by Dan Padavona
“Why do you believe it’s the same person?”
“Because the man was from around here. Seems like an awful big coincidence—two creepers in the same county uploading sick videos to the internet.”
“Can you send me the video links?”
She nodded. The door slid open, and Naomi returned with a drink refill.
“Let me message Harper. I’ll send the links to you tomorrow.”
“Scout, if you notice anyone canvassing the lake road, tell me.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Night slid down the windowpane as Scout shifted the wheelchair in front of the computer. In sharp silver and green tones, the Virtual Searchers website loaded in her browser. She typed queries for animal torture and murder into the search box. A confusing array of results filled her screen. A few months ago, the videos caused a stir on the forum.
As she altered her search terms, a chat window popped up in the lower right corner of her screen. Harpy was online.
Harpy: Hey there.
Scout: Glad you signed on. I’m having a hard time locating an old investigation.
Harpy: I’m just the girl for the job. What are you looking for?
Scout: Remember the sicko killing animals and uploading videos?
Harpy: Yeah, we never caught the creep. Don’t tell me he’s back.
Scout: Not that I’ve heard. Didn’t we determine he lived near Wolf Lake?
An hour glass displayed while Harpy typed.
Harpy: Maybe. Been a long time since I saw the videos.
Scout: That’s the problem. I can’t locate the threads.
Harpy: Yeah. The Virtual Searchers search algorithm is jacked up. You can’t find anything older than three months without Google. Give me a sec.
Scout grabbed her caffeine-free soda off the desk and drank. She eyed the clock. Almost nine. She’d stayed up late before to research crimes on school nights. But she had an exam tomorrow morning, and she hadn’t studied yet.
Harpy: K. Didn’t find the thread. But I found the videos. You want them?
Scout: You’re a lifesaver. Send the links.
Harpy: They’re on a dark website. Don’t recommend downloading from the site unless you want your PC hacked. I have a safe method for downloading. Will send them to you.
Scout: Wow. That’s just what I needed.
A minute later, an icon displayed beside Scout’s profile. Her files had arrived. Sickness gurgled in her stomach. She’d avoided the videos last winter when they surfaced. Scout couldn’t watch animals die. But she’d taken part in the hunt. Someone needed to catch the monster and lock him up before he hurt another animal. Now she’d have to watch the videos. What choice did she have? She couldn’t prove this guy was the Wolf Lake murderer. But the coincidence ate at her.
Harpy: Did you get the files?
Scout: You bet. Thanks again.
Harpy: Cool. Hope this helps. I have to run. Paper due tomorrow. Gotta start before my parents lose their minds.
Scout: Ha ha. Same here. Talk to you tomorrow.
After Scout logged out of the chat, she downloaded the files. Harpy had combined the videos into a zip file to reduce the size. Though she trusted Harpy’s judgment, Scout ran a virus check before she unzipped the videos. Everything checked out. She created a folder called Sicko Videos and saved the files.
For five minutes, her hand held the mouse without clicking. Once she saw the videos, there would be no going back. Her heart pounded in her chest. In the living room, a sitcom with a laugh track played. The television was too loud for Mom to overhear.
Scout opened the first video.
Grainy footage displayed a guinea pig inside an aquarium. The pet crunched on kibble, then the guinea pig padded to the glass, stood on its hind legs, and clawed against the enclosure. The video continued like this for a full minute. Scout was about to skip ahead when a black sack filled the upper right corner of the screen. Her hands turned clammy. She didn’t see the man, only the sack as it unfurled. Scout’s breath caught in her throat when the boa constrictor, thick as her arm, dropped into the enclosure. The snake’s tongue flicked. Panicked, the guinea pig scurried to the far corner and froze. Too late. The snake struck.
Scout turned away. Awful sounds played through the speakers—the desperate squeal, crunching bones.
Her hands clasped to her face. She peeked between two fingers. The snake coiled around the guinea pig until she stopped the movie.
