by Sean Platt
Jasper sighed, long and deep. “You’re right.”
“I know I am. I’m always right.”
She smiled playfully, still trying to get him to join her.
But Jasper knew he was years away from a smile.
“What do we do? It’s not like we’ve got a lot of time if he’s freaking out and trying to clean his mess. We can’t wait at the bus stop all day tomorrow hoping that we’ll find him catching the bus home, especially if he made me as the man who stole his wallet.”
Jordyn eyed the laptop sitting on the coffee table in front of the couch.
“Check the school’s website. See if they have pictures of the staff.”
Jasper finally smiled. “Why the hell didn’t I think of that?”
“Because I’ve got the beauty and the brains in this family.”
He grabbed the laptop, searched for the school’s website, then clicked through staff pages at different grade levels until he finally found the man’s photo.
“A kindergarten teacher,” he said with a shiver, imagining how many of his students he was likely fantasizing about abducting. Hell, maybe he was even living out his fantasies through kids like Jessi Price.
Jordyn leaned in to get a better look at the man’s face.
“Now we’ve got you, Paul Dodd.”
* * * *
CHAPTER 29 - PAUL DODD
Paul was in a decent mood when he got home, despite his awful morning, and a call from Manny at the shop who said his car wouldn’t be ready for a few more days because they needed a part that wasn’t readily available. He’d have to catch a cab or take the bus tomorrow.
As he got out ingredients and prepared to make dinner — boneless, skinless chicken breast, Basmati rice, naan bread, Madras curry, and the assorted spices required for the dish — and tried not to think too much about Jessi stabbing him. After all, they had a special night coming up in three days, and he didn’t want to tarnish the little time they had left together.
He always enjoyed the moments before the consummation best. It reminded him of being a kid, before his life went to hell, of the days leading to Christmas. There was excitement in the air, an electricity that made everything a bit more … real. It made the rest of Paul’s life, the long months he spent alone before he found another suitable companion, feel like a pale imitation. Like a life devoid of sensation, of waiting to happen. A life on hold.
But the weeks with his children were filled with special moments, ones he wanted to savor like a prime cut of filet or a bottle of Jordan Cabernet. He had this perfect little treasure waiting for him to explore, to touch, to taste. And it was only a matter of days.
Paul’s only regret was that she wasn’t enjoying her stay more. It was always better when the kids weren’t scared. When they were under the illusion that this was part of some game, and that they’d be reunited with their family once it was over. Yes, it was a lie, and yes, he felt bad for not telling them the truth, but at the same time, it was a small mercy. Why make their last days on earth scary? Why let them know they were going to die? That served no one.
Long before he ever took his first kid, Paul had read accounts of serial killers who kidnapped children. Some had done some despicable things, treating them like animals, torturing them, and forcing them to endure horrifying final days, or sometimes weeks and years. Some kept them in cages. Others had brutalized the children ways before they died.
Paul could never do those things.
He wasn’t a monster.
He loved children.
He loved their innocence. He loved their sense of wonder. He loved teaching them in school. He was the only person in their lives who cared about them. He saw so many parents come through his doors that didn’t deserve to be parents. So many didn’t even seem to give a damn about their kids. Many were neglectful. The worst were downright abusive and reminded Paul of his drunken mother.
Many parents didn’t realize how lucky they were to have children in their lives. Many parents would slowly crush what made these children special, pulverizing their spirits until they were miserable little clones of themselves. Like that bitch, Mallory Black. She and her ex-husband were turning their daughter into a troll and didn’t even see it. Mallory’s self-righteousness after Ashley’s death had pissed him off something fierce.
She acted like she was the victim. Like her life that had been destroyed.
She didn’t own up to her actions that caused it.
That was why he found it so much fun to toy with her on her daughter’s birthday. To remind her of how she failed as a parent and human.
Paul smiled, wondering how she reacted to finding the video he left for her. He wondered if she’d seen the surveillance footage of him standing over her, with her life in his hands.
A part of him wanted to shoot her. Destroy the bitch right there. But that would have been short-sighted. That would’ve ended her misery. And he wasn’t ready to release her just yet.
