Silent Slaughter

by C. E. Lawrence

  Kylie attended Stockton Elementary, the same public school Lee and Laura had gone to at her age. It was on the little town’s Main Street, just down from the Stockton Inn. The classes were tiny—only ten or so students per grade—and the L-shaped nineteenth-century stone and clapboard building was more than big enough to house grades K through six.

  The entire school participated in the annual Christmas concert, and it looked as though half the town had turned up to attend. People bundled in winter coats and mittens flowed through the gate to the school’s side yard, their breath coming in thick white shafts of steam. A winter storm watch was on for all of Hunterdon County, and a few flakes fluttered from the sky as they lined up to go inside. Lee looked at his mother, hatless as usual—she liked to flaunt her hardy Scottish constitution—but he noticed she had wrapped her tartan scarf tightly around her neck. He recognized the red and gray pattern of the Clan Campbell. Lee found it odd that she still sported the clan colors of the man who had betrayed and deserted her. Stan stood stalwartly at her side, one hand resting lightly on her elbow in a proprietary way. Lee was a little surprised she put up with it. But Fiona was nothing if not surprising.

  As he followed the crowd of people up the steps to the tiny auditorium in the rear of the building, Lee inhaled the familiar musty smell of damp wood and flagstone. His and Laura’s days at Stockton Elementary had been happy ones. Their parents were still together, their family unit intact, cozy and secure. The future had stretched out before them, promising and lazy as the waters of the Delaware that flowed under the narrow bridge to Pennsylvania.

  But that had all changed the night their father left, never to return, and their family shrank from four to three. That got Lee to thinking about the Alleyway Strangler and his family. What was the arithmatic of his family, and what had it done to him? Had killing become a kind of mathematical puzzle for him? One is the loneliest number. One missing digit. But why? And even if he knew why, would it help him find the Strangler?

  “Excuse me.” A middle-aged woman in a red wool coat and matching hat glared at him, and he realized he had stepped on her toes.

  “Sorry,” he mumbled, taking a step backward. That caused him to bump into Stan, who gave him a playful nudge.

  “Quite a crowd tonight, huh?”

  “Yeah,” Lee said, preoccupied with why someone would remove just one finger from a victim. What was the significance of that? And what was the meaning of the elaborate pattern he had punctured into her torso? Or was the killer just toying with them all? The whole thing could be an elaborate red herring to throw them off.

  They all managed to shuffle into the auditorium at last, and the concert got under way fifteen minutes late. It was clear the school hadn’t anticipated such a large turnout. But cultural events in the area were thin compared to New York, and everyone looked pleased to be there.

  The program was a mix of Christmas carols and Hanukah songs, as well as a few more challenging pieces, including selections from Benjamin Britten’s A Ceremony of Carols. Kylie sang with the altos, who acquitted themselves with honor in the difficult “As Dewe in Aprille.” Looking at her eager, shiny face, Lee tried to imagine the dark thoughts and feelings his niece must be grappling with. But he knew from his own struggle with depression that it could come and go. One minute the sun was shining, and the next you were submerged in a flood of anxiety and darkness. He hoped he would be able to help her, though he realized each person’s experience was different.

  Fiona sat stiff and upright in her chair, as always, her clear blue eyes focused on the stage, a proud little smile working the corners of her mouth. He knew she loved her granddaughter, but he could see why Kylie might feel uncomfortable talking with her about deep and troubling feelings. He only hoped his niece would be able to talk to him.

  After the concert they joined the surge of bodies headed backstage. Families crowded around their happy and excited children—the younger ones hopped and squirmed and dashed in and out of the clusters of people, until they were stopped by teachers or parents and given the age-old caution of “No running!”

  Looking at the happy faces around him, Lee was saddened to think of the Adlers sitting primly in their immaculate Westchester living room, no daughter to share the holidays with ever again. They might not be the most appealing people he had ever met, but their tragedy could not be denied.

