It didn’t have the glamour of his office upstairs. To one side stood a row of wooden bunks, four of the six beds neatly made and unoccupied, two sporting lumps beneath the blankets where tired patrol officers slept between shifts. On the walls, nude Playboy centerfolds that had been ignored by the female officers for years had become faded and cracked, some enhanced with speech bubbles or crude bodily appendages. The pool table, vending machine, and couches were the originals from Pops’s time as a recruit.
No one seemed overly curious about the senior officer using their rec room as a command center. As the shifts changed and the officers came and went, some glanced his way and whispered, or greeted him respectfully, but they otherwise let him be.
On the board before him, Pops had pasted the composite sketch of Regan Banks given by Bonnie Risdale’s neighbor, and the photograph of the man from his time in prison. Stretching out from the photographs, following his lines of inquiry with connecting arrows, were notes about possible means of finding Regan, some of them reaching outward from the center before being abruptly cut off after only a few stages.
One of the short arms of the investigation was the “Resources” route. Most fugitives, Pops knew, went straight to their network of resources for funding or shelter when they were being pursued by police. But Regan had no living relatives, and no one at the apartment building where he had lived after his release had been able to recall seeing a single other person in the man’s company. He had no social-media accounts, no email, no registered phone. No waitresses, bartenders, bus drivers, or shopkeepers near his home recalled him when shown pictures and questioned. He was a shadow man. In the time he had been free from prison, Pops couldn’t account for Regan doing anything other than setting upon his plan to frame Sam Blue, and for that he had scarce evidence.
Regan is alone, Pops thought, looking at the photograph, at the black, empty eyes hardly reflecting the camera’s light. But does he avoid people, or do people avoid him?
A longer arm of the diagram read “Past,” but there were no leads there, either. No foster parents or siblings had seen or heard from Regan since his childhood. There had been no unexpected visits, calls, threats, or pleas, and the parents and families of his victims, like Diane Howes, had heard nothing.
Thinking of Diane led Pops’s attention to the last arm of the diagram, the one that read “First Kill.” Pops’s eyes wandered over the Georges River Killer’s victims. They had all been so like Doctor Howes. Regan had a type. Ambitious, beautiful brunettes. Wide-eyed, happy women, thriving, full of potential.
Was Rachel Howes indeed where it all started for Regan? Would he return to that place, the way it seemed he had with the Georges River, trying to connect to a moment lost or undo a terrible decision made? Killing Rachel Howes had been a pivotal moment for Regan, after all. It seemed that she had been the one to inspire his type.
Pops tapped his lip with a stubby finger, ignoring a group of young officers bashing the vending machine, trying to free a trapped can of Coke.
The “First Kill” arm of the diagram was right next to the “Family” section, which lay empty.
Pops looked at the two lines and took his phone out of his pocket.
Chapter 55
THE RECOGNITION WAS immediate. The tall, broad-shouldered ghoul from my nightmares, the hooded face that stalked my every move, leaving a trail of victims behind him. Rachel Howes, his first victim. Marissa Haydon, Elle Ramone, Rosetta Poelar, the Georges River girls. I was too late. Melina Tredwell would be Regan’s next kill. I ducked behind the low wall and watched as Regan paused at the corner of the house, seeming to look right at me through the dim blue light of impending night. He patted his pockets, as though he had forgotten something, and turned back the way he had come.
For the first time, I had to force myself to move. Terror had immobilized me. It would be so easy to stay where I was, call the police, let someone else rush into the danger. But in a moment I was up and following, my gun at my side.
I lifted the barrel and pointed it at the man as he reached for an open window at the side of the house. My thumb had already raked back the hammer of the pistol as the words spewed forth from my lips.
“Don’t. Fucking. Move.”
My voice struck him like electricity. He jolted at each one, head bent, hands frozen in the air.
Even with him paused there before me, his broad back only centimeters away, my thoughts were racing. What was I doing? I’d come here to kill him, not arrest him.
