by Pamela Crane
“Do you have a computer around here?”
“In the living room.” Landon grabbed the tray of chips and headed to the living room sofa. His laptop sat on the coffee table, already open and humming.
In the Google toolbar, I searched for the National Sex Offender Registry, then clicked on North Carolina.
“Mind telling me what you’re doing?” Landon asked.
“We know this guy targets girls—young girls. Something tells me he may have a sexual offender history. I just want to look up any offenders in this area, see if anyone pops up that has lived here back when Alexis was alive. I know it’s a long shot, but I’ve got nothing else.”
At five miles, a staggering number of names showed up in the area. A sad reality that I couldn’t comprehend. After narrowing down my search to a one-mile radius, I hit the jackpot:
Jeremy Mason, residing at 801 Willoughby Way, registered sexual offender, convicted for indecent liberty with a minor on 02/21/1992—two weeks before Alexis’s death. The only information about the victim was that she was twelve years old, which made me wonder if it was Alexis. He was slapped with three years of probation—a gutless slap on the wrist. Since he wasn’t sentenced to do any time in jail, he was free and clear to murder as he saw fit.
His picture revealed a blond guy with glasses. Blond—just like in the dreams.
It was too coincidental to ignore, but also too circumstantial to be viable. If he had sexually assaulted Alexis—and was convicted—wouldn’t he have been a prime suspect in the police investigation?
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Landon said, ripping me from my reverie. He had been reading the entry over my shoulder. “I know this dude. I had no idea Jeremy was a sex offender.”
“You know him?” I echoed.
“Yeah, since I was a kid. He’s lived on our street forever. Grew up with my mom. They weren’t close friends or anything, but he was always … neighborly.”
“Probably because he was trying to molest your sister,” I mumbled under my breath. “Do you want to check him out with me tomorrow? Stop by and ask him some questions?”
“Yeah, might as well. It’s the only lead we got.”
I wanted to remind him that good old Uncle Derek wasn’t off the hook yet, but I bit my tongue. No point in arguing. It was way too late and I was way too tired to make a good case.
Eventually talk about the case segued into ice cream for dessert and banter about shared passion for the television show Breaking Bad, our respective taste in music—me: all styles REM and Collective Soul; him: Nickelback meets Marilyn Manson—and what we would do with a million dollars. Landon confirmed that I probably couldn’t buy my own private island for a million bucks. Too bad.
In the wee hours of the morning Landon offered to take the couch and give me his bed—he, a grown man, actually had South Park sheets—but I wasn’t comfortable with the idea of running into his mother during my “walk of shame” out of the house that morning … even though I had nothing to be ashamed of, I assured myself. Yet I couldn’t deny the attraction. In the dim living room lighting, I dared to sit a little too close to Landon, allowing my fingers to occasionally brush against his when we reached for a chip at the same time.
A stab of guilt struck me when I rested my head on Landon’s shoulder and his arm encircled me, hugging me against his chest. Brad would have been devastated if he’d witnessed the intimacy—wouldn’t he? I still didn’t know where things stood with Brad, but I knew I still loved him. I wouldn’t have felt guilty if I didn’t. But I refused to chase him like a besotted schoolgirl. He left, not me. His choice, not mine. He knew where I was and how to contact me, and I’d leave it at that. Call it pride, call it stubbornness—but I called it dignity.
Amid this volley of thoughts, I never saw it coming. Landon’s hand brushing against my chin. His fingertips tipping my face upward. His lips wavering above mine, then gently joining our mouths in feather-light consummation.
I caved in to the hunger, yearning for his affection. The gentle caress of lips grew ravenous as each kiss became harder, firmer, more intense—a battle of tongues and hands grabbing at flesh, wanting more and more. Needing to feel passion, reaching for rapture beyond my bodily constraints.
We consumed each other as teeth scraped, mouths sucked, and his lips journeyed slowly down my neck. I moaned in ecstasy as he found the tender muscles beneath my cotton neckline, and my nipples hardened as he expertly nibbled at my exposed skin. Pain became pleasure. Pleasure became ecstasy.
