Death Notice

by Todd Ritter

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Lucas said. “I just got here. Was heading into the bar when I heard you two talking.”

  Henry didn’t believe him. The grave digger looked as guilty as sin. He was physically capable of doing all the things the Grim Reaper was accused of. With his bulky frame, he certainly could have overpowered George Winnick and Troy Gunzelman. Amber Lefferts had probably been a snap. All he had needed to do was wrap his tree-trunk arms around her waist and yank her from her house.

  He scanned the alley again, noticing a narrow passageway running behind the Jigsaw. By day, it was probably used for deliveries and taking out the trash. At night, however, it was a pitch-black corridor. The perfect place to hide—and wait.

  “Is that where your van is waiting? Were you going to grab him just like you did George and Troy and Amber?”

  Lucas wrinkled his forehead. “What are you talking about?”

  “Why did you do it?” Henry asked. “Just tell me why.”

  “Do what?”

  “You killed them. Without remorse, without reason.”

  “You think I’m the Grim Reaper?”

  “I do,” Henry said.

  “Well, I’m not.”

  Lucas’s denial opened a set of floodgates deep within Henry, letting loose a wave of primal rage. For months, the town had been frozen in terror as more people died. And Henry had been in the middle of it, the unwitting link between the killer and everyone else. Now he wanted to know why.

  “Why did you send me those death notices?” he asked, clenching his fists as he moved toward Lucas. He needed an explanation, and he was prepared to beat it out of him if necessary. “Why did you give me those fax machines?”

  This time Lucas didn’t back away. He was angry, too. His shifty eyes grew wild, and his face was so flushed it almost hid his massive birthmark.

  “I’m not the killer,” he yelled. “Most people say you—”

  A gunshot cut him off.

  It erupted behind Henry’s back, coming from the dark corridor by the bar. He felt the bullet whiz past him, stinging hot air that brushed his head before embedding itself into Lucas Hatcher.

  The bullet entered above the bridge of his nose, forming a small red dot as it passed through his flesh. The back of his head, however, exploded, raining blood and brains onto the street. Henry felt a dollop of it splatter him as fragments of skull ricocheted off his face.

  James screamed when Lucas hit the ground. An earsplitting shriek, it continued as he stared wide-eyed at the corpse, watching blood gush from Lucas’s head and wash over Henry’s shoes.

  Grabbing James’s arm, Henry tried to drag him in the direction of Main Street. When James didn’t budge, he pulled harder, jerking him out of his horrified trance.

  “We need to go. Right now.”

  Henry heard footsteps behind him, loud and quick on the pavement. Someone jumped onto his back, throwing a hand over his face. Whoever it was held a handkerchief, pressing it against his nose and mouth.

  Twisting his body, he tried to buck the person off, without success. The hand kept the handkerchief in place, cutting off all air.

  Henry’s right arm was pinned at his side. His left grasped at the person on his back. He managed to push the handkerchief away from his mouth long enough to shout at James.

  “Run, James!” he shouted. “Get out of here!”

  Then the hand was upon him again, palm spread wide, flattening the handkerchief against his face. Henry gasped, feeling cotton on his tongue. His vision blurred, everything turning a fearsome shade of white.

  He shut his eyelids, unable to stop their descent. His head followed, bobbing uncontrollably as a deep, bone-weakening weariness took control.

  Kat was still on the float when she heard the gunshot. The noise came from the lower end of Main Street. Hearing it, the crowd erupted into full-blown panic. They pushed into the street, mixing with the halted parade and rushing north.

  The float rocked as people shoved past it. Standing unsteadily, Kat surveyed the length of the street, seeing nothing but shouting people and fear-stricken faces. Only one of them was familiar.

  It belonged to James.

  He was in the middle of the street, oblivious to the surging crowd while he ran north as fast as his little legs could carry him.

  Kat jumped off the float and rushed toward him. When they met, she swept him into her arms, lifting him into an embrace tighter and longer than the one she had given him on the day he was born.