I realized the hand that held my weapon was shaking. I drew a deep breath and put the barrel of the gun against the back of his skull.
Chapter 56
“HARRY?” SOMEONE CALLED.
Her voice barely penetrated the ringing in my ears. The boy in front of me was cowering, turned as much toward me as he would dare, one wide eye peering over his shoulder at my gun. I was aware suddenly of movement beyond the teenage boy under my gun, toward the front of the house. Melina Tredwell, older than I remembered, hugging a coat around her. The teenage boy bent and sank to the ground. I realized the ringing sound was his pitiful whimpering, along with the panicked screaming of a teenage girl just inside the window to my left.
“Harry!” Melina had been running toward me, and now she slowed, her palms out flat. “Harry, please put the gun down.”
“She’s gonna kill me.” The boy I’d thought was Regan Banks crouched against the side of the house, trying to make himself as small as possible. “She’s gonna kill me!”
I dropped the aim of my gun. My legs felt numb. I staggered, wiped at the sweat on my brow. My jaws were locked together so tightly, it took a concerted effort to part them.
“Harry, it’s me.” Melina took my arms carefully, her touch gentle, fearful. “It’s Melina.”
“I almost shot that boy,” I said. My voice was flat. Cold. “I thought he was Regan. I almost killed him.”
“You’re shaking,” Melina said. “Come inside.”
She turned to the boy on the ground. The kid’s enormous, weightlifter-style frame was in stark contrast to his smooth, hairless face and big, innocent eyes. He couldn’t have been older than sixteen. He appeared to have left the house by the window beside me, forgotten something, and was heading back in. In the house, a teenage girl, maybe fifteen, was tugging a robe around herself, eyes fearful, locked on me.
“You.” Melina pointed a finger at the boy on the ground, all her softness suddenly gone. “Both of you. In the kitchen, right now.”
Chapter 57
I WAS LED into the kitchen, the boy trailing guiltily behind us. I was surprised to see it was 11 p.m. on the clock above the fridge. Pots and pans were drying on the draining board from their dinner. Suburban bliss. Melina took the gun carefully from my stiff hand. She carried it to the table pinched between two fingers, as if squeezing it too hard might set it off. I sank into a kitchen chair. The teenagers crept to the corner of the kitchen farthest from me, both with their eyes on the gun.
“Winley”—Melina shook her head ruefully at the boy—“your mother is going to lose her goddamn mind when I tell her I caught you around here in Janna’s room again.”
“You—” Janna began.
“Not a word!” Melina roared, pointing at the girl. “You are in so much trouble right now, girl, you better shut your mouth and pray I don’t slap you senseless.”
The family fell into silence. I had no strength left. All I could do was watch and listen.
“Who is she?” Winley gestured to me.
“She’s no one,” Melina said. “In fact, I want both your mobile phones. Give them to me right now. Neither of you idiots are going to go Snapchatting about this.”
The teens handed over their phones. Melina snatched them and put them in a drawer, muttering angrily to herself as she bustled about the kitchen, “…through the bedroom window like a fucking tomcat…”
The teens watched me. I watched them back.
“Your nose is broken,” the girl
said.
“Is that a real gun?” the boy said.
Melina handed me a glass of water. I drank greedily. She sat down across the little table from me, the gun between us.
“I saw the news last night about Bonnie Risdale,” Melina said. “They’re saying she was one of your old cases. That’s why you’re here. You thought he might come for me.”
I could only nod. The teenagers were whispering to each other, stuck standing against the wall like prisoners caught in a watchtower spotlight. They were putting it together. Bonnie Risdale. I heard the boy mention Regan’s name. The girl’s eyes widened, and she reached for his hand. Melina seemed to be thinking, her eyes wandering over my bruised face.
“Mrs. Tredwell, can I please go home?” Winley asked.
“No,” Melina snapped. “You come sneaking around here, you should be prepared to stay. Neither of you is going anywhere until Harry’s safely on the road, with a reasonable head start.”
