A Secondhand Life

by Pamela Crane

  Good afternoon, miss. I have a large package to deliver. Can I bring it inside?

  The unsuspecting girl would unwittingly oblige.

  Then he’s in. Undetected and without arousing suspicion.

  Secondly, he had no alibi for the night of Alexis’s murder, or for Amy’s attack, for that matter. His alibi for Gina’s murder seemed shaky at best—he couldn’t even remember when he was in jail! I made a mental note to check on that. I was sure Landon could pull some strings with Detective Williams to find out.

  Thirdly, he was close to Alexis, which made her the perfect first victim.

  And finally, he was a druggie alcoholic—which meant he had addictive tendencies and was likely emotionally troubled. While those attributes didn’t automatically brand him a serial killer, they definitely made him a likely candidate. To top it off, he clearly had some bad connections. Even if he didn’t do it, he might be linked to the one who did.

  I didn’t yet have enough evidence to put him at Alexis’s crime scene twenty-two years ago, but I had a feeling that if I kept an eye on him, I’d have the information I needed to know if he killed Gina and attacked Amy.

  As I opened my car door, I felt eyes watching me. I glanced around the empty street, then back at Derek’s house. In my peripheral vision I saw the curtains sway and a shadowy figure back away from the window. Derek was watching me, so I’d need to watch him closer if I was going to outwit him. Though based on our first encounter, it wouldn’t take much.

  Chapter 15

  Thursday, May 1

  1:11 a.m.

  The darkness of my bedroom yawned before me as I regained consciousness, opening a chasm of mysteries. Mysteries about who I was and what my purpose held. Since I was sixteen years old I knew what I was put on Earth for, but lately … lately I wasn’t so sure.

  Questions etched themselves into my heart, causing me grave doubt.

  Damn every one of them.

  Wasn’t I supposed to free the innocent from this purgatory that we call life? Vanity overran society, and it was killing us all. How dare others pass judgment on my work! Was I truly the torturer? How about the cosmetic surgeons performing facelifts, or the Botox injections of botulism toxins women willingly subjected themselves to? That, indeed, was more torturous than anything I did. And I was the crazy one?

  I think not.

  True beauty had been slandered for far too long by the aged seeking eternal youth in potions and masks, but ever so sneakily the young were also falling victim to the whims of narcissism. Once upon a time adults were adults and children were children. But now that wasn’t the case. The lines were blurred. Girls dressed like whores—acted like them too. Younger and younger they were deflowered, and so many were to blame for the trend. Negligent parents, ego-based media, Facebook, selfies, retailer targeting, schools teaching it in the classroom. Children were trapped at birth to one day succumb to this inflated sense of ego.

  I had hoped my message would change all that. Slowly but surely the masses would understand their plight. But at each purging, my intent was covered up—by the media, of course. The newspapers called it “murder,” “horrendous,” and “sick.” They girls were “victims.” All lies! The girls were set free, and I was their hero! How could my point be mistaken? Either the media was blind to the truth, or they were in on the scam to corrupt the lost. My bet was on the latter.

  Tonight, in the twilight glow, I came alive while others slumbered, and for once I felt like myself. In the safety of night I took off the mask that hid who I truly was underneath. A man searching for peace and hope in a fallen world and doing his part to fix it. That was more than most could say.

  As I tossed off my down-filled covers and stepped out of my bed, my mind was riddled with questions—a wonder to me, as I rarely questioned anything.

  What had I done? What had I become?

  I had killed again, and beneath the sense of obligation, I liked it. My actions weren’t purely to free the world from the clutches of sin; they made me happy.

  Perhaps my motives weren’t so pure after all.

  Was I a monster like they said?

  No, that couldn’t be the case.

  Yet recently something had changed. After years of killing, my body was beginning to reject my vigilantism … an intolerance I hadn’t anticipated. It reminded me of my very first murder when my stomach sickened at the sight of a dead-eyed girl I cared about.

  My own flesh was revolted back then, and it was happening again.