  “James, honey, where were you?”

  Tears of happiness formed at her eyes. Kat decided that instead of holding them back, she’d let them flow. The son she thought was dead was instead alive, safe and sound in her arms. If that wasn’t cause for weeping with joy, then she didn’t know what was.

  Finally, setting James down, Kat saw he was also crying, though not from happiness. Teardrops soaked his face and his body heaved with sobs.

  “Are you okay?” she asked, dropping to her knees so she could be at eye level with him. “Are you hurt?”

  James gazed up at her, blank-eyed. Kat had seen that look before, in the faces of abuse victims, in the stares of crash victims who had survived while their loved ones hadn’t. It was shock, and her son was now stunned by it.

  “Little Bear, please tell me what happened.”

  The shock had left James mute. His mouth opened and closed, but no words came out. Only a horrified murmur—the sound made during nightmares.

  He wiped away his tears with one hand. The other was bunched into a fist, which he thrust outward, fingers unfurling. Stuck to his sweat-dampened palm was a strip of paper no larger than a gum wrapper.

  “Who gave this to you? Henry?”

  When James didn’t answer, Kat grabbed the paper and pulled it taut. Handwriting stretched across it, running from one side to the other. The words were cramped, bordering on the illegible. But by holding the paper close to her face, Kat was able to make out what had been scrawled across it.

  Henry Goll, 39, of Perry Hollow, Pa., died at 7:30 P.M. on October 31.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  The painkillers were starting to kick in. Nick knew it from the sense of calm that infiltrated his aching body. It started at his right leg, so restless in its plaster cage, soothing it into numbness. The feeling moved through his torso and chest, extending out to his arms. Soon it was at his neck, rising into his head.

  He’d be asleep soon, his pain-riddled body overtaken by a pleasurable numbness, and all the anger and guilt and hurt he felt would be chased away until morning.

  Sitting in his lap was the scrapbook of clippings about his sister. It and the rest of Nick’s belongings had been salvaged from his wrecked car and placed in his room. When Nick first opened the scrapbook, he found not only the clippings about Sarah but his notes on the Grim Reaper killings as well. The photos and headlines were enough to disturb anyone else, but to Nick they were a balm. He felt better having them with him. It fooled him into thinking he was still part of the investigation.

  Gazing at the clippings through drug-glazed eyes, he heard a now-familiar voice outside his door.

  “Sorry, ma’am. You can’t go in there.”

  It was Harry—or was it Gary?—the Nazi nurse situated outside his room. Although he had been in and out of consciousness all day, Nick had heard him turn away at least three visitors. Now Harry-Gary was trying to make it four. Only this visitor was putting up a fight.

  “This is a life-or-death situation. I have to see him.”

  “I’m sorry,” Harry-Gary said. “The answer is still no.”

  “I’m with the police and I’m going in there.”

  A bit of haze emptied out of Nick’s brain. Not a lot. Just enough to allow him to recognize that the visitor’s voice belonged to Kat Campbell.

  “I’m going to get in trouble if you do,” Harry-Gary said.

  “That’s not my problem.”

  A second later, Kat burst inside. Locking
the door behind her, she raced to the bed and gripped Nick’s shoulders, shaking him.

  “Nick?” she said. “Wake up.”

  The shaking dislodged more of the drug’s effects from his head. Nick estimated half of his brain was working by that point.

  “I’m awake,” he said. “What’s going on? You shouldn’t be here.”

  Kat continued to jostle him awake. “It’s the Grim Reaper.”

  “What about him?”

  “He has Henry.”

  Henry woke up slowly, consciousness seeping into his brain at a glacial pace. Although he was awake, he couldn’t open his eyes. That required strength he didn’t possess.

  Lying in the darkness, he was vaguely aware of motion. It came from beneath him, a subtle rocking that shook his body. He concentrated on it, ears alert to the noises the movement produced. He heard tires humming along pavement and the steady roar of an engine.

  He was in a vehicle, being transported somewhere. What that destination was, he had no idea.