She clicked out of the window and sobbed. Her stomach lurched, and she leaned her head back and breathed until the nausea passed. After she gathered herself, she stared at the filenames. The madman labeled the videos with chilling descriptions:
Guinea pig and snake
Puppy suffocation
Kitten and scorpions
Right-clicking on the files revealed the EXIF data. The killer recorded the videos in Harmon, NY, last December. Now she had evidence linking the animal torture to the Erika Windrow murder. The events took place in the same city, separated by four months. She read articles on murderer profiling. Many serial killers murdered animals before graduating to humans. She would tell Thomas tomorrow.
Armed with new information, she queried the website again. By changing the terms and including the EXIF data, she located the message threads. She skimmed the forum. Most members displayed outrage. They wanted frontier justice. How could this guy murder innocent animals on camera and get away with it? Why weren’t the police investigating? Other members remained calm and listed the facts. Scout’s eyebrows shot up. When the videos first appeared, the psycho used the name Max Cady. The name came from the movie Cape Fear. After she researched the false name online, Scout had forced her mother to rent the movie from Amazon. Though it was more thriller than horror, Cape Fear frightened Scout. She didn’t sleep for a week. Why hadn’t she remembered the killer’s name?
Now she raced through the internet at lightning speed. Searching for the Erika Windrow murder video, she slapped a frustrated hand against the desk. The websites had removed the copies. No question she’d find the files on the dark web. But her mother forbade Scout from venturing down those paths, and she didn’t relish losing her computer to a virus or hacker.
The television turned off in the living room. Mom’s footsteps passed Scout’s room and stopped. She lingered outside the door, listening. The lights inside Scout’s bedroom poured beneath the threshold.
Scout closed the browser and shut the computer down. Then she pushed the wheelchair to her bed, struggled onto the mattress, and flicked the light off. Full dark enveloped the bedroom. Every shadow looked like a killer with a knife. On the lake road, a car crawled past.
How would she find Max Cady?
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
The Friday morning editions of the Bluewater Tribune lay stacked on the sidewalk when Violet Kain unlocked the door to South Street News. The stale interior carried tobacco and parchment scents, and a yellow trail beside the counter told Violet the mousetrap had failed again. She blew out a breath and set the keys on the counter, flicked on the lights, and flipped the sign over to Yes, We’re Open!
No sooner did she wipe the mess with a paper towel than the bell rang. She didn’t lift her head until the size eleven black boots stepped into her personal space. Whoever this creep was, he almost crushed her fingers.
“Could you give me a second? I just turned the damn sign over.”
“Bluewater Tribune. Now.”
“You’ll need to wait until I cut the bundle.”
“I did it for you.”
The knife he produced had deep, jagged teeth. Like the maw of a werewolf. And there was something caught between the serrated points. It almost looked like hair. She caught her breath, heart slamming as she carefully rose.
The man stood a foot taller than Violet, his razor-buzzed hair color a purgatory between blonde and brunette. Deep-set eyes as black as coals. Face red and irritated. Not acne. More like an allergic reaction.
He slappe
d the newspaper down. She couldn’t take her eyes off the knife as she rounded the counter, hands trembling as she opened the cash register.
While he waited on the other side of the counter, nothing to stop the man from blocking her exit and jamming the blade into her belly, he unfurled the paper and grinned at the headline. Someone had mailed a severed head to the newspaper. Was the man laughing?
Attached to the wall at shin level, a red button jutted forth like a miniature clown nose. All she needed to do was touch the button with the toe of her sneaker, and the police would come. South Street News had seen its share of robberies over the last decade, and though the man hadn’t demanded money, she wasn’t chancing fate.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
Her eyes shot up. Somehow, he knew. The man tossed four quarters onto the counter. One rolled off and clanged against the floor. As she knelt to retrieve the coin, she thought about the alarm again. And the gun. Herb Ryerson kept a pistol in the back room, locked inside a safe. Little good the gun did her now.