  I noticed my weakness for the first time after purging Amy Watson, while I was in the car.

  It started with cold sweats. Heart racing. I shrugged it off as the rush of anxiety before the kill waning at last. But it didn’t end there. I was being haunted. Ever since Amy, I began having dreams. At first they were just snippets, tidbits, but they were growing, expanding, evolving … into macabre visions of mayhem, mutilation, murder. They say dreams are the mind’s way of working through issues. What were mine that I found such comfort in chaos, jubilation in mutilation, revelry in rancor? In these dreams I no longer saw myself as the savior, but as a killer. And it scared me.

  But what frightened me wasn’t so much the debate over what I was—villain or not. What truly struck fear into my heart was how much I needed to kill. To watch life’s final escape, to inhale the wafting scent of blood, to grasp control over life and death. It was exhilarating, yet it was also my Achilles heel.

  I no longer had control over myself, and that was a line I could never cross.

  For three days I had remained hidden, lurking underground to avoid exposing myself so soon after Amy’s death. But today it was time to come out and play. I was on a warpath in a battle against society, and there was no time for reprieve.

  I headed into my kitchen and decided to make a sandwich—first mayo on sourdough, then two slices of ham, one slice of Swiss cheese, a leaf of lettuce, and two slices of tomato. I ran a knife diagonally across the bread and took my two halves into the living room. I hadn’t indulged myself in reading about Amy Watson’s death yet—a delayed gratification of sorts. A copy of the News & Observer sat on the end table, taunting me with its headline:

  The Triangle Terror Strikes Again

  I smiled the paternal smile of a proud father, then I continued reading:

  Hillsborough, NC

  The elusive serial killer dubbed the Triangle Terror has apparently struck again, with his intended victim narrowly escaping death, thanks to her father’s timely advent on the scene.

  Amy Watson, a 12-year-old Orange County girl, was viciously stabbed Tuesday in her Miller Bend Road home by a man posing as a talent scout. According to the victim’s testimony, the alleged killer, using the alias Gary Billing, first approached her at The Streets of Southpoint, claiming to represent the fictitious Ace Talent and Modeling Agency. He later sought her out at her residence and, after gaining her confidence and distracting her, stabbed her in the abdomen.

  Her father, Rick Watson, arrived home from work in the nick of time, rushing to Amy’s aid as the alleged killer made his escape. Paramedics arrived on the scene in time to resuscitate Amy, who is now in protective custody at Duke Hospital.

  With Amy’s cooperation police hope to identify and apprehend the alleged killer before he attacks again.

  Barbed wire felt caught in my throat as I tried to swallow but couldn’t. Amy was alive? She had survived? Impossible. I couldn’t have failed. I never failed.

  The failure wasn’t the worst blow, however. Amy’s survival meant she could identify me, or already had. There was no way to know what she had told the cops, but I aimed to find out. If, God willing, she hadn’t yet given a detailed description, I’d extinguish any inclination to do so. But I had to act fast.

  Today was a new day, a day of reckoning. And I reckoned it was time for me to finish what I started with Amy Watson.

  Chapter 16

  Thursday, May 1

  1:46 a.m.

  One o’clock had
come and gone and I still couldn’t fall asleep. Creaking floorboards and the glaring headlights of passing cars made me restless, jumpstarting my imagination to conjure up images of Derek slaughtering me alive—choking me, gutting me, raping me. It was almost as frightening as my nightmares.

  Outside my window, a car door shutting aroused my curiosity. Who would be coming home this late in an apartment full of elderly widows and families with young kids? Having met nearly everyone in my complex, I stood out as pretty much the only young-ish/single-ish person who lived there … only I wasn’t that young anymore. Lately I was feeling every moment of my thirty-four years, and I looked it too. My vibrant hazel eyes had dimmed with unresolved anger, and my supple skin sagged beneath the weight of insomnia.

  I glanced outside my bedroom window and noticed an unmarked white van parked across the street. My eyes strained to see a silhouette of someone inside, but it was too dark and the streetlamp cast too many shadows. I closed my blinds, haunted by the foreboding sense of someone watching me.

