by K. L. Murphy
He’d expected her to evacuate like the others. Spotting her had felt like a sign. She’d walked several blocks, then backtracked, changing direction more than once. She was smarter than most. He’d give her that, but it wouldn’t save her. Did she think she was safe? Did she have a young person’s misguided confidence in her own immortality? It didn’t matter. She would learn no one lives forever. Death always finds you, one way or another. He breathed a sigh of satisfaction. For the girl from the coffee shop, that day was coming.
He left the darkness of the room and went into the bathroom, where he’d covered the window with a large, black plastic bag. A nightlight provided the only illumination. He filled the bathtub and scrolled through the pictures one more time, lingering on the photo of the girl from the coffee shop. He tossed the phone into the water and watched it sink. There could be no loose ends.
It would be finished soon. One more girl, and the hysteria would be unstoppable. A moment of melancholy washed over him. He would miss the girls. It would hurt like hell, but that’s how it had to be. He’d suffered through withdrawal before, and he would have to do it again. The memory of this girl and the others would have to last. If only he could stop time and make it last forever.
This girl would be his final prize, and Julia something altogether different. He liked her. She meant well, but she was nosy, like any reporter—always asking questions. At first, she’d been easy to manipulate, her ambition and desperation to get the story obvious. He’d fed her tidbits, and she’d taken it all. But the two dead girls had made her wary. She was a problem now. It was a damn shame. He’d have to use her hunger to succeed to trap her and destroy her. A smile crept across his face. Two bitches. It was going to be a good day.
Chapter Fifty-Nine
JULIA STEPPED OUT of the hotel. A fog had risen during the night and hovered over the road like a veil, blurring the light of the streetlamps. The horn of a distant train sounded. The air blew cold, and she pulled her jacket tight across her chest. Glancing at her watch, she knew it would take close to an hour to reach Spradlin. By then, she hoped the sun would be up and the gray skies gone.
She took her time. It wasn’t too late to change her mind. She still had enough for a great story. No one would blame her. Norm would understand. He always did. She bit her lip. Yes, he would understand, and he wouldn’t say a word. But she’d see the look in his eyes. Norm would know she wasn’t willing to take the big risks for the big stories. He’d try to hide his disappointment. He’d tell her she’d done the right thing, but he wouldn’t mean it. Spradlin had promised her details—everything. The diaries weren’t enough. They were hearsay at best. Norm was a newspaperman and Julia knew how it worked. Without the big story, she’d be relegated to fluffy articles about cute dogs for the rest of her life or be forced to quit the paper. No thanks.
She picked up her pace and walked toward the rental car she had parked around the corner. Off Main Street, darkness and close fog enveloped her. A few streetlamps dotted the streets, though not enough to make a difference. The buildings seemed larger and more imposing in the pre-dawn hours. She walked faster to the compact car. Fumbling with the keys, her hands shook as she opened the door. Sliding quickly into the seat, she immediately hit the lock button. She laid her head on the steering wheel and counted to ten until she’d stopped shaking. What was she trying to prove? This was crazy.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket, and she pulled it out with shaking fingers. Another text from Spradlin.
Are you on your way?
She looked out into the darkness. The fog moved across the road, evaporating with each passing minute. The moon glowed, its welcome light cutting through the dark. She exhaled. With steadier hands, she typed her response.
Leaving now.
He answered immediately.
Don’t be scared. I’m waiting for you.
She said the words out loud once, twice. “Don’t be scared. I’m waiting for you.” She turned the key in the ignition, flicking on the headlights. She whispered his words again. “Don’t be scared. Don’t be scared.” She picked up her phone, scrolling quickly through her contacts. She typed out a message to Norm.
Meeting Spradlin. If you don’t hear from me by eleven, find Cancini, and tell him to open the safe in my room.
She hesitated, her fingers poised over the keypad. Norm was a good friend, a loyal friend. No matter what, he should know that.
Don’t mean to scare you, but want to tell you I love you. Hope to see you soon.
Fingers trembling, she hit send. One way or the other, the truth would be told. Shivering, she turned on the heat, latched her seat belt, and pressed her foot to the gas. It was time to prove what she was made of. “Don’t be scared.”
Chapter Sixty
CANCINI SAT UP, running his hands through his short, spiky hair. He wasn’t sure how long he’d slept, maybe a couple of hours, maybe more. It didn’t matter. Slipping out of bed, he took a five-minute shower, dressed, and answered the door for room service. Moving to the desk where he’d left his notebook, he sipped steaming coffee. He reread several pages, his mind racing. The notes were nothing more than stories, unsubstantiated rumors, yet the detective was convinced they meant something. Sexual harassment was nothing new, but was it true? He rubbed his temples, brows furrowed. The old reporter was right. Even if the rumors were true, what did it have to with now? What did any of it have to do with the murders of the last few days? Or the ones from decades earlier? He shook his head. He was getting ahead of himself. He needed to know the truth first.