  Kylie was standing with a group of friends, and when she saw him, the expression that crossed her face took his breath away. It was a mixture of relief, regret, apprehension and joy. He held his distance and waved, but she ran over to him and flung herself into his arms. She was tall for her age and solidly built. He staggered backward, then lifted her in a bear hug.

  “Uncle Lee, thank you so much for coming!”

  He hugged her back, inhaling the honeysuckle scent of her yellow hair. Laura’s hair had smelled exactly the same. Kylie looked more like her mother every day, he thought—the same firm chin, thin nose and deep-set blue eyes.

  “You were great. I’m so proud of you.”

  She looked over her shoulder, then whispered to him. “Our choir director says I’m the anchor of the third-grade altos.”

  “Good for you! You have to have a really good ear to sing alto.”

  “Fiona says I got it from you.”

  He laughed. Musicality was not among Fiona’s many talents—this ability seemed to have come from Duncan Campbell. Lee could still remember his clear tenor ringing out over the others in the church choir in their little Presbyterian church. He hated all the good memories of his father—they just confused him and made him angrier.

  “Your grandmother has a theory for everything,” he said.

  Kylie shot him a quizzical look, then wrested herself from his arms and ran back to rejoin her friends.

  It was a happy, buzzing crowd that exited the little school yard that night—children safe in the embrace of their families, looking forward to the delights of the coming holidays. Gingerbread and Christmas cookies, the piney smell of decorated trees, presents and stockings and houses full of visitors. Lee stepped with them into the frosty air and watched the thick, fat snowflakes falling faster and faster from the sky. A thin sheet of white already covered the ground under their feet.

  Here everything felt peaceful and secure, but somewhere ninety miles to the east, a predator was likely planning his next move.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  As predicted, the winter storm blew in from the west throughout the night. The weatherman had estimated twelve to twenty-four inches overnight, and by ten o’clock the snow was coming thick and fast, with three inches already on the ground. Lying in bed shortly before midnight, Lee heard the rattle of snowplows heaving up and down the street, their metal blades clanking harshly on the pockmarked pavement.

  The snow murmured as it fluttered from the sky. Thick, wet flakes clung to the windowpanes, enclosing the inhabitants of the house. The wind whipped and whistled in the eaves, rustling and nestling against the stone walls, tapping at the windows and whining like a dog wanting to come in. It was hard to resist the pull of sleep, but he managed to stay awake, listening to the storm. He did some of his best thinking late at night.

  He thought about the notes the Alleyway Strangler had written. Some of the hints about his identity could be false—but which ones? The man could be playing with them, leaving red herrings along with real clues. Of course, it was possible that every clue contained in the letters was false, but Lee didn’t think so. This UNSUB was too arrogant for that. He was enjoying the challenge of tossing out real clues about his identity—and he was also a sadist, toying with them intellectually.

  A fierce gust of wind rattled the nearly three-hundred-year-old shutters. Lee sat up in bed and switched on the light in the antique sconce next to the headboard. Outside, the snow clung to the windowpanes like cold white hands, the pattern of flakes resembling long, thin fingers clutching at the glass. One little piggy went to market . . . He remembered his fa
ther reciting that nursery rhyme to him as he wiggled Lee’s toes one by one, starting with the big toe and working down to the little toe. One little piggy stayed home . . . If only his father had stayed home, instead of walking out of the house on a night very much like this one. What kind of man does that to his family? He felt the anger rising up his neck like steam in a pipe.

  What kind of monster did this UNSUB have for a father? Surely worse than Duncan Campbell—who, though far from ideal, had graced them with his glamorous presence for a time. His love might have been somewhat distant, but at least it was there—for a while. But this killer . . . he was made, not born, Lee thought. He didn’t believe the Bad Seed theory of criminal psychology. He’d read of a few well-documented cases of brain damage or genetic mutation being responsible for criminal pathologies, but for every one of those there were thousands of cases of abusive and neglectful parents spawning killers. Psychopaths were more often than not the sad result of hopelessly dysfunctional families and brutal environments—and those, coupled with certain physical or mental vulnerabilities, could produce a perfect storm of psychopathology.