  With sleep nowhere on the horizon, I impulsively picked up my phone and texted:

  You awake?

  After about two minutes my phone chimed with a response:

  I am now. jk. Can’t sleep.

  So I typed:

  Me neither. Talk?

  I dialed, and it rang several times before he picked up.

  “What took you so long to answer?” I asked, seeing as he had just replied to my text.

  “I wasn’t sure I wanted to know what you’re up to at this hour. Then I caved. What’s up?” he replied sleepily.

  “You home right now?”

  When I heard a timid, “Yeah, why?” on the other end, I ventured to see if I could come over. Another groggy affirmative.

  I hung up, grabbed pepper spray and my keys, and headed out the door, sprinting the entire way to my car and hastily locking the driver’s door once inside the safety of my vehicle. The white van along the road was gone, but my fears weren’t.

  It was time to put my anxiety to rest for the night.

  **

  I showed up at Landon’s wearing cornflower blue sweatpants and a UNC sweatshirt. He hushed me as I stepped through the front door.

  “Keep quiet, okay? My mom’s sleeping.” He waved me to follow him into the kitchen.

  Like the living room as I remembered it, the kitchen seemed recently updated with a fresh coat of white paint on the cabinets and tasteful wallpaper decorated with tiny pastel pansies—though not my taste. More the taste of a modern grandma. Framed pansy paintings decorated the walls, and a similarly-themed spice rack was tucked next to the oven. It felt cheerful, even in the dim glow of the frosted-glass ceiling fixture, which apparently boasted a miserly 25-watt bulb. The counters looked original, however—an old-fashioned sunflower yellow with a silver rim lining the edge. The avocado green wall oven was a relic from the ’70s; incredibly, the kitchen boasted no microwave.

  “Want a midnight snack?”

  “Sure,” I said. That actually sounded really good right now, since I had picked over my dinner. Even with a murderer on the brain, a girl’s gotta eat.

  Landon grabbed a bag of Utz tortilla chips and a package of shredded Mexican cheese and tossed them on the counter. Then he handed me a tomato, fresh chives, and a knife. “You like loaded nachos?”

  “Heck yeah.”

  “Good. Let’s see how good you are with that knife.”

  I groaned and gave him the stink-eye.

  “Poor choice of words. I mean, I’d appreciate it if you’d do the honors.”

  As a lull descended on the kitchen, I started dicing, embracing the calming silence. For the first time in nearly a month I actually felt secure.

  When the oven had preheated, Landon tossed the cheese-covered nachos inside and set the timer. We each grabbed a seat at a breakfast table nestled in the corner of the room.

  “What had you awake at this hour?” I asked as I propped my chin on my hand.

  “Eh, I don’t sleep much. Insomnia.” His yawn affirmed his exhaustion, which prompted me into a sympathetic yawning fit.

  “Me too, lately. You look tired. Now I feel bad for calling.”

  “Don’t feel bad. I wasn’t dozing off anytime soon anyways. So, what’s going on? I don’t often have girls showing up at this hour. I’m usually kicking them out by now.” We both laughed like old friends.

  “I couldn’t sleep. And I had something to tell you,” I said cryptically.

  “I don’t like the sound of that. What do you need to get off your chest?”

  I inhaled a deep breath before replying. “I, um, talked to your uncle earlier today—well, yesterday, actually.”

  “Wait—my Uncle Derek?”

  I nodded meekly.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you were going to talk to him? You could have asked me first, Mia. I’ve been honest with you, and I would have appreciated the same from you.”

  Perhaps I hadn’t taken the most open road of going about it, but I suspected Landon’s reaction would be, well, exactly this—defensive and difficult.

  “I wanted to tell you, Landon, but I knew you’d say no and try to convince me not to talk to him.”

  “There’s a reason for that. Because he’s not guilty.”

  “You don’t know that for sure,” I retaliated like a teenage girl in a fight with her mom.

