyes.’ I thought she was just babbling at that point, but maybe she was trying to tell us something.”
“Wait a minute,” Jake said. “You aren’t saying what I think you’re saying?”
“I’m afraid so. Every single one of these victims is Anna. One of Anna’s past lives.”
The booth was suddenly quiet, McBride’s gaze glued to the crime scene photos, her face filled with alarm.
“I don’t know how or why he’s doing it,” Pope said to her, “but that someone special he keeps looking for is you. And he’s been killing you over and over again.”
McBride kept staring at the photographs, as the depth and magnitude of this pronouncement hit her full force.
And Pope wasn’t sure if it was shock or the exhaustion that got to her, but for the second time that day, she fainted dead away.
PART THREE
Wheel of Misfortune
38
SHE DREAMT OF wheels with spokes made of severed fingers.
Thousands of them superimposed on one another, turning like the gears of a clock.
And at the center of it all was the face of young girl. The gypsy girl from the locket. Her dark eyes shining in the light of a campfire.
“Who are you?” Anna asked.
“You don’t remember me?”
“No. Should I?”
“Give it time,” the girl said. “It will come.”
ANOTHER STRANGE BED.
There were no stars on the ceiling this time, just a narrow slice of moonlight that came in from a nearby window, exposing a faint crack in the plaster.
Anna pulled herself upright, bedsprings groaning, and realized she was in a motel room. And not a particularly nice one at that.
“You’re awake,” a drowsy voice said.
She turned and saw Pope sitting in a chair by the door, her Glock in hand, as if he’d been standing guard. On the floor next to him was a flashlight and Susan’s notebook.
“How long have I been out?” she asked.
“Not long enough. I think we both need about a year’s worth of sleep.”
“Did you get any?”
He shrugged. “I may have dozed a bit.”
She looked around the room. “Why are
we here?”
“When you passed out on us, I didn’t want to take you back to Jake’s house. Not with all this Troy business still hanging over me. This place was about a block from the coffee shop, so . . .” He gestured, as if to say, Here we are.
“And Jake?”
“He wanted to get that stun gun to the lab. He still thinks we can find this guy with traditional police work.”
“And you don’t?”
Pope looked at her as if he thought this was an unnecessary question. “I’m beginning to think Susan’s right. He really is the bogeyman.”
Anna felt a knuckle of fear in her stomach. “He’s coming back for me, isn’t he?”
“Unless he bleeds to death first—and I don’t think that’s gonna happen. I think the best we can hope for is that he’s been slowed down a little.”
“But why me? What does he want?”
“I think that’s pretty obvious, don’t you?”
Anna thought about it, then nodded, remembering what Red Cap had said to Jillian.
I’ve come for what is mine, Chavi.
I’ve come to make it right.
“He wants my soul.”
“That would be my guess.”
“But if he killed me all those times before, what stopped him? Why hasn’t he gotten it already?”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to figure out.”
Anna swung her legs around and sat on the edge of the bed. It took some effort. She couldn’t remember her body ever feeling this battered. Even after her screwup in San Francisco.
Gesturing to the notebook on the floor, she said, “You’ve been busy.”
Pope nodded. “Trying to decipher Susan’s writings. But it’s all encrypted, and I’ve never been very good at puzzles.”
Anna stood up. “Let me take a look.”
Pope held a hand up to stop her. “You still need rest. We’ll tackle this in the morning.”
She didn’t listen to him. Crossing to where he sat, she bent down and started to reach for the notebook, but he caught her by the wrist.
“In the morning,” he said. “We need clear heads and rested bodies.”
He set the gun on the floor and stood up, pulling her upright. They stood there for a moment, staring at each other, and Anna felt that same stutter of electricity she’d felt in the Worthington living room, when he put his fingers on her arm. And later, when he kissed her in the attic.
She nodded to the Glock. “You’ve been watching over me. Protecting me.”
“Trying to learn from my own mistakes,” he said. “Our gypsy friend doesn’t have an exclusive in that area.”
She thought about that. “Does it really matter? You say we have choices, can control our world, but maybe there is no controlling it. No changing what’s happened, or what will happen.”
“I don’t believe that,” he said. “And right at this moment I feel more in control than I’ve felt in a long, long time.”
He proved it by kissing her, deeply, moving his hands to the small of her back, pulling her close. Anna forgot all about her battered body and leaned into him, crushing her breasts against his chest, moving her arms around him. And it all seemed so familiar to her. So right.
She turned her head, pressing her cheek against his, whispering in his ear.
“Why do I feel like I know you? That I’ve known you forever?”
“Maybe you have,” he said softly.
SHE AWOKE WITH a start.
She’d been dreaming again, but something—some noise—had pulled her out of it.
Fumbling for her Glock, which Pope had left under the pillow, she sat bolt upright and looked around, willing her eyes to adjust.
But she saw nothing. No threat.
The room was quiet, except for the sound of Pope’s breathing as he slept beside her.
The clock on the nightstand read 4:00 a.m.
She was about to settle back when she heard the noise again.
A small cry.
The cry of a kitten.
