Stay of Execution

by K. L. Murphy

  She sipped from her water. He hadn’t batted an eyelid. “That’s exactly what I said. Seems logical to me, too, but she says she has her reasons.”

  “Sounds like she might be trying to get her name in the paper.”

  “Maybe.” Julia studied his expression. He seemed unfazed, but his hand dropped to his lap. He picked at the fabric of his wool slacks, pinching it, letting it go, pinching it again. “I don’t think so, though. I think she’s telling the truth.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  She kept her eyes on his face, a tingle prickling at her neck. “She works at that coffee shop on campus, the one near the park.” He pursed his lips. “Yesterday, when she left work, she felt like someone was watching her. She tried to lose him by doubling back and stuff like that, but she knew he was still there.”

  A tiny vein throbbed at his temple. “How would she know that?”

  “She saw him.”

  “Saw him?” His jaw tightened, but he recovered quickly. His fingers twitched in time with the throbbing vein. His face paled, but he held his voice steady. “Did she recognize the man?”

  Julia’s forced a shrug. “No. Said he seemed familiar, but she couldn’t say why. Didn’t know who he was.”

  “I see,” he said after a moment, color returning to his face. “Well, I still think if this story is legit, she should go to the police.” He stood, all traces of anxiety erased. The vein had stopped jumping, and his fingers were still.

  She flushed under his gaze. “I’ll tell her.”

  “Good. It’s just my opinion, of course.”

  “You’re probably right. Maybe she is only looking for publicity.”

  “Yep. You know how kids are these days.” His lips had turned up again. “How about a rain check on that drink?”

  “Sure,” she said, forcing lightness in her tone. “I’d like that.” He squeezed through the packed lobby, stopping once to clap a friend on the back. At the door, he wheeled around, finding her watching him. She raised a hand, then looked away, sucking in her breath. He’d known she was lying. She was sure of it.

  Chapter Fifty-­Five

  NIKKI HAD KNOWN he was there. Years of dodging media and her father’s security team had trained her well. She knew Julia hadn’t believed her, thought she’d made a mistake or misjudged, and Nikki didn’t blame her. She wouldn’t have believed her, either.

  “Are you sure you’re not confusing him with someone else? It’s an easy thing to do.” Julia had leaned in and touched her lightly on the arm. “Why would he be following you? It doesn’t make sense.”

  That was a harder question and one she’d chosen not to answer. She’d shrugged and changed the subject instead. But she knew it wasn’t a mistake. She wasn’t afraid, although she knew she should be. What he’d done to those other girls was horrible. This man was evil, with a terrible violence in his soul. She’d seen it before, knew it well. She wasn’t like those other girls, though. They hadn’t been prepared. They had fought him, but they hadn’t known he was coming like she did. She didn’t need anyone to tell her. She could feel it.

  Nikki wondered if she should have gone home instead of staying with a friend, but she pushed the nagging doubts to the corner of her mind. Home was no better and it wouldn’t change anything anyway. Nikki squinted in the dark until her eyes gradually adjusted to the shadowy light in the unfamiliar bedroom. She could just make out the shape of her friend Allison, lying on her side, covers kicked aside, snoring softly. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and set her feet silently on the floor. Grateful for the thick carpeting, she tiptoed across the floor and slipped out of the room. The door clicked shut. She froze, scanning the empty hallway. When she heard nothing, she went down the stairs, toward the study. Gray moonlight shone through the window’s sheer curtains. She made her way across the room to the heavy oak desk, moving behind it.

  Squatting, Nikki pulled a wooden box from under the desk. Allison, nervous about the campus murders, had told her it was there. She hesitated at the lock on the cover, but she had been told about that, too. Reaching under the bottom drawer, she felt for the key her friend had told her would be held in place by tape. With deft hands, she loosened the tape and used the key to turn the lock. It released, and she lifted the cover. Inside was a pistol, glowing black against the bloodred lining of the case. She picked it up, turning it over in her hands. It was heavier than the guns she’d learned to shoot the year before. Even so, the weight felt right.