Finished with the pot of coffee, he shoved the notebook in his jacket pocket. He had an appointment with the professor on campus, the one the old reporter had told him about. Retired, the man still lived in the same faculty housing he’d lived in for nearly forty years. Cancini considered telling Talbot about the meeting, then thought better of it. His friend didn’t need the headache. It was better to leave the FBI out of it until he had facts.
Talbot intercepted Cancini in the lobby. “We have a lead on Spradlin.”
“Ah. I guess that explains why you’re here so early.”
“Three independent callers on the tip line say they saw him two days ago in Martinsville. That’s about an hour from here to the west. He was buying cases of water and lots of canned food.”
“Supplies.”
“That’s what it looks like. I sent a team to interview the storeowners, see if anyone remembers which way he went. I’ve got an APB out on his truck for half the state and into West Virginia.”
The two men walked through the lobby. Cancini stopped at a coffee stand, buying two fresh cups. He handed one to Talbot. “Full-blown APB? I thought you just wanted to talk to him.”
The FBI man sipped the scalding coffee. His eyes swept over the quiet lobby, ignoring the question. “I’ve been trying to call you since last night.”
“My phone was off.”
“Bullshit.”
Cancini appraised his old friend. They stood for a moment, each holding their cups, saying nothing.
Talbot spoke first. “Shandling’s alibi is solid for the Thompson murder. He’s not our copycat.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Me too. The brass wants this solved yesterday, but they don’t want us to smear the governor’s name in the process. The truth is, I don’t know what I think about Spradlin. The full APB is insurance. Maybe it is some kind of revenge. Who knows? But it doesn’t make sense. He’s finally free. Why risk it?”
Cancini opened his mouth to comment, then shut it again. There was nothing he could say that Talbot hadn’t already thought of, hadn’t turned over multiple times in his head.
“Spradlin going underground—if that’s what he’s doing—looks suspicious. It’s possible he’s going underground to avoid being targe
ted. People around here don’t exactly like the man.” Talbot’s pale face flushed, and his arms dropped to his sides. His voice cracked when he spoke. “Dammit, Mike. I keep thinking about my daughters. I can’t imagine . . . I want whoever did this behind bars. I don’t care how many people have to be brought in to help on this case. I just want it solved. I want these kids to come back to school and feel safe here.”
Cancini bowed his head, lost in thought. It’s what they all wanted. All murder investigations carried with them a certain amount of responsibility, particularly when you identified with the victims, felt the pain of their families. Cancini had met Talbot’s two college-age daughters. It was no wonder the man couldn’t sleep at night.
Talbot took a slug of coffee. “I want to catch whoever did this no matter who that someone is. But”—he stressed the word, looking down at Cancini—“I cannot arrest a man without any evidence, and no one—I repeat, no one—who is even remotely associated with this investigation will so much as make an accusation without real evidence.” He exhaled. “I don’t know what good it will do one way or the other, but we’ll bring Spradlin in. We have to.”
Cancini respected Talbot, trusted him, but Spradlin had waltzed right out of town in front of all of them. Still, if anyone could find him, it might be Talbot. “What’s the plan?”
“My search team will interview the storekeepers. Based on what we learn, we’ll start a thorough search, widening the radius five miles at a time. If he’s still in that area, we’ll find him.”
“In the meantime?”
Talbot tossed his cup in the trash. “In the meantime, we wait.”
Cancini glanced at his watch.
“Going somewhere?” Talbot asked.
Cancini looked at his friend. Talbot would take the fall if Spradlin wasn’t found. He would be blamed if another girl was killed. And there was nothing he could do but wait. Talbot needed a break. “I’ve got an appointment up at the campus. It might amount to nothing, but then again, it might be something.”
“Another wild-goose chase?”
“Maybe. Probably.”
“What’s it about?”
Cancini hesitated only a moment. “Mostly rumors about some stuff that might have been going on before the first rapes. Might be a lead. Might be nothing, but there’s a professor who’s willing to talk about it.”
“But not connected to the current case?”
“I don’t think so,” he said truthfully. “But if we can solve the first set of rapes, maybe we’ll find something. I know it doesn’t look like it, but somehow, the old and the new cases have to be connected in some way, maybe some way we can’t see.”
“That your gut talking?”
Cancini shot a look at Talbot. There was something or someone connecting the cases. He knew it. Gut instinct may not have been exactly right, but it was as good a reason as any. “Something like that.”
They walked together through the oversized double doors of the hotel.
“Still not sold on the copycat theory?” Talbot asked.
It was a logical theory, and Cancini knew it. But too many things bothered him. Spradlin’s disappearance. The uncontained violence in the assaults. The rumors. The button. “No. Sorry.”
Talbot scratched his head. “I can’t believe I’m going to say this, but hell, I’m not so sold anymore, either.”
Cancini shot a look at Talbot. They’d known each other a long time. He knew Talbot had hoped Shandling was the perp, the copycat. Not because he wanted to be right, but because he wanted it to be over. He was a good cop and a better man. “I’m meeting the professor in a half hour. Want to come?”
