by Susan Fleet
“I can’t, Mom. I have to go out.”
Her pale blue eyes bored into him. “What for?”
“I have to go somewhere.”
“What do you mean? Where are you going?” Her eyes were relentless. Cold. Blue. Dead.
His heart fluttered like a moth at a hundred-watt bulb, faster and faster, fluttering wildly. Beating his chest.
Pounding his blood. Into his head. Making it hurt. Hurting. Him.
“I have to go to Boston.” He dug his nails into the palms of his hands and looked at her. Looked at her cold dead blue eyes.
“What for?”
“I have to take care of something.”
“You do not! Don’t lie to me! You’re not going anywhere. I forbid it! You’re staying right here with me.”
He got up and backed away from the table.
Away from his mother. Away from her eyes.
“Don’t you dare leave while I’m speaking to you!”
Mouth-making pain in his head. He forced himself to look at her cold, hard blue eyes. For an instant he saw the briefest flicker of—
What was it? He’d seen that look before in Tessa’s eyes. And Lulu’s.
A tiny flicker of fear.
He ran downstairs, unlocked the door to his room and went inside.
Blood boiling. BLOOD. Heart beating. BEATING.
He went to the fish tank and stared at Judy. Now she was all alone. He plunged his hand into the tank and captured her, felt her fins flap against his hand. But she couldn’t escape. He squeezed her hard, as hard as he could.
Then he dropped her on the floor and shut his eyes and the glorious ache surged into his groin.
He undid his fly, breathing in ragged gasps, stroking until the final exquisite shudder came.
He opened his eyes and stared at the orange mess on the floor.
Judy. Dead.
He took out his tool box and opened it.
Beating. His heart was beating. But slower now.
BEATING.
He opened his toolbox and took out the wrench.
CHAPTER 34
He sat down at Gina’s piano and played a three-octave E-minor arpeggio. E-minor to go with his melancholy mood. His fingers wandered over the keys and launched unbidden into “Stardust.”
Improvising on the familiar melody, he let his mind wander. Hollywood. A smoky cafe. Appreciative patrons. The sound of clinking glasses.
He eyed the amber liquid in the glass that stood on the corner of the piano. Vamping chords with his left hand, he picked up the glass with his right and took a long pull of Dewars. Straight. No ice.
His fingers feathered the keys and slithered into “Laura.”
“Vicky,” he said.
Speaking her name aloud brought a rush of memories. Her beautiful brown eyes. Her mischievous smile. Her wicked sense of humor. How he loved her sense of humor. Her bubbly laugh echoed in his mind.
He never should have bought those Megabucks tickets.
With merciless precision his fingers struck the keys.
He never should have given Vicky the winning ticket. Never should have asked her to claim the money. If he hadn’t, she’d still be alive.
It was all his fault.
Forearms flailing, he pounded the keys. The sound crescendoed to a mighty clamor that thundered through the house. Moments later another sound penetrated the din.
Abruptly, he jerked his hands off the keyboard. The phone was ringing.
Should he answer it? No, before she left this morning Gina had turned on her answer-phone.
The ringing stopped. The machine clicked and whirred. Then, silence.
He gulped some Dewars and glanced at his watch. Almost 9:30. He should eat something. Gina had told him to help himself to whatever was in the fridge, but he wasn’t hungry. He lit a Winston, set it in the ashtray and riffled the keys aimlessly, searching for a melody. But nothing came to him.
He felt utterly drained, numb with grief.
How could he go on living without Vicky?
He took the empty glass into the kitchen, sat down at the table, poured more scotch into the glass and massaged his eyes. Sooner or later the cops would find out he’d gone missing. And then what?
What in bloody hell was he going to do? How would it all end?
He took a coin out of his pocket.
Heads: it would work out. Tails: belly up.
He flipped the coin and slammed it down on the table. Tails.
He flipped the coin again. Tails.
Bollocks! He couldn’t win!
The phone rang.
Now who was calling? P’rhaps it was Gina’s husband. She hadn’t said much about him, but he got the feeling her marriage was in trouble. He went in the living room and stood by the futon, staring at the phone.