  She wouldn’t be like those other girls. She knew what he was, and she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. ­People underestimated her all the time, and often, she let them. It was easier that way. But not this time.

  Chapter Fifty-­Six

  CANCINI STEPPED INSIDE, instantly wrapped in a blanket of greasy, smoky air. Ernie stood behind the bar unloading and stacking glass mugs. A half-­smoked cigarette dangled from his lips. It was the bartender who’d arranged the meeting, but not without a word of warning. “Don’t know for sure what ol’ Jerry knows, Mike, but if there’s anything, he’s the one to know it. I heard some stuff around the bar during the first go-­’round, before Spradlin got arrested, some nasty stuff, but the bottle has a way of distorting the truth. Jerry though, he’s a newspaperman, the old-­fashioned kind. If it ain’t a fact, he’ll keep his trap shut.”

  “I understand,” he said.

  The retired journalist was waiting for him. Heavyset with a shock of bushy gray hair, he stood slowly, extending his thick hand. “Jerry Wilkins,” he said. “Mike Cancini, right?” The detective nodded. “I remember you. As I recall, you refused to be interviewed, even after you got Spradlin.”

  Cancini sat down. “Sorry about that. I’m not too good with the press. It wasn’t personal.”

  The man sipped on a Jack and Coke. “Hell, if I took ­people turning down interviews as a personal affront, I’d have no friends at all.” He grinned. “There were plenty of others who were willing to talk, especially during the trial. Everyone after their fifteen minutes.”

  “Sure,” Cancini said. He remembered. The case was on the front page of the local paper for weeks.

  “Seems like history’s repeating itself.”

  “Maybe,” the detective said. He pulled out a small notebook and pen. “Do you mind?”

  “Why not,” the man said with a shrug. “Could be interesting to have the tables turned.”

  “Well, I think Ernie might’ve told you I’m doing some background, trying to get a better picture of the past, what it was like here before the trial, before the rapes and murders.”

  The man picked up his drink, swallowing the rest in one gulp. He wiped his mouth with the paper cocktail napkin, balled it up and tossed it on the table. “That was a long time ago. Little Springs was a pretty peaceful town, I guess.” His fat fingers traced the rim of the empty glass. He was in no hurry to answer. “Still had the paper mill then, and the college had started growing. Economy was pretty good for us. Things were looking good.” His hand dropped from the glass. “But that’s not the stuff you want to hear.”

  “No.”

  “You want to hear about the rumors.”

  “I guess I do.”

  The man stiffened. “I’m not a fan of gossip, young man. That may be the kind of stuff that gets printed in the papers today, but I believe in facts. Facts are news. Rumors are not.”

  Cancini held his gaze. “I understand, Mr. Wilkins, but if it’s possible there’s any truth to those rumors, they could be important.”

  “Well, I don’t see how. Even as sordid as those rumors were, there was never any hint of the kind of violence in the coed cases. It was more sexual harassment type stuff. I don’t see how one thing has to do with the other. “

  “Maybe it doesn’t. I don’t know. What I do know is that too many girls have been lost at Blue Hill. I don’t know if the past has anyth
ing to do with what’s happening now, but I’d like to find out.”

  Wilkins sat back and folded his arms across his chest. A throwback, he reported news. He didn’t create or generate it, and Cancini had to respect that. But Cancini knew the retired editor was also a father and a grandfather of girls, and he hoped his appeal would make a difference. The old man’s face softened.

  “I had a woman who came to the paper once. Claimed she was raped. She was upset and wanted us to do a story,” the retired journalist said. “She was a sophomore, only nineteen years old.”

  “But you didn’t do the story?”

  A shadow passed over the old man’s face. “No, I didn’t. I sent one of my guys to investigate, and he came back with nothing. Said she was a girl with an ax to grind. She refused to go to the police, so we had to drop it.”

  “But you think maybe the girl was telling the truth?”

  “I don’t know,” the man admitted. “Maybe.”

  Cancini wrote a few things in his notebook. “The reporter you sent. Did he say why he thought the girl was lying?”