  He felt a draft of air on his left cheek and turned to see a few flakes slipping through a space between the two ancient windows where the wood had warped and left a small gap. The wind had shifted, and a thin stream of air whooshed through the opening. He pulled the covers up higher and made a mental note to mention it to Stan in the morning. Stan liked to keep everything shipshape, perhaps hoping Fiona would learn to love him for his skill as a handyman and gardener.

  But that’s not how it worked. It was sad, really—Stan Paloggia was so worthy. If only people could fall in love with worthy mates, he thought, the world would be a better place. But love wasn’t necessarily given to the deserving or the wise. Lee suspected if she had it to do all over again, Fiona would have still chosen the dashing, edgy Duncan Campbell, with his brooding black eyes, restless intellect and fine tenor voice.

  The sound of his mother’s snoring rose from the room below. She had always been a sound sleeper. Even during a crisis, she could sleep through the night. But Lee had always been a finicky, light sleeper—a trait inherited from his despised father. He hoped Duncan Campbell was dead, because if he was alive and Lee chanced to meet him, the first thing he would do was take a swing at him. And he feared it wouldn’t stop there. It was odd that he chased murderers, with his murderous thoughts toward his own father.

  Or, as Dr. Williams would say, maybe that’s exactly why he hunted killers. She was right, of course, but it was still irritating. He made a mental note to call her— it had been a few weeks since their last appointment. It was exasperating, the relentless logic of the unconscious mind. He sometimes wished he were a cocktail pianist playing in some smoky dive in Jersey City, instead of a forensic psychologist. Even that would be about his father on some level, though—Duncan Campbell had taught both his children to play.

  As the snow danced and fluttered outside his window, he finally fell into a restless sleep populated by unquiet dreams of young women fleeing from an unknown assailant. He awoke around three in the morning with the impression that the faceless pursuer was his father, his dark eyes full of malice. He pulled the covers up to his chin and waited for the pale, reassuring light of dawn.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  “No, please—please,” she begged, her eyes wide with terror.

  Edmund smiled and inhaled the musky scent of fear. They all had it, and it intoxicated him. He shook his whole body, as a dog might shake water from its coat, as the sweet sensation trickled through his veins, his nerve endings tingling with pleasure.

  “Are you frightened of me?” he whispered, bending lower over his captive, until his torso formed a right angle with the wall.

  “Yes, yes—I’m frightened,” the girl replied, her eyes scanning his face to see if that was the correct response.

  But there was no correct response. No magic words to undo the spell, no incantations to save her from him. He liked them to think there was, of course, but there wasn’t. He enjoyed the begging, leaving the door to freedom open just a slit so they could see the light through it—just enough to keep alive that tiny spark of hope that they might escape, that he might have mercy on them and not kill them after all. If they just did what he wanted, said what he required, it could all be all right.

  Except that it couldn’t. No one he took would ever get away. The last thing they would see would be his face—his scarred, hideous face. Hope was his to give and his to take away, just as their lives were his to give and take away.

  He looked down at this one. She wasn’t as pretty as the last one—her features were coarser, and her skin didn’t have quite the same sheen—but she would do. Yes, she would do quite nicely.

  He turned and selected one of his instruments from the assortment laid out on the table. Behind him, she whimpered.

  “Please—please let me go.”

  “Shhh,” he murmured. “It’ll all be over soon—you’ll see.”

  He turned back to her. The steel gleamed briefly in the light from the bare overhead bulb, and he was drowned in the sound of her screams.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  The storm turned out to be even more severe than expected. Lee came down the next morning to learn that trees had fallen all over the county, their branches weighed down by the heavy cascade of snow. It was warm enough that the snow had fallen wet and thick—“a packing snow,” as Fiona would say—good for snowballs and forts but not sledding. Phone lines were down too, and half of Hunterdon County had no electricity. Motorists were being cautioned to stay off the roads at least until the afternoon.

  Unfortunately, the town of Stockton was in the grid where the power had gone out. That meant that Lee’s cell phone, which was dead, and its charger were useless, at least for the time being. The gas worked, though, and his mother insisted on making him breakfast on her gas stove.