The voracious grip of his fingers clawed at the small of my back, his hand rising upward to unsnap my bra. His hips pivoted toward me as he pulled me onto his lap. I felt heat smoldering in my loins and an eager wetness inviting him in as his other hand joined in lifting up my top. The sudden coolness of the air on my skin alerted my mind to what was happening.
My first thought was of my scar. I couldn’t let him see it.
Second came a thought about Brad.
I can’t do this to Brad. I still love him.
“Wait,” I muttered beneath Landon’s mouth, pulling back just enough to catch my breath. “We need to stop.” I turned away and slid off of him, tugging my shirt back down and wiping my lips clean of the lingering moisture. I felt naked and vulnerable; I wondered if Landon had seen my scar. Shame swept over me for succumbing to this overpowering moment of weakness.
“I’m so sorry … I don’t know what I was thinking,” Landon apologized.
“It’s okay,” I assured him, trying more to convince myself of its truth. “Can we pretend that never happened?”
“What never happened?” Landon winked playfully at me, then swatted my shoulder as if we had just played a friendly game of truth or dare—and took the dare a little too far.
“Thanks.”
With Brad on the brain but Landon in my arms, that was my cue to leave.
I got up and headed for the door. As Landon walked beside me, he graciously brought up our next move—learning more about Jeremy Mason, the neighborhood molester. It wasn’t exactly the follow-up that a girl looks forward to after a heavy make-out session, but it was the perfect cure for banishing my persistent thoughts about it.
We made plans to question Jeremy later in the morning, and I settled into a comforting belief that he could have done it—which freed me from further nightmares of death at the hands of Derek.
Feeling a bit more secure with the idea that perhaps I wasn’t yet a blip on the killer’s radar and could safely sleep alone in my apartment, I left Landon at his driveway and headed home. The streets were mostly deserted. As I made my turn into the parking lot, I noticed in my rearview mirror a car swerve off to the side of the road without entering the apartment complex and turn off its headlights. It seemed peculiar to me, since the car was parked conspicuously on a main road without much of a berm. Curiouser and curiouser, cried Alice.
I didn’t want to waste time outside—alone—speculating, so I jumped out of my car and bolted toward my apartment’s front door, then climbed the stairs two at a time.
Engaging the doorknob lock and securing the deadbolt behind me, I scurried to my bedroom window, which gave me a view of the main road. I peered out from the darkness of my room. The car was still there, and I could barely make out a profile. He was wearing a hat, but other than that, his face hid in the shadows. Then a moment later the headlights flicked on and the car drove away. At my angle I couldn’t see a license plate or guess the make and model of the vehicle.
One thing was for sure, though. I wouldn’t be getting any sleep that night after all.
Chapter 17
After a combined two hours of sleep, comprised of fifteen-minute bouts of dozing off here and there, I poured a hot cup of coffee—more cream and sugar than coffee, I suppose—and prepared for my interrogation of Jeremy Mason, prime suspect of the day. I couldn’t approach him with guns a-blazin’, or wild accusations, in this case. I needed to finesse the truth out of him without putting myself on his h
it list. It would take careful planning and even more precise execution … no pun intended.
I had arranged to meet Landon at his house at eight o’clock—fifteen minutes from now—at which point we would walk over to Jeremy’s house together, posing as friendly neighbors on a casual stroll, stopping by to chat. According to Landon’s wakeup phone call thirty minutes earlier, Jeremy’s car was still parked in the driveway.
With the coffee carafe still halfway full, I poured the rest into a travel mug, stirred it into a milky confection, and headed out the door.
By the time I got to Landon’s house, he was waiting on the sidewalk for me as I pulled up and parked.
“Hey, we gotta hurry. I saw Jeremy carrying a duffel bag to his car. I think he’s about to head out.”
Luckily I wore my trusty running shoes, since we had to speed-walk down the street, looking about as natural as a pair of multi-headed aliens newly arrived on Earth. Casual stroll, my arse.