  The old newspaperman’s eyes hardened and the lines around his mouth deepened. “I sent a young man I thought had more ambition than ability. I thought his eagerness would help him ferret out the story, if there was one. I think now maybe I made an error in judgment. About a week after he told me there was no story, he got a new job, a big job, up in Philly.” The man’s lip curled. “He was more ambitious than I thought.”

  Tapping his pen against the notepad, Cancini sat back against the hard wooden chair. “Dropping the story and getting the new job. You suspected the two things were connected?”

  Jerry snorted. “Maybe I did. Maybe I still do, but there’s no way to know for sure. I do know he left me in the lurch on more than one story. Whole staff had to work overtime to get the paper out.”

  The waitress brought another Jack and Coke for Jerry. She set a frothy mug of beer in front of Cancini. “Ernie sent it over,” she said. He thanked her and took a swig. It was cold and tasty.

  “What about the girl? Did you ever follow up with her?”

  “I tried. Went up to the college myself to interview her, but she’d dropped out and gone home. The school said she left because of poor grades. Her parents wouldn’t talk. That was the end of the story.”

  “I see.” Jerry had been right. It was more unsubstantiated rumor. Ernie had warned him, but that didn’t ease his disappointment. “Well, thanks for your time, Mr. Wilkins.”

  “Sorry I wasn’t more help. I’d like to see this madness stop.”

  “Yes, sir.” Cancini stood, picking up his mug.

  Wilkins gestured for Cancini to wait. “Detective, it was a different time back then.” Cancini nodded. “Old man Baldwin, he ran the college back then, and he pretty much ran the town, too. Seemed like he had a hand in everything that happened around here.”

  “I remember him.” Cancini recalled a man whose authority was unquestioned by those around him, even the chief of police. At the time, the college president had been absolutely frantic about the rapes and murders, calling the police chief several times a day for an update on the case. Back then, everyone deferred to him. Cancini sat down again, setting the heavy mug on the table. The old man wasn’t done.

  “Down here in town,” the old reporter said, “we didn’t know everything that was going on up at the college. So, when we heard rumors, we didn’t pay much attention.” He ran his large hand over his face and rubbed his chin. “There is one man, a professor, who might know something. He wouldn’t talk then, maybe out of grief, maybe ’cause of something else, but those reasons are long gone now. He might be willing.” Wilkins gave Cancini the name and number. “Let me know how it turns out.” He eased out of the chair, throwing a handful of bills on the table. “I hope you find the facts, young man. Soon.”

  Chapter Fifty-­Seven

  JULIA SAT CROSS-­LEGGED in the middle of the bed, her hands wrapped around her cell phone and a notebook filled with questions in her lap. She pushed the button illuminating the screen. One fifty-­four a.m. Spradlin would call in a few moments. She leaned back against the pillows and scrolled through the texts she’d received and sent in the last few hours.

  10:15 p.m. Have you read the diaries?

  10:25 p.m. Half, maybe more but not all of them yet.

  10:26 p.m. Finish them now. It’s important.

  What was the point? What could possibly be in those diaries that was so important? Exhausted, she was tired of playing his cat-­and-­mouse games. She’d spent most of the last two days on the story of the murders, picking up the diaries in free moments. Still, she’d learned nothing more than young Leo was still angry with his mother over something she’d kept hidden from him. Mrs. Spradlin had begun tiptoeing around her own son. Julia disliked them both. She didn’t want to read the diaries. She wanted a scotch and a hot bath.

  10:35 p.m. Why don’t you tell me what you want me to know?

  10:36 p.m. Read. Please!!!

  She’d rolled her eyes at first, then looked at the text again. He wasn’t just telling her to read. He was begging. She’d picked up the diary. Why was it so important to him that she read his mother’s diaries? And why now? He had to know what was going on at the campus and in town. He had to know the FBI was searching for him. Rumors were all over town.

  10:42 p.m. I’ll read. Where are you?

  10:43 p.m. Thank you. I’ll call you at 2.

  And that had been it. She’d finished nearly an hour earlier, although a small part of her wished she’d never started. She checked the time again. One fifty-­nine a.m. Any second, her phone would vibrate. She held the notebook in her lap. It was filled with question after question.