  After choking down a few bites of bacon and scrambled eggs, Lee gulped the rest of his coffee and rose from the table.

  “I’m going to cross the bridge and see what’s happening in Pennsylvania.”

  His mother raised an eyebrow. “Do you think it’s a good idea to go out? They said—”

  “I need to get to a phone.”

  She put her hands up in surrender. “You heard what they said about the roads.”

  “I’ll drive carefully,” he said, kissing her on the cheek.

  “Take my car—I have snow tires,” she said, handing him the keys. “Kylie will be sorry she missed you.” His niece was still in bed—like all the Campbell women, she was a sound sleeper.

  “I’ll be back.”

  He stepped out onto the porch and into a brilliant sunny day, the light intensified by the coating of white everywhere. The winter sun reflected hard and bright in his face, and he held up a hand to shield his eyes from the glare. The snow on the front walk was knee-high, and his feet sank deeply into it with each step. He was glad he had worn his Santana snow boots, though he could already feel the damp seeping in through the tops.

  The snow was piled high on top of everything—the stone bench by the springhouse wore a perfect rectangle of white. The sounds of the outdoors were muffled by the drifts and snow underfoot, his feet making a soft crunching noise with each step. Stan Paloggia had already plowed Fiona’s driveway, so getting off the property would be easy. He imagined Stan, up at daybreak, chugging happily down the driveway in his yellow John Deere with the snowplow attachment. Stan loved being useful; he seemed happiest when doing favors for people, especially Fiona.

  The question was whether the county plows had made it as far as her road yet. Lee brushed the snow from his mother’s big black Ford—she drove a Crown Victoria, just like the ones New York cops used. It started up on the first try; he backed it up and rolled slowly down the driveway. Luckily, Fiona’s road had been cleared, the snow piled high along one side of the narrow country lane.

  He passed people bundled in down
parkas shoveling snow from their driveways as he drove toward Stockton’s tiny main street, but he didn’t see another car on the road until he reached the bridge to Pennsylvania. An old blue station wagon rattled across the steel bridge, its rear wheels fishtailing as it hit the metal grate. The Delaware flowed sluggishly beneath him, the gray water curling in currents and eddies under the bridge. Lee crept across the short span to Pennsylvania, driving northwest on the River Road.

  The beauty of River Road was startling. Tree branches bowed gracefully under a coating of soft snow as thick and creamy as the icing on a cake. Lemony rays of morning sun rippled and dipped into the hollows of the drifts in the deep woods on either side of the road, glinting on the windshield as the road wound and twisted along the banks of the Delaware. Out on the river, ice floes drifted lazily downstream; from time to time wisps of snow blew down from the trees overhanging the two-lane road. It was a scene of such captivating loveliness that Lee’s mood began to lift as he followed the curves in the road.

  Lumberville was the closest town, about three miles along River Road, and he swung into the parking lot of the General Store, a stone and clapboard building snuggled just a few feet off the road. The sign in front proclaimed the building’s construction date to be 1803; Lee imagined horses and wagons rattling up to its door in a time when River Road was little more than a mud rut.

  The General Store was open for business, which was booming, judging by the number of cars squeezed into its tiny parking lot. A popular place for locals to gather for coffee, news and gossip, it seemed to be doing a brisk business. A couple of snowplows sat at the entrance to the lot, their engines still steaming.

  The storm door slapped against its metal frame as he entered, stomping the snow from his boots. The great round walnut table in the front of the store was occupied by half a dozen men in lumberjack shirts, wool caps and knee-high Wellingtons—the snowplow crews. They were men with rough, callused hands and sunburned faces and crosshatched maps of lines under their eyes from years of squinting into all kinds of weather. A couple of them nodded at Lee when he entered before turning back to their conversation over thick white mugs of steaming coffee. A plate piled high with doughnuts sat in the middle of the table. The steam radiator in the corner hissed, mixing with the clatter of coffee cups and silverware and the hum of conversation.