Sweat trickled down my forehead and neck when we arrived at 801 Willoughby Way, and while I cursed Landon the entire trek there, the timing couldn’t have been more perfect. We nearly bumped into Jeremy as he was climbing into his vehicle.
“Howdy, neighbor!” Landon called out a little too excitedly, waving his hand. “Nice morning for a walk.”
When Jeremy waved back, we both approached, prompting Jeremy to step out to greet us.
“It’s Jeremy, right?” Landon queried.
Jeremy’s blond head bobbed an affirmative. “You’re Jennifer’s son, right?”
Landon stretched out his arm and the men shook hands. “Yeah. You know me?”
“I thought I recognized you. I remember when you were just a kid. You look just like your mother. Though I haven’t seen you around in years.”
“You’ve got a good memory. I tend to keep to myself. I guess I’m more of an introvert.”
I noticed Jeremy’s pale blue scrubs. He was obviously in the medical profession, but in what capacity, I couldn’t guess. “Sorry, your name slips my mind,” he said.
“I’m Landon. We were just out for a walk and I figured I’d say hi. It’s a gorgeous day.”
In fact, it was anything but. Gray clouds pregnant with a looming downpour darkened the sky, and a distant boom of thunder warned us to take cover if we wanted to stay dry. But Jeremy didn’t seem to notice the faux pas.
“Overcoming that introvert in you, huh?” Jeremy said with a grin.
Landon nodded but said nothing.
“Hi, I’m Mia,” I interceded with a stiff wave.
“It’s nice to meet you. Not too many, well, friendly people on this street.” Jeremy glanced at me as he said it and I forced a rigid grin.
It doesn’t help that you molest children, I thought to myself angrily. I was trying my best not to punch the guy in the face.
“How’s Jennifer doing?” Jeremy asked. “I’ve been meaning to stop by. We used to run into each other when she went for walks around the block, but it’s been a while.”
“She’s doing pretty good. Not that it’s any of your business.” Landon’s blunt reply felt weighted with tension. His eyes narrowed with … was that jealousy?
Jeremy was undeterred. “Is your mom still single?” he pressed.
Interesting … the child molester had a thing for grown women. And it just so happened that it was Landon’s mother. I speculated how I could use this to my advantage—that is, if Landon would let me. I doubted it, based on his clenched jaw.
“Why do you ask?” Landon asked tersely.
“Ah, just curious, that’s all. She’s a beautiful woman.” As Landon’s fists clenched at his side, Jeremy checked his watch. “Oh boy. I’m gonna be late for work. How about I give you my number to pass along to Jennifer? I’d love to see her.”
“I don’t think so,” Landon said, his eyes fixed on Jeremy’s.
As Landon staked his territory, I noticed a name badge attached to Jeremy’s front pocket. Duke Hospital—where Amy was currently recovering. I wondered how a documented child predator got a job at a hospital, unless he had already been employed with them and simply never disclosed his conviction. With no jail time—only probation—he could have easily dusted it under the rug. But that didn’t matter right now. What mattered was finding out if he had any connection to the murders.
“Man, what’s your problem?” Jeremy said petulantly.
“The fact that you’re hitting on my mom is my problem. I thought you liked little girls, not wo—”
And that was the end of the argument and the beginning of the battle.
Jeremy didn’t miss a beat before he swung, making bone-on-bone contact with Landon’s cheek, snapping his head back. Landon’s fingers gingerly explored the ugly gash on his cheekbone. Then he charged.
Like a bull seeing the matador’s crimson capote, Landon bulldozed headfirst into Jeremy’s gut, thrusting him against the car. The vehicle shook on impact as the two men jockeyed for position, blindly throwing blows and grunting like pigs as they grappled on the gritty sidewalk. My God, they had turned into common street thugs! My only reflex was to scream.
“Stop it! Please, stop!” I yelled, stupidly stepping into the mess of bodies to feebly try to break it up. A knuckle clipped my chin and another flailing fist knocked me backward a few steps. I was sure it’d leave a bruise.