  She flinched when the phone buzzed once, then twice.

  “Hello?”

  “Do you understand now?”

  “I . . . I think so.”

  “Have you talked to anyone?”

  “No.”

  “Good. Can we meet?” She didn’t answer. “It’s important that I speak to you. Only you.”

  Julia shivered. Norm had been more right than he realized. This was the story of the year—­maybe the decade. Her fingers had been itching for the last hour. If she wrote the story well, she could win a prize. If she lived to write it.

  “Where? When?”

  “I’m in a cabin about forty miles outside of town. Do you have a pen?”

  When he ended the call, Julia sat motionless, the phone still in her hand. She shivered again, her skin clammy. She must be out of her mind. The realization of what she had just agreed to sank in. She would meet with a killer. She knew it at midnight, the words in the diary leaving no room for doubt. He was not an innocent man, unjustly convicted. No, he was guilty. She took deep breaths to steady her nerves. The story was the thing. He’d promised she would get the story, the whole story. He’d also promised she would be safe. She wasn’t stupid. She was well aware the carrot he was dangling was a dangerous one, but still . . .

  An hour passed. Two hours. Three hours. She rose stiffly from the bed and gathered the diaries into a pile. From her bag, she pulled out the large manila envelope with her name scrawled across the front and slid the books inside the envelope. She opened her spiral notebook to a fresh page and wrote a message. “These books were given to me by Leo Spradlin of his own free will. They were the property of his mother and should now be used as evidence.” Before she could change her mind, she signed her name and added the notebook to the envelope. She dressed and filled her bag with a fresh notebook, pens, and her tape recorder. Goose bumps covered her arms in spite of the heater she’d turned on during the night.

  She picked up the envelope and sealed it with tape. With a large, black marker, she crossed out her name and wrote another: Detective Michael Cancini. The journals and her notes were the only insurance she had, especia
lly if anything happened to her. She sat down, her head bowed. If she didn’t go, things would get worse. More girls would surely die. If she did go, she might be next. What if this was a trick? What if everything he said was part of another plan, one she didn’t want to contemplate? Her heart thumped under her clothes.

  She stood and clutched the envelope to her chest. It held the biggest story of her career, of her life. It held the truth. Her fingers prickled and she rubbed them absently on her pants. She had to go. She locked the envelope in the safe and took one more look around the room. There was nothing else she could do. She opened the door. He had promised.

  Chapter Fifty-­Eight

  HE PULLED THE dark curtain aside, peeking out the window. A gunmetal haze hung low over the ground. He sighed. Winter weather would be coming soon. Letting the curtain fall, he rose from the bed and dressed quickly. It was Sunday, the almighty day designated for worship and reflection. The good ­people of Little Springs would put on their Sunday best and shuffle off to church ser­vices. They would sing and hold their Bibles and nod when the preacher told them they were sinners. The man grunted. What God? He hadn’t believed in that for longer than he could remember.

  He studied his reflection, squinting to make out his features in the shadows. He dared not turn on a light and give any sign of his location. It had been years since he’d needed his safe place, and it was best to lie low. He’d need to keep his senses sharp.

  He picked up a cell phone from the table and flipped to the pictures. The first photo showed the blonde, her hair streaked with blood, her long, muscular limbs limp and lifeless. She wasn’t so damn bouncy anymore. There were two more of her, then four of the second girl. His heart pounded as he scrolled through them one by one. He knew it was stupid to have taken the pictures and even dumber to have kept them, but he couldn’t help it. He looked at the last picture. It was the girl from the coffee shop. Blurry and taken from a distance, the photo could not mask the girl’s pluck or beauty. His loins stirred. He sensed something different about her. She wasn’t like the others, didn’t easily fit a type. She wasn’t a sorority girl or an academic. She seemed bright, and she had a handful of friends. But she was more complicated, wasn’t she? He imagined she wanted independence—­not only from her family but from what was expected. Oh, how he would love to wipe that insolent look off her pretty face.