It stopped ringing. The machine clicked and whirred.
Was someone speaking on it now? Gina had turned down the volume so he wouldn’t be disturbed. Don’t answer the phone, she’d said. Let the machine get it.
Maybe she was afraid her husband would call her. If her marriage was in trouble, it wouldn’t do to have a man answer.
He went back in the kitchen, sat at the table and gulped some scotch.
His life was in the toilet. A monstrous feeling of dread overwhelmed him. Would he ever get out of this bleeding mess?
He fingered the coin. Tails: he would. Heads: not.
He flipped the coin. Caught it. Slammed it down.
Heads.
Bloody hell! He couldn’t win! He was a loser. He’d always been a loser.
He poured more scotch into the glass.
____
Thelma Delaney stood by the phone in her kitchen, trying to decide what to do. Gina had given her an emergency number in case something happened to the house while she was away. Orchid’s number. She’d only met Orchid once. What a strange girl! Why on earth did she dye her hair purple?
But she was nice enough. Friendly. Gina’s best friend. Should she call the girl? She was probably fussing over nothing. It was hot tonight so she’d opened all her windows, hoping to catch a breeze. That’s when she heard all that loud music. But when she called Gina’s number, all she got was the machine and Gina’s voice saying, “Please leave a message.”
When she called again, she got the same message. That worried her.
She went to her front window and looked across the street. It was pitch dark outside. She couldn’t see Gina’s car, but maybe it was in the garage. And maybe it wasn’t. If Gina was there, why didn’t she answer the phone?
And if she wasn’t, who was pounding on Gina’s piano?
She picked up the phone and dialed.
After three rings a voice said, “Orchid’s Pots, Orchid speaking.”
“Orchid? It’s Thelma Delaney, Gina’s neighbor?”
“Oh hi, Thelma. How ya doing?”
“I’m fine, but . . . ” Thelma sighed. “Well, I was wondering if you talked to Gina today.”
“Nope. I’ve been in Phoenix all week. Why? Is something wrong?”
“I’m not sure. Awhile ago I heard someone playing Gina’s piano.”
“So? Gina plinks away at it sometimes.”
“I know, but this was different. Loud and sort of jazzy, you know? I don’t want to seem like a busybody, but I called and Gina didn’t answer.”
“Maybe she’s in the shower or something.”
“That’s what I thought, but I waited twenty minutes and called again and still got her answering machine. Do you think I should go knock on her door?”
“No, don’t do that,” Orchid said emphatically. “She could be, uhmmm, she could be involved in something, you know?”
Thelma smiled. These young ones thought she was an old fuddy-duddy, but she’d had her share of romances. “Yes, Orchid, I know. But it’s just that, well, the music was really loud. And jazzy.”
“Maybe her husband is there.”
Orchid didn’t sound too enthusiastic about that.
In fact, she really didn’t sound like she thought Gina’s husband was there. “Maybe you’re right,” Thelma said, “Maybe they had the stereo on. Ryan’s a nice young man. They had a spat a couple of weeks ago, didn’t they?”
“What makes you think that?” Orchid said sharply.
“I don’t know. Gina seemed a bit down when I talked to her last week.”
Orchid chuckled. “Gina’s the creative type. That can make for a volatile love life.”
“Goodness, I guess I’ve made a tempest out of a teapot, haven’t I? Sorry to bother you.”
“No problem, Thelma. Call anytime.”
She replaced the phone. There. She felt better.
She worried about Gina sometimes, a lovely girl like that, at odds with her husband. Ryan was a fine young man. Handsome, too.
Thelma poured herself a glass of wine, went in her living room and turned on the TV.
____
His heart thrummed with excitement as he crept upstairs and slipped into the kitchen. He heard voices on the television set in the living room. He crept to the doorway.
Seated in the wheelchair with her back to him, his mother was watching television in her bathrobe. She hadn’t put her hair up in rollers yet. Stringy blonde hair drooped down to her shoulders.
He crept forward, silently inching toward her.