He thought about his ex-wife, another bitch, and wished he could find a way to make her pay for stealing his daughter.
Tears welled in his eyes as he thought of Lily and wondered if his daughter remembered him. She’d been six when his wife left three years ago and took his daughter.
Lily was at that special age — right before things went bad, and it hurt him not to enjoy her now.
Thinking about his ex-wife soured Paul’s mood. He was holding the blade to chop onions with a white-knuckle grip.
He looked down at his hand, feeling outside of his body.
He breathed in and out, smiled, relaxed his grip.
He turned on the small kitchen TV, wanting to check in with the latest reports on Jessi Price or her stupid parents.
He loved watching the anchors, field reporters, cops, and so-called experts try and figure out what the hell was going on, what sort of “monster” could do this, and whether they’d ever find Jessi.
He loved being the only one who knew the answers while others stumbled in the dark, tripping over their stupidity.
The anchors were talking about some break-in which led to a murder that happened out west in the boondocks while Paul reduced the heat to let the chicken simmer and popped his naan in the oven.
He cleaned the cooking area, his eyes on the screen.
The reporter at the crime scene said a name which knocked him back.
Paul looked up at the screen to see a photo of Richard Howell of Cardinal Road dead, a victim of what authorities believed to be a home invasion gone wrong.
He stared in disbelief, wondering how a man sharing the same name and address as one of his aliases wound up the victim of a home invasion.
What were the odds?
He reached into his back pocket, where he kept his decoy wallet, to double check and see if it was the same name and address.
But the decoy wasn’t in his pants. He checked his jacket pocket, where he kept his real wallet, just to see if he hadn’t mixed them up or put them both there. But no, it held only his real one.
What the hell?
Paul went to his bedroom to check the top of his dresser where he always kept his wallet and keys — maybe he’d left it behind in his morning rush. He’d been plenty distracted. But no, it wasn’t there, either.
Then, a flash.
The black man who bumped into him that morning.
Paul didn’t get a good look at the man; he’d come out of nowhere, jogging or whatever the hell he was doing, and had bumped into him rather rudely.
But he hadn’t just bumped into him, had he?
He picked my pocket.
Paul stared at the TV, but he wasn’t hearing or seeing whatever it was showing. He was lost in thought, wondering if there was any connection between the man bumping into him and a dead Richard Howell.
It was too bizarre to be a coincidence. And in Paul’s experience, nothing was ever just chance. Everything was connected to something. You just had to be smart enough to link the dots, and track things
back to their origin.
He sat at his kitchen table trying to suss things out. The reporter said that Howell’s wife, Susan, reported a black man with a ski mask standing in her living room when she came home. She couldn’t make out his face, and he was wearing gloves, but she saw his neck and skin through the eye holes. She didn’t have much of a description, but he was African American, and wearing a black hoodie — same as Paul’s pickpocket.
There weren’t a ton of black men in Pine Harbour, but he imagined it wouldn’t be uncommon for those residents to have a black hoodie. Hell, Paul owned one himself. But the odds of a black man in a black hoodie picking his wallet on the same day that a black man in a hoodie broke into a home with the name and address of Paul’s alias, were astronomically improbable.
It meant one of two things: either the man was a thief who was looking for someone who worked at the school and therefore wouldn’t be home all day so he could go back in and break into his house at a leisurely pace, or he’d targeted Paul because he knew what Paul was.
Paul’s heart pounded.
His face felt flush.
He ran his fingers through his hair, anxiety tightening his chest.
How does this guy know about me?
What trail did I leave, and who else might be on it?
And if he knows who I am and what I do, why not tell the police?
Is this guy fucking with me?
It seemed impossible.
Paul was incredibly careful when selecting his victims. He never picked kids from his school. And he never drove his own vehicle; he picked them up in a cop car he bought at auction, which he kept in a garage, rented under a different assumed name.
He stared at the photo of this other Richard Howell, and a tightness gripped his chest. This was too close to home for coincidence.