The two stepped onto the sidewalk into cool, heavy air. Talbot raised his face to the bleak sky. Dark clouds in the distance promised strong storms later. “Why not?”
Chapter Sixty-One
JULIA GRIPPED THE steering wheel. She focused on the road, her eyes scanning the signs for Route 539. It came up suddenly, and she made a right turn before bringing the car to a stop. She studied her handwritten directions, the paper shaking in her hand as she read. After another mile, she would take a left and follow a dirt road to the end. He would be there.
Julia’s hands dropped into her lap. He’d been clear. Come alone. It was the only way he would tell her the story, the whole story. What she already knew was enough to get everybody’s attention and potentially turn everything on its head, but it wasn’t the whole story. Not for the first time, she questioned her motivation, her willingness to meet a man she knew was a killer. It was a fact now, one he had given her when he placed the diaries in her hands. What she didn’t understand was why.
Leo has done the unthinkable.
The words on the page had barely been legible, the handwriting spidery.
He hasn’t told me why, but I think I know. After the first girl, I suspected, of course, but I didn’t want to hear. After the second, though, I couldn’t stay quiet. He told me it was true. He wasn’t always this way—so distant, so cold. He told me he did his best to make it as painless as possible for the girls. God help me, I believe him. I don’t think he planned to kill them, but it doesn’t matter now. He did. My son is a murderer.
She rubbed her arms. What did Brenda know about why Leo killed those girls? What did he mean when he said he tried to make it painless? Julia blinked at the colorless sky. Thick clouds had rolled in, low and heavy. She needed to hurry to get there, before the rain. She pulled out a tape recorder from her canvas bag. It held a fresh tape, almost two hours of time. It would have to be enough. She slipped the machine into her jacket pocket.
Turning left on the dirt road, she slowed to avoid deep ruts and heavy brush. Trees lined the road and hung low over her car. Newly cut branches lay on each side where someone, Leo maybe, had recently cleared this old road. It took almost five minutes to reach the end, where a small, wooden structure, barely bigger than a shack, stood. The cabin’s one square window had been covered by something dark, blocking any view inside. A stack of two-by-fours lay near the door. New wood had recently replaced old and rotted pieces.
Leo stood in the doorway, waiting. He watched as she climbed from the car, his eyes darting over her shoulder, down the dirt road. He cocked his head slightly and appeared to listen. Canvas bag thrown over her shoulder, she walked slowly toward the run-down cabin. Once inside, he closed the door behind her.
She took in the compact room. The rising sun provided the only light. It streamed in through the cracks and chinks in the wooden walls. The window was covered with black plastic; underneath stood a single bed. A table stacked with canned goods and two chairs was pushed against the far wall. Several cases of bottled water were piled in the corner. A small woodstove provided heat and a place to cook.
“Did anyone follow you?”
“No,” she said, shaking her head. She shivered in the cabin’s dampness.
“Did you tell anyone where you were going?”
Julia could feel his eyes on her and raised her head to meet his gaze. “I haven’t spoken to anyone since you asked me to come here.” He nodded, satisfied. Julia exhaled.
Julia touched her hand to her pocket, feeling the outline of the tape recorder. “Nice place you got here. Did you build it yourself?” She pressed the record button as she spoke.
“I was always good with my hands. Learned how to fix things, build things. Kids with no dad have to do that.” He looked away, his voice husky with nostalgia. “I found this place in high school. It was abandoned, so I rebuilt it. I used to come here to be alone. It’s been a long time since I’ve been here.”
His words reminded her she was in a remote location with a man who had already spent years in prison, who had murdered women with his bare hands. Her breathing became shallow and ragged. Her skin screamed with the pain of unseen pricks, and she had to fight the urge to run. Concentrating,
she closed her hand around the tape recorder and turned the microphone upward toward Leo. “You said if I came here, you would tell me the truth.” She struggled to keep her voice steady. “Everything about what happened back then.”
He stared at her. “I like you, Julia.” She thought she saw his light eyes glisten, but when he blinked, any emotion she’d imagined was gone. Leo went to the table, pulling out two chairs. He moved with a pantherlike grace, a quality she’d noticed the first time she’d seen him. He’d looked like an aloof movie star at the press conference. Jesus, she’d even found him attractive. Not now. He was remote and cold and maybe something worse. She shivered.
“Yes, I promised you the truth.” He hesitated and gestured to the empty chair. After she sat, he said, “I’ve done terrible things.” His voice was matter-of-fact but tinged with unexpected sadness. “I killed those girls. You read the diaries. You know that now. Soon, everyone will know.”
“Bu-but why?”
“I had my reasons. Reasons my mother couldn’t understand, wouldn’t understand.”
The words spilled out then, every detail. He didn’t spare her feelings or stop when she gasped in horror. He kept talking in a measured and detached tone. She didn’t want to listen, but she did. After an hour, he finished and a chill stole over Julia’s body. He’d laid it all out, told her everything. She sat perfectly still.
“You understand you can’t be allowed to live?”
Her lips moved, but she couldn’t speak, nodding instead.