A moment later, an alarmed Landon took notice of me nursing my jaw, shoved Jeremy aside, and sprinted to my aid. “Are you okay?” He examined me for injuries.
“Yeah, I think so,” I said, tenderly rubbing my chin and working my mouth to ensure it still worked. “We need to leave … now.”
“That’s a good idea,” Jeremy barked. “You come near me again and I’ll press charges.”
Ignoring his bluster, Landon circled his arm around me as we stalked down the driveway. But just as we reached the sidewalk, Landon stopped and tossed a glare over his shoulder. “You’d better stay away from my mom, you pervert, or you will regret it!”
Men.
Chapter 18
Night was my only companion when everyone else deserted me. Yet I didn’t mind. I thrived in the darkness, feeling alive and whole and renewed. While victims of society snuggled beneath their security blankets of beautiful homes, endless riches, and picture-perfect lives, blissfully asleep on their 1000-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets, outside I lurked. I watched. I waited. I plotted.
But lately my plots were unraveling, and my ego was to blame.
Amy Watson’s survival was a major mistake. A mistake that could ruin everything. My weakness revealed itself, naked and vulnerable before me. I had gotten cocky, careless. I relished the release too much, too long, and my gratification could be my downfall. Now I faced losing everything, and I wasn’t yet prepared. So much was left undone.
I knew there was only one way to overcome my flawed state of decadence: self-restraint. I had to reinstate my apathy for the kill. Much like a hunter’s indifference as his bullet passes through the deer’s skull, I must feel nothing again. Numbness was my only recourse to getting back on track.
Yet the steps that recovery would require went against everything I stood for.
Senseless murder.
I would need to kill again … but this time one of the sinless saints. This time I wouldn’t be restoring purity to the “lost,” rather I’d be snuffing out the pure from the “found.” This time it would bring me no pleasure. But it would accomplish the goal and aid the mission. And I had just the person in mind.
First things first, however. The girl, Amy, had to die—and with her, her secrets. Or should I say, my secrets.
As far as I knew, she hadn’t offered much to the police, thanks to painkillers, attorneys, and fear. A fake name and fake employer. Nothing concrete to ID me. But eventually the cops would bulldoze through Mr. and Mrs. Watson’s lawyers to get more information, and Amy’s memory would return, and with it her lips spilling everything, just like I wanted to spill her guts all over the cold hospita
l linoleum. I had to put a knot in the unraveling—and that meant one thing: Amy’s time was up.
Getting past security and Amy’s personal guard dogs—a revolving cast from the Durham police force—would be tricky, but not impossible. I had ways of getting things done. By casing the hospital, I had discovered she was on a morphine drip and was intermittently clearheaded, and her mother spent every evening at her bedside, with the exception of Thursdays, her ladies’ poker night. The father made brief daily visits during his lunch hour, usually with an expensive gift in hand—most likely picked out by his twenty-something-year-old secretary whom he slept with on the side at the Holiday Inn down the road. Apparently his precious daughter’s near-death experience didn’t warrant time off from work … or play.
Ah, life’s priorities. Rarely did anyone get them right, yet we all had our mental to-do checklists nagging us during our daily routines. It was a wonder to me how our ingrained system of checks and balances could become so discombobulated that a father couldn’t find the self-control to pick his daughter over his mistress. It was a shame he’d never get the opportunity to apologize to Amy once I completed my task.
Morning and afternoon visits were harder to predict, for the girl had apparently been quite popular among her peers and seemed to have an extensive family. Truant classmates stopped by regularly each morning, bringing coffee, magazines, and makeup. Yet despite the parental concerns over Amy’s safety, the visitors never ceased, which was where my planning needed to be pristine in order to avoid being detected.
General precautions seemed minimal. Every entrant required permission from the guard on duty, which seemed a farce to me, since anyone and everyone was apparently granted entrance. But my patience paid off when I witnessed the guard’s shift change, noting minutes-long gaps as each new shift started. Mere minutes were all I needed to complete my task.
My intel was more than enough to get me started on finishing the job. Yet recently a roadblock had popped up that made my work increasingly difficult.