Suddenly, she turned. Eyes wide. Staring. At him.
“Billy! What are you doing?”
Mouth-moving pain in his head.
He swung the wrench.
“Stop!” she shrieked, raising her hands to ward him off.
But she couldn’t.
He studied her mouth, her incessantly yapping mouth, making pain in his head. He raised the wrench and smashed it against her teeth. When she opened her mouth to scream, blood spurted out, but no sound.
Again he hit her. Beating. Beating. BEATING!
She groped at the wheels of her wheelchair with both hands, trying to get away.
NO! He couldn’t let her escape! He swung the wrench again, beating her mouth and her cold, dead blue eyes.
Her face turned to BLOOD. Sickening. Spurting. Stinking.
Dark red blood gushing everywhere.
She slid out of the wheelchair and slumped to the floor, moaning. Blood matted her hair, dripping onto the rug. In a frenzy, he pounded her face with the wrench. Mouth-moving mother-pain in his head.
At last he stopped, gasping for breath, staring at her. Still.
Mouth still. Mother still. STILL.
His breathing slowed and a shudder ran through his body, as if his own heart had stopped beating.
But then her hand moved. Fluttered to her blood-soaked bathrobe. Hand moving. Slowly. Inching toward the pocket of her bathrobe. Almost.
He slammed the wrench down on her hand. Heard the bones crunch like snapping sticks. Now her hand was still.
What was in the pocket?
He tried to reach it, but her arm was in the way.
He mustn’t touch her. Not touch. No.
Grasping the sleeve of her bathrobe between his thumb and forefinger, he lifted her arm away from the pocket. Reached inside. Pulled out a small rectangular piece of paper.
A business card.
He stared at it. Gina Bevilaqua, Boston Herald reporter.
Gina Bevilaqua. The woman who’d left the message on Victoria’s answering machine.
The reporter who’d come here to interview his mother. The woman who knew the conductor. Nigel Heath. The lucky lottery winner.
The man who had ruined his Victoria victory.
The police thought Nigel Heath killed Victoria. Victory-Victoria.
VICTORY was near.
He studied his mother, lying on the floor.
Quiet and still. Face bloody. Eyes shut. Dead eyes.
Not watching.
Not anymore.
He went in the kitchen and washed the blood off his hands.
His clothes stank of blood and sweat. Disgusting.
He went down to his room and took the gun out of the Wagner’s Sporting Goods box, feeling the weight and the power, remembering how he’d hit the target at the shooting range. He wrapped the bloody wrench in a towel and put it in his toolbox. Then he took Victoria’s diamond ring out of his desk drawer and put it in the top tray of his toolbox.
He studied the business card and felt a delicious thrill of anticipation.
Gina Bevilaqua. Friend of Nigel Heath.
The lucky lottery winner.
But not anymore. Nigel Heath’s luck had run out.
All he had to do was find him.
CHAPTER 35
Friday, June 2 — Sandwich
The two-story cottage looked like a picture-postcard, morning sun falling on the bright-blue clapboards and fresh white trim. But inside, Frank knew, was a locked basement room. Billy’s room. What dark secrets did it hold?
Earlier he had called the National Cable Company office and asked the manager if Billy was working today. Bad news. Billy had called in. His van wasn’t parked outside the house, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t here.
And what about the Wagner Sporting Goods package? Gina had said it was heavy. If Billy wanted to lift weights, he wouldn’t order dumbbells through the mail, he’d buy them at Wal-Mart. It had to be a gun.
Frank wished he had a bigger team to execute the search warrant. What he had was Chief Duggan, a gray-haired man in his sixties, and Officer Pell, another Sandwich policeman, standing with him at the front door. Last week, Duggan had seemed skeptical that a serial killer was living in his sleepy little town. Now that Frank had a search warrant, he was taking it seriously. Still, Frank wondered how long it had been since Duggan had drawn his service weapon. But Officer Pell, a strapping young redhead with a sunburned face, had a determined look in his eyes.
For the third time, Frank pressed the doorbell.
Faint chimes echoed inside the house.