  Despite now knowing he was in a vehicle, he still felt strange. His surroundings were too small, too enclosed. Something hard pressed against his sides. Too weak to move his arms, he explored with his fingers. They skated along something flat and rough.

  Wood, he realized. He was lying on something wooden.

  He raised his fingers, running them up and down whatever was against his body. That, too, was wood.

  He moaned, the sound of it stopping just above his face and bouncing back toward him. The noise was trapped, just as he was.

  He grew tired again. Just that small amount of thinking and moving had sapped his body, leaving him exhausted. Consciousness left his skull, floating away as slowly as it had entered.

  Although he was fading fast, he summoned up a thought. It was weak, like everything else about him, pushing intermittently through the haze that filled his skull.

  Where—

  The haze continued to roll in.

  —am—

  It took hold of him, squeezing out the remaining word.

  —I?

  As sleep draped itself over him, he realized where he was. It should have been obvious, but his addled brain prevented him from seeing it until that moment. Now it was clear.

  Somehow, for reasons unknown, Henry Goll was once again in a coffin.

  Nick inched higher on the bed, barely able to support himself with his elbows. His dilated pupils made it clear he was heavily drugged. Kat hoped he was as alert as he claimed to be, alert enough to help her. Because she desperately needed his help.

  “When was he taken?” Nick asked.

  “Ten minutes ago.”

  His eyes drifted to the clock at his bedside. “That means he has about—”

  Twenty minutes. Kat knew that. Twenty goddamn minutes to figure out who took him and where.

  “How do we figure out where he is?” she said. “Tell me where to start.”

  “We need to put ourselves in the Grim Reaper’s shoes. Remember when I told you how serial killers pick their victims?”

  Kat had been terrified to discover a mere glimpse could spur a madman to strike. Now she needed to know where in Perry Hollow those glimpses occurred. If they could do that—which was a very big if—perhaps then they could identify the killer.

  “He saw them,” she said. “He saw George Winnick and Troy Gunzelman and Amber Lefferts.”

  And James. She couldn’t forget about that, no matter how much she wanted to. Although he was alive, thank God, and now safe at Lou van Sickle’s house, she knew the killer had seen him, too. Somewhere. At some point.

  “I need to know where he saw them. And why he picked them.”

  “Let’s think through the possibilities. Name all the places in Perry Hollow with heavy traffic.”

  Nick seemed more awake than when Kat had entered the room, more vibrant. He even managed to sit up, although the movement knocked the photo album that had been in his lap onto the floor.

  Kat bent down to retrieve it as she listed the possibilities. “Main Street, obviously. Big Joe’s. The diner. The Shop and Save.”

  She put the scrapbook back onto the bed, its contents spilling across Nick’s lap. Kat saw scrawled notes, photographs, and newspaper clippings. She scanned the headlines, all of them from the Gazette. There was the one about her finding George Winnick’s body on Old Mill Road, followed by coverage of his funeral.

  Beneath it was an article about Art McNeil’s suicide during Troy Gunzelman’s viewing. It was accompanied by a large photograph of the funeral home, the blue sky highlighting its Victorian architecture.

  “McNeil Funeral Home,” she murmured.

  That was another busy place. It had seen more foot traffic than normal in the past year. So many grisly deaths. So many burials.

  “What about the funerals?” Kat asked. “For George and Troy? Do you think the killer could have gone to them?”

  “It’s possible,” Nick said. “Serial killers have been known to enjoy seeing their victims being buried.”

  Kat thought back to both funerals. Each one had been packed, with practically the entire town turning out to pay their respects.

  “I’m not talking about seeing the victims after they died,” she said. “I’m thinking the killer saw them there before they died.”

  Nick shook his head, confounded. “I don’t understand.”

  “Alma Winnick’s brother died a month before her husband did. She said that at her brother’s funeral, George was the first person to sign the condolence book.”

  “And wasn’t Troy Gunzelman a pallbearer at George’s funeral?” Nick asked.