The girl scoffed. “What the hell? We get in trouble for sneaking around, and you’re going to help out a wanted criminal?” Janna pointed at me. “Mum, the police are looking for her! Isn’t what you’re doing breaking the law?”
“I’ll break something in a minute,” Melina murmured.
The girl fell back into line, pouting. I wasn’t sure, but I thought I heard her whisper that this whole situation was bullshit. Melina ignored the child, turning back to me.
“Let’s get you fixed up,” she said. “You’ve got a killer to catch.”
Chapter 58
REGAN WAITED ON the doorstep of the Jansen house, just beyond the reach of the glow coming from the stained-glass panel in the thick wooden door. As usual after a killing, he’d left Bonnie Risdale’s house with more than a few nicks and scratches, most notably a claw mark down the side of his neck that he was now trying to hide with the collar of his shirt. He remembered her doing it, a desperate swipe as he squeezed her throat, catching him just as he twisted out of reach. He knew there’d be no fighting tonight. This was going to be a gentle, warm, drawn-out evening. He was smiling to himself as he heard a pair of feet slowly shuffling toward the other side of the door.
She was everything he had envisioned. Small, bent-backed, peering at him through reading glasses that gave her large and bewildered eyes. She turned on a stern frown as he had expected she would, clutching her fluffy dressing gown around her.
“Yes?” was all she offered. An old woman mildly peeved at having to answer the door at such an hour.
“I’m so sorry to bother you,” Regan said. “My name is Sean Geyser. I’m with the Australian Electric Company.”
“We’re quite happy with our service.” Eloise Jansen took the door in hand. “And what an inconvenient hour to be—”
“I’m not selling anything.” Regan put his hands up. “I’m here because your neighbors across the street have been experiencing some unexpected power surges. I wondered if I could come in and check your system. We just want to make sure everyone is safe.”
“Power surges?” Mrs. Jansen glanced into the hallway behind her, hands fluttering with tension. “Oh, dear. Of course. Come in. Are we in danger? Should we turn the power off?”
“Oh, no, no, you’re perfectly safe,” Regan lied. He crossed the threshold and closed and locked the door behind him.
In the living room, collapsed into an ancient recliner covered with a crocheted afghan, sat an old man, his hands on the armrests. Regan stood in the doorway, looking around the room as Mrs. Jansen went to the old man and poked him, which only resulted in louder snores.
“Gary? Gary? It’s the power man. The power man’s here.”
Regan rather liked thinking of himself as “the power man.” He strolled to the wall beside the huge, pine-veneer television set and looked at a collection of photographs hanging there. About fifty frames of different sizes and shapes had been arranged in a sort of cloud shape, each perfectly positioned at the same distance from the next, a smattering of faces in every conceivable circumstance. There were small, cheery-cheeked toddlers feeding ducks at sunlit ponds and early school-age girls lounging on a rug, playing with dolls, whispering in one another’s ears. Childhood secrets. There were teenagers reluctantly posing for their photographs, holding certificates awkwardly by their corners. Gary, finally roused from his living-room slumber, had shuffled to Regan’s side, a pair of thick glasses almost identical to his wife’s now perched on his nose.
“What is it? The electrics?”
Regan nodded, hardly willing to go much further with the ruse. The power man was in the house now. He dropped all pretense, pointed to the picture wall while the elderly couple stood waiting for instructions.
“Tell me about this,” he said.
“We haven’t got time for chatter,” Gary grumbled, gesturing to the clock, which read 11 p.m. “It’s the middle of the bloody night!”
“Those are the lovely children we’ve taken into our home over the years.” Eloise stepped forward, embarrassed by her husband’s gruffness in the face of an official visitor. “We could never have children of our own, so we fostered. That was many years ago.” She gave a small chuckle. “We’re too old now, aren’t we, Gary?”