A frown grooved Duggan’s forehead. “All the blinds are closed,” he muttered. “That’s odd. Mrs. Kay should be up by now. She hardly ever goes out, except on Sunday.”
Frank said to Pell, “Get the battering ram. We’re going in. Chief, I need you to cover the back door, but be careful. Billy may be armed.”
Duggan went down the steps and disappeared around the side of the house. Pell ran to his squad car and came back lugging a three-foot piece of steel with two handles. Pell looked at him and Frank nodded.
Pell hit the door with the ram once, twice, three times.
The wood shattered and the door buckled.
Frank went in low and fast, yelling, “Police! Freeze!”
Then the stench of death hit his nostrils.
He looked in the room to the right of the door. Beside an overturned wheelchair, a woman’s body lay in a pool of congealed blood, one leg splayed to one side. Blood spatter on the walls, the television screen, the rug, and the woman’s bathrobe. Billy’s mother, Frank assumed, her face beaten to a pulp.
“Jesus!” Pell said, staring at the carnage. “What a bloodbath!”
“Rage,” Frank muttered, eyeing the bloody footprints on the runner in the hall.
The house was silent and still. Was Billy still here? The battering ram had made a helluva racket, and when Frank went inside, he’d yelled: Police. Freeze.
Was Billy lying in wait for them with a gun?
Frank signaled Pell to be quiet. Weapons drawn, they advanced down the hall to a wide door at the end.
To the right, an archway opened onto a small kitchen. No one was in there, but Chief Duggan stood at the rear door, motioning to him through the window in the upper half. Frank went to the door, opened it, and whispered, “Bad scene. The mother’s dead in the living room.”
“Mother of God,” Duggan muttered.
Frank shushed him and whispered, “The killer may still be in the house.”
They joined Officer Pell in the hallway outside the wide door.
Duggan positioned himself on one side,
Pell on the other, and Frank burst inside. A bathroom, empty, no blood visible, nowhere to hide, just an old-fashioned claw-footed tub with handicap bars, a sink and a toilet.
According to Gina, the door opposite the kitchen led to Billy’s locked basement room. Frank pointed to the door and whispered, “Billy’s room is downstairs.” He turned the doorknob and pulled.
The door creaked open, revealing a dark stairway.
“Light switch,” Duggan breathed, pointing.
Frank flipped the switch. A bare bulb at the top and another at the bottom illuminated a flight of wooden stairs. Was Billy in his room? Frank waited a moment, heart pounding, hands sweaty on his Sig. No activity below him, no shots, no screams, just a musty odor, and the sound of ragged breathing, Duggan’s, Pell’s and his own.
With his Sig Sauer extended, Frank eased down the steps one at a time, aware that Duggan and Pell were following. At the foot of the stairs he stopped and listened. Silence. Here the musty odor was stronger.
To his left, a rickety wooden table held a plastic laundry basket and laundry detergent, beyond the table, a fake Christmas tree and boxes of decorations. Under the stairs, plastic shelves held overflow from the kitchen pantry: boxes of cereal, crackers, dry pasta, cans of soup. To his right, a door stood ajar. Dim light emanated from the room. Billy’s room.
“Cover me,” Frank mouthed to Pell and Duggan.
He slammed open the door and sprang into the room. No one there.
“Clear,” he said, and flicked on the overhead light.
Bloody clothes were strewn over a narrow bed. Beside the bed, a fluorescent light shone down on a rectangular fish tank. A mangled orange goldfish lay on the tile floor. Frank read the nametags on the fish tank and felt both revulsion and validation. Lulu. Tessa. Lilly. Betty. Rosie. Florence. Victoria. Ruthie. With slight variations, the names of eight murdered lottery winners. No doubt about it. Billy was the Jackpot Killer.
But another nametag was pasted to the tank: Judy. Who was Judy? Another lottery winner? According to Ross Dunn, Judy Garland was one of the featured women at the Poughkeepsie conference. Then Frank remembered Mrs. Karapitulik’s first name. Judith. Billy had killed her, too.