  “The lead pallbearer.”

  “I bet he signed the condolence book, too.”

  “Amber Lefferts did the same at Troy’s viewing,” Kat added. “I watched her do it.”

  As she pieced the facts together, a clearer picture began to form.

  “That’s where it began,” she said. “That’s where the killer saw them.”

  If the killer hadn’t known who George and Troy were, he could easily have learned their names once they signed the condolence book. Then he most likely watched them. For months. Seeing George work in the barn. Spying on Troy as he went to the gym. Passing the Lefferts’ house, where Amber was locked inside. There must have been waiting involved, too. Waiting for the perfect moment to attack. For George, it was at night in the barn, away from his wife. For Troy, it was the Fourth of July, when no one else would be in the locker room. And for Amber, it was when she was home alone.

  Only one question remained unanswered, and Nick asked it.

  “But who could have gone to all of those funerals?”

  Art McNeil had. But he was dead himself, meaning he wasn’t the one who abducted Amber and now had Henry. But two other funeral home employees were alive and well.

  “Bob McNeil and Deana Swan,” Kat said.

  She turned her attention to the clippings again, scattering them to search for articles specifically about the funerals. Perhaps one of them contained a list of attendees or a photograph in which mourners were visible.

  Sliding them around, she found the infamous GRIM REAPER STRIKES AGAIN headline. Another clipping sat on top of it, obscuring the last two words, so all Kat saw was the GRIM REAPER part. It was so big—and the letters so bold—that she couldn’t keep from staring at it.

  “What are you looking at?” Nick asked.

  Kat raised an index finger to shush him. She then placed the still-extended finger over the headline, covering the first R in reaper. The two words merged, forming a new one—M EAPER.

  Quickly, she slapped her right hand over the last four letters of the word. Now it spelled M E.

  “Sweet Jesus,” she muttered. “How did we miss this?”

  She began to tear up the headline, creating one piece for each letter. When she was finished, ten scraps of paper lay on the bed. She rearranged the letters until they spelled out a name—MEG PARRIER.

  They had known a
ll along it was a fake. But all of them had failed to see the significance behind it.

  Nick read the name with astonishment. “It’s an anagram?”

  “Yes,” Kat said. “For Grim Reaper.”

  And knowing that was the key to understanding everything else. It was a jolt of realization that left Kat feeling stupid for not seeing it sooner.

  “I know,” she said. “I know who the killer is.”

  At some point between bouts of consciousness, Henry had been removed from the coffin. He woke up free of its walls. When he moved his fingers, he still felt wood, but it was now smoother.

  Why he was lifted from the coffin, Henry didn’t know. His current location also remained a mystery. Had he been able to open his eyes, he could have looked for himself. But each eyelid was still heavy and unwieldy.

  Once again, he relied on his other senses, hoping they could tell him where he was and, more important, what was going to happen to him.

  His ears no longer detected the sound of a vehicle; nor did Henry experience the insistent motion he felt earlier. He was no longer traveling. He had reached his final destination.

  To his right, Henry heard the clomping of shoes on wood. Footsteps. Coming closer.

  Soon, someone stood next to him, breathing lightly. Although his own eyes were closed, Henry sensed the other person’s probing gaze. It left him feeling exposed and violated. The person was studying him.

  Henry tried to speak but discovered it was impossible. His jaws felt rusted shut and just as heavy as his eyelids. His tongue was a parched fish flopping in his mouth. He managed only a meager grunt before giving up.

  “You’re awake,” the person said. “Excellent.”

  Whoever it was bent over him and placed a length of rope across his chest. It tightened, forcing his arms against his sides. Henry attempted to move them but couldn’t. The rope was taut, knotted, unbreakable. The person did the same thing to Henry’s waist, then to his legs, binding them together just above the knees.

  Henry’s heart quickened as panic weaseled into his brain, burning away the haze that lingered there. His mind rolled into action again, his thoughts coming into focus.

  I’m trapped, was his first thought. It was followed closely by, I’m about to die.