Gary shuffled off to the kitchen, muttering to himself. Regan perused the pictures until he found the one he was looking for. He’d almost missed her, she looked so much like an angry teenage boy. Harriet was sitting on a brick wall, her arms crossed, glaring up at the camera as though she’d only just noticed she was being snapped and was about to launch into a tirade of protest. Red flannelette shirt, wild, short-cropped black hair. Regan took the photograph off the wall and held it in the dim light. A plain black plastic frame, no frills. Perfect. Eloise Jansen was frowning at his having removed the picture, and her frown deepened when he spoke.
“Tell me about this girl, Mrs. Jansen,” Regan said.
“I don’t mean to be impolite,” Eloise said, “but it is rather late for a visitor. Should we perhaps get on to the business of the electrics? My husband gets rather tired in the evenings. He’s eighty-four, you know.”
She tried to take the picture frame from him. Regan held on, and when she insisted, he tugged the picture out of her hand.
Eloise took a step back, surprised.
Regan advanced on her slowly, backing her into the corner of the neat living room. The old woman looked like she wanted to scream, but from her lips came only a tiny whimper.
“I said”—Regan held the photo close to the woman’s face—“tell me about this girl.”
Chapter 59
I SHOWERED, THE hot water running down my muddy arms, over the grazes and cuts on my knuckles, dirt swirling on the tiles beneath my bare feet. I was given a towel and clothes, and dressed in a cluttered bedroom while the girl, Janna, argued with her mother about having to provide me with her best pair of jeans. The black top, grabbed hastily from a shelf by Melina, read “Gucci” in white block letters. I waited on the couch for instructions, staring at the clock as it struck midnight, my mind too torn by what I had done to provide any guidance.
I’d almost killed a child.
How far was I going to take this?
My phone on the coffee table before me buzzed with a call from an unidentified number. Regan. I didn’t answer. I wouldn’t let him into this house, even if it was only by phone. While the girl and her mother argued, Melina searching the kitchen cupboards for food to stock my backpack with, the tall young boy wandered the house awkwardly, trying to get a proper glimpse of me, not brave enough to offer conversation.
I fell asleep. The sensation was like being punched out, a sudden warm darkness, sounds slowly receding.
I was lying on the couch. The windows were lit pink when I dared to open my eyes. The teens were on the second couch, curled together, eyes glued to a huge television set, fingers dancing over black plastic gaming controllers, bowls of cereal uneaten before them. I tried to make myself get up, but the fatigue was too heavy.
Jan
na’s voice drew me out of sleep again. “Don’t touch it.”
“I could just hold it for a second,” the boy said. “You snap a picture. Two seconds. She’ll never know. It’ll go viral on Insty. Can you imagine?”
“My mum will kill you.”
“Two seconds! I’ve never held a gun before. It’s probably not even loaded.”
“It is loaded,” I said, sitting up. The teens paused the game and looked at me. I took my gun from the coffee table where it had been lying in plain sight, probably placed there by Melina so that the kids couldn’t sneak off with it without her knowing. I ejected the clip and the chamber bullet, let the slide shunt forward and slammed the clip back in. The boy’s eyes were wild with intrigue. I’d given him a show, at least. The kids lifted their eyes from the gun to me, two attentive kittens, bewitched.
“Are you really gonna kill that guy when you find him?” Janna asked.
“That’s the plan,” I said.
“Won’t that make you, like, a murderer?” she asked. She glanced at the boy for courage. “Won’t it sort of…bring you down to his level?”
Melina appeared behind my couch, giving the young ones a warning look as she put a hand on my shoulder. The kids went reluctantly back to their game as I took up my gun and phone. I wanted to give the kid an answer, but I didn’t have one.
Chapter 60
IN THE KITCHEN, my backpack sat fat and zipped up on the counter.
“There’s plenty of food,” she said. “And I put in an extra jacket and a rain poncho. I put the cash you had in your jeans in there, your wallet…I charged your phone while you were asleep.”
“Thank you. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this.”
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