When Violet stood, the door swung shut, no sign of the man.
* * *
From the safety of his tiny apartment high above the city, Jeremy Hyde snapped the newspaper open. He couldn’t have hoped for a stronger response from the Bluewater Tribune. His delivery headlined the small town newspaper, and the city toddled on the edge of full-scale panic. All because of him.
The writer named him Vlad, after the infamous Transylvania impaler known for beheading his enemies. But Jeremy didn’t aspire to military conquest.
He couldn’t explain what drew him to Erika Windrow. From the first time he saw the girl working her corner, Jeremy craved to slit her throat and watch the beautiful crimson spill out of her.
Below his window, cars raced through the intersection like worker ants, the drivers unaware he watched over them like a malevolent god. Turning his laptop toward him, he loaded the photograph of Naomi Mourning pushing Scout up the ramp in front of her house. He giggled. Now that he knew the girl’s name and address, it would be a simple matter to murder Naomi and Scout. Then the hero deputy.
He couldn’t wait to read those headlines.
Inspiration struck, tingling his skin with excitement. He needed to meet Deputy Shepherd, stand face-to-face with the man who vowed to catch him. Jeremy grabbed his keys and rushed down the stairs, too impatient to bother with the elevator. The clock read twenty minutes until eight as he drove the Trax out of Harmon. Twenty minutes until the hero deputy arrived for his shift at the Nightshade County Sheriff’s Department. He’d followed Shepherd for days and knew when his workday started, where he shopped, who his friends were, and where he could find his family.
Jeremy pulled into the municipal parking lot two blocks from the sheriff’s office. Before he climbed out of the Trax, he pulled the hood of his sweatshirt over his head and tugged the strings until only his eyes were visible. Keeping his head down, feigning a chill as his breath puffed condensation clouds, he walked faster. The hero deputy crossed the street at the same time Jeremy turned the corner.
A barreling freight train, Jeremy strode at the deputy. At the last moment, the startled deputy looked up before the collision. Jeremy’s superior strength and size capsized the pathetic hero and knocked him to the sidewalk.
“Oh, I’m so sorry. I was in a rush and didn’t see you.”
He offered the deputy a hand, but the false hero brushed off his pants and glared at Jeremy.
“My fault,” Deputy Shepherd said. “I wasn’t watching where I was going.”
“I contribute to police benevolent funds. You’re the gatekeepers, Deputy. You stop the monsters from storming the village.”
A muted laugh escaped Jeremy’s lips, drawing scrutiny from the deputy as a train whistle sounded outside the village. He’d wanted to test the man’s resolve. But the deputy was puny and weak. It almost disappointed him. Jeremy wanted to tell the deputy how he’d murder his beautiful neighbor and her nosy daughter. That he’d stand over Deputy Shepherd’s crumpled body after he snapped his brittle neck. Instead, he snickered and showed plenty of teeth.
“Have a nice day, Deputy. And thank you for your service.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
“Hey, Shepherd. I found the kid.”
Aguilar’s voice pulled Thomas to the deputy’s desk. He’d stayed up late, following the Erika Windrow videos down internet wormholes. There had to be a way to catch the killer. This guy couldn’t upload the video to dozens of websites without leaving a breadcrumb or two. Then he’d walked headfirst into a man on the sidewalk. He felt foolish. But there was something about the man in the hooded sweatshirt that set Thomas on edge.
Aguilar turned in her chair and pointed at the freeze frame on her computer.
“The teen’s name is Anthony Fisher.”
“You recognize him?”
“No, but I passed the image through Harmon PD, and a detective identified the kid. You’re right. Fisher runs with the Harmon Kings.”
Now they had proof a King’s member dropped the package at the post office.
“Get me his address.”
“Already found it,” Aguilar said, waving a sheet of paper at Thomas. “Give me a second to wrap up this paperwork, and we’ll drive over to Harmon and pick the kid up.”