Climbing out of bed, she moved to the window, parted the curtains, and looked out. A small, malnourished gray tabby stood on the walkway outside, tearing at a discarded burger wrapper.
Another orphan, she thought.
Worthington’s wall full of cats came to mind and she smiled. Nothing to get excited about here, folks. Everybody’s safe.
For the moment at least.
But then she remembered the photographs. All those poor, butchered women, who had shared her soul. A soul that this monster seemed to want.
But why hers? Why had she been singled out? And why was he killing her again and again and again?
Would it ever end?
If he were to kill her on the spot, to gut her right where she stood, would she move on to yet another life, only to be hunted down and killed again?
Chavi, he’d called her.
Chavi.
Who was this girl? What did she mean to him?
Was she the young gypsy from the locket? Had it all started with her? Another past life that had been snuffed out by this freak?
Anna turned from the window, feeling helpless and alone. She looked across at the gentle rise and fall of Pope’s chest and thought about his kisses, his touch, the way their bodies had fit together so naturally as they made love.
He wanted to help her. Protect her. But for all of his good intentions, what could he really do?
Would he be there in the next life? And the next?
Had he been there before?
A husband? A lover? A friend?
If so, he hadn’t been able to protect her then. So what made this life any different? How could he protect her now?
Perhaps the only glimmer of hope in this mess was Red Cap’s ability to bleed. To feel pain. If he could be slowed down by a bullet, maybe he could be stopped by one, too.
The trick, of course, was finding him before he found her again. But his apparent ability to appear and vanish at will would make that a difficult task.
An impossible one.
But then she shouldn’t be thinking about possible, right? Isn’t that what she’d told Worthington?
Maybe Susan had the answer to all of this. Maybe somewhere in that notebook of hers, that private obsession, she had discovered the truth about what drove this man.
And maybe that truth would help Anna.
Before he killed her again.
CRACKING SUSAN’S CODE took about three minutes.
The actual translation, however, took nearly an hour and a half.
Anna discovered that Susan had used a primitive form of cryptography called a Caesar cypher, which substituted one letter of the alphabet for another. If an A equaled a D, then a D would equal a G, and so forth down the line. The name Anna McBride, for example, would read: Dqqd PfEulgh.
Why Susan had felt the need to encrypt her writing was a mystery all its own. Most of it had little to do with the so-called bogeyman, but was, instead, a tribute to her friendship with Jillian. A chronicle of how they’d met and time they’d spent together.
Their neighborhood adventures. Their days at school. Their favorite teachers. Friends. Enemies. Crushes.
Through it all, however, Anna sensed an undercurrent of both envy and worship in Susan’s words. Jillian was the pretty one, the popular one. Susan, the hanger-on. Yet despite that trace of envy, there was no malice intended. It was clear to Anna that Susan loved her friend.
And as she read, Anna was surprised to find that she remembered some of the events and people Susan wrote about. Only vague glimpses here and there, but enough to fill her with a profound sense of loss.
Jillian had been taken away so young.
What would have happened if she had lived? What kind of life would she have had?
When Anna reached the passages chronicling those terrible moments in the alley and the discovery of Jillian’s body in Foster Park, she had trouble breathing.
Susan’s pain was so raw that all Anna could thin
k about was how this one incident had led to so much heartache. A trail of devastation that could be traced forward to this very moment in time.
She looked across at Pope, still fast asleep. How different would his life be, if Susan had never suffered such a blow? Would they still be happily married, raising a beautiful son?
As she continued to read, Anna noticed a change of tone in the narrative. A darkness that had settled into Susan’s words. This was where the passages became less coherent. A rambling screed against Red Cap. Part rant, part analysis, with detailed, but often confusing, commentary on the newspaper clippings and photographs.
She wrote of the failed police investigation. When the Rambler was found abandoned in the parking lot of Big Mountain—the same place from which it had been stolen—the police expanded their investigation to Allenwood, questioning neighbors near the amusement park. But none of them had seen the man young Suzie had described.
He was a phantom. A mystery.
But the police’s failure to find this mystery man didn’t stop Susan. As the years went by, and Susan got older, she spent hours in libraries, sitting behind microfiche machines, searching through decades-old newspaper articles, always looking for the same thing. Always hunting for that symbol of Red Cap’s broken soul:
The gypsy wheel.
From what Anna could decipher, Susan’s take on all of the material she’d gathered was much the same as hers and Pope’s and Worthington’s. The past lives, the chain of killings—all linked by that simple, circular symbol . . .
But then the notebook abruptly ended.
No further conclusions, no new observations, nothing.
A dead end.
Disappointed, Anna looked across at Pope again and thought she knew the reason. This had to have been the moment that Pope had entered Susan’s life. The moment she became the center of attention, the focus of his world.
And for many years, she had managed to fake it, to repress her pain and play the loving, devoted wife. When her son was born, their household was undoubtedly filled with joy—
—until Ben started to overshadow Susan, getting most of his father’s attention. Then old insecurities had surfaced, and coupled with the damage Jillian’s death had done to her, Susan’s illness could no longer be contained, morphing into something different now. Something deadly.
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