  “Whatever. Let’s just move on. What’d you talk about?”

  “He’s on the suspect list, Landon. I wanted to find out if he had an alibi the night of Alexis’s death.”

  “Does he?”

  “Nope. He was supposedly drunk … and alone.”

  “You’re speculating. I just don’t know, Mia. I can’t imagine that he would kill someone. He’s done a lot of bad stuff, but murder? It doesn’t sound like him.”

  “Landon, no one pegs murderers for being murderers. It’s not like they go around handing out business cards. They can be the boy next door, your pastor, your own spouse, even your friendly neighborhood barista at Starbucks—heck, they can be anybody! I know you don’t want to think of your own flesh and blood as being a killer, but let’s face the facts. He fits the profile.”

  “How so?”

  “Works for Ralph’s Delivery Services, so he can easily gain access into people’s houses.”

  “Coincidental,” Landon muttered with a shrug.

  “Plus,” I added, plowing onward with brute force, “he doesn’t log his time, so he can come and go as he pleases. He has no one he’s accountable to, so he can stay under the radar. And let’s face it—he’s messed up.”

  “So is half the population of the United States.”

  “He’s a grown man—old enough to be a young grandpa—who preys on young girls! C’mon, Landon.”

  Landon shook his head. “I’m sorry, but I think you’re off base with this.”

  “If not him, then who? We could keep going in circles, or we can stop the killer. I’m telling you, my gut says it’s him. Trust me, I’m an empath.”

  Landon snorted. “An empath? What kind of metaphysical crap is that? You’re going on a hunch here, not facts. Besides, don’t you think he’s a little old to be able to overpower another person?”

  “He’s not even sixty, Landon, and while he’s thin, he’s muscular. And we’re talking about girls. Easy to manipulate, easy to subdue. I’m telling you—he’s our guy.”

  As the argument was getting heated, the oven timer beeped, momentarily cooling the tension. But I wasn’t done discussing it. Talk would get us nowhere without action. If Derek was our guy, he needed to be stopped immediately—before he claimed another victim.

  “Other than the fact that he was home alone, give me some other evidence that points to him attacking my sister—his own niece,” Landon demanded as he tossed a handful of tomatoes and chives on the nachos, then scooped a spoonful of sour cream on top. He grabbed a cheesy chip and gestured for me to help myself.

  He didn’t need to ask twi
ce.

  I heaved an exasperated sigh. “I don’t know what else to say. Her killer knew her and had a key, and I’m assuming there weren’t many people who did. But a family member might. So just that alone is enough to raise suspicion. What more do you need to at least consider him a suspect?”

  “Assuming Alexis’s killer is the Triangle Terror, which is more than likely, are you saying my uncle is intelligent enough to have been killing girls for two decades without getting caught? You met him—does he strike you as an evil genius?”

  Landon had me there. The man-child played video games and seemed to be a reckless drunkard. Unless … could it be a well-executed façade to throw the authorities off his scent?

  “I don’t know him well enough to answer that.”

  “What about the other girls—did you ask him about them? Does he have an alibi for their attacks?”

  “He said he had been working and playing video games when Amy got attacked, and as for Gina, he thinks he got picked up for public drunkenness that night. I’m not sure anyone can corroborate his whereabouts, since even he seemed unsure. Though the police would be able to determine if he got arrested during the past month, right?”

  “Yeah, let’s check it out,” Landon agreed reluctantly. “But I still think it’s a wild goose chase.”

  “Maybe, but it’s a lead, and a plausible one. The guy sure does like to party, and when I asked him for names of his friends, he didn’t exactly spit out the phonebook. Let’s just see what we come up with. If it doesn’t fit, I’ll drop it. Okay?”

  I popped another loaded chip in my mouth, deciding to change the conversation before Landon kicked me out. I was enjoying the snack too much to storm out of there.

  As I savored the melty mixture, a thought occurred to me. It could be nothing at all… or something profoundly important. Assuming Derek was innocent, I expected a serial killer to have some kind of record—and in this case, one related to children in particular.