Before Thomas set his keys down, Gray called him from the end of the hall. The sheriff scribbled a note as Thomas waited in the doorway. Gray glanced up and motioned at the chair across from his desk. When Thomas sat down, Gray’s eyes softened. Elbows on the table, Gray formed a steeple with his fingers and pressed his lips against the peak.
“Thomas, I found out about your father. I can’t express how sorry I am.”
Thomas’s gut clenched.
“Thank you. I just heard.”
“Are things still bad between you and your folks?” Thomas’s silence provided Gray with an answer. “Listen to me, son. I’ve watched too many family members go to the grave with unresolved conflicts. Nobody appreciates how important family is until it isn’t there anymore. Work things out with your mother and father while you have time.”
Running a hand across his forehead, Thomas leaned back in his chair.
“When I returned from California, I intended to make amends with my family. I’m trying. They’re set in their ways.”
“Stubborn.”
“That’s an accurate description.”
“Look not beyond the mirror before acknowledging the reflection.”
Thomas quirked an eyebrow. Did Gray just spout poetry?
“I’m unfamiliar with that passage.”
“Something my father used to say. Don’t know if it was a bible passage, or if he made it up. You have your own stubborn streak, Deputy Shepherd. Hell, I recognized it the minute you stepped inside my office as a wide-eyed teenager. You never would have convinced me to give you an internship, otherwise. The Nightshade County Sheriff’s Department doesn’t need teenage volunteers. Doggedness got you where you are today. But it blinds you to your own faults. How long did you wait before you told your parents you moved home?”
Thomas shifted in his chair.
“That long?” Gray asked, his face masked in disappointment. “Why expect your folks to treat you with respect when you don’t return the favor?”
“I wanted to call.”
“No, you didn’t. With family disputes, there is no want, only action.”
“Now you’re quoting Yoda.”
The chair squealed when the big sheriff leaned back and clasped his fingers behind his head.
“Fix things with your parents, Thomas. You’ll sleep better at night.”
Gray’s words drifted inside Thomas’s head while Aguilar drove the cruiser toward Harmon. Reality lay heavy on his shoulders. How long did his father have? Six months? Three months? Less? For years he’d avoided his parents. Now Thomas imagined a world without his father in it, and he wasn’t sure how to live in such a world. Despite the dangers of workin
g law enforcement, his job shielded him from his troubles. He was the type to focus on the daily grind while pipes sprang leaks in the basement, and water seeped through the floor.
“You’re quiet,” Aguilar said, staring at him as she drove with one hand.
“Rough night.”
“Too many drinks at Hattie’s?”
He laughed.
“Nothing like that. Too many thoughts running through my mind.”
She nodded in understanding. Aguilar didn’t know Thomas’s family situation. But sleepless nights were part of the package when you signed up for law enforcement.
He remembered. Tonight was the Magnolia Dance, and he hadn’t asked Aguilar.
He felt stupid. How did Lambert talk him into this? One glance at Aguilar, and Thomas chuckled. She glared at him from the driver’s seat with an amused grin.
“Spit it out, Shepherd, or I’ll beat it out of you.”
Thomas drummed his knuckles against his thighs.
“Okay, if you insist. I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”
“If you ask me for my training routine, I’ll slap you.”
“No, not that. Though I would like to know your biceps routine.”
“You couldn’t handle it, California boy.”
“Probably not.”
“What’s got you giggling like a teenager?”
His keys dug into his thigh. Thomas removed them from his pocket and set them on the center console.
“It’s the Magnolia Dance. Now that I’m back, I’m kinda obligated to go.”
“If you’re asking me to the dance, that’s a pitiful proposal.”
He rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger.
“I’m not very good at this stuff. Would you like to go? To the dance, I mean.”
She spit out a laugh.
“I didn’t assume you wanted to go steady. We just met. And you couldn’t handle it, honey.”
“Come on, Deputy. Say yes.”
She batted her eyelashes.