He thought of the black man. He hadn’t noticed it at the time, but now, as he played the scene back in his head, he was certain that the man’s eyes had met his, locking on for longer than necessary.
The man was on to him, toying with him, coming for him.
Or maybe he’d be sending the sheriff’s department.
Either way, Paul was living on borrowed time.
And now he had to move everything up.
* * * *
CHAPTER 30 - MALLORY BLACK
Mal woke to a ringing phone.
She reached out blindly, feeling along the couch, searching until she found it. She opened her still tired eyes and saw a number she’d not expected to see — her ex-husband, Ray.
She answered, trying not to sound like she’d been sleeping in the middle of the day.
“Hey.”
“How’s it going?”
“Okay,” she said, not sure what words might push them past the awkwardness. Their divorce had been relatively free of acrimony, but they’d barely spoken after Ashley’s death. It was too hard for them both.
Ray had somehow moved on, found a new girlfriend, Julie. He’d probably marry her, have another kid, and pretend like the life he once shared with Mal and Ashley had never existed.
“I saw the story,” he said. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
He was quiet for a moment. “You don’t sound fine.”
“What are you asking, Ray?”
“I’m just calling to see if you’re okay.”
“I’m fine.”
“I’m in the neighborhood. Mind if I stop by?”
Mal sat up. “Why?”
“I just wanted to talk. Can I come over?”
“Yeah.” She regretted it before she even said it, and wondered why the hell she agreed. “Um, when?”
“Fifteen minutes?”
“Okay.”
After hanging up, Mal quickly cleared the living room of alcohol, pills, and the several reminders of Ashley.
She looked at herself in the bathroom mirror. Her eyes had dark circles, and her hair was a frizzy mess. She pulled it back into a tight ponytail then changed into jeans and a tee that disguised her hibernation through half the day.
She headed back downstairs, cleaning up a bit, all the while wondering why Ray was coming over. Was he worried about her after the news story, or was there something else? Had he broken up with Julie? Or maybe he lost his job. Ray was a photographer at the Creek County Chronicle, and the newsroom had gone through several rounds of cuts which he’d somehow managed to survive. Maybe the paper finally decided they didn’t need photographers. Just put an iPhone into every stringer and reporter’s hands, right? Always about the bottom line, to hell with quality.
She went outside, approached the unmarked car, saw it was Wilson and Reyes, and told them that Ray was visiting, so try not to shoot him when he showed up.
She went back inside and anxiously waited, still wondering why Ray was coming over.
Five long minutes later, the doorbell rang.
Mal answered, realizing that this was maybe the first time Ray had been home since after the funeral.
He stood on her doorstep, his blue eyes piercing as ever, and smile every bit as charming. Even after all they’d been through, all the time between them, a part of her wanted to hold him, longed to feel his mouth back on hers.
“Hey,” she said, hoping her thoughts weren’t too obvious.
“Hey,” he said, hugging her.
She inhaled his scent. While it was slightly different now that he lived in a new house with another woman, there was still that bit of him that she’d always loved and still remembered.
They held their embrace for longer than either of them likely expected. Mal wondered if she’d been right in her guess that he split with Julie. If so, had he come over for a roll in the hay? And if so, was she willing? Mal hated to admit it, but her body longed for his touch, even if her brain recognized it for the awful idea it was.
She pulled away and met his eyes. He quickly averted his gaze as if she were seeing through him to the part he was trying to hide.
She closed the door behind him. “What’s up?”
“Just wanted to see how you’re doing.”
Mal led him to the kitchen, where she’d already set out a pitcher of water and two glasses on the granite counter island. “Water? Something else?”
“Water’s fine.”
Clearly, he wasn’t there for sex.
She poured two glasses of water, and took a drink, waiting for him to spill whatever was on his mind.
“So,” he said after taking a sip, “what happened between you and Gloria?”
Mal wasn’t sure what she should tell him, and certainly didn’t want him to worry about her. But it all started falling out of her mouth before she could help it.
“Jesus, why didn’t you tell me about the first time the killer left something?”
“You would have just worried, and there wasn’t anything you could do. Plus, you were living your new life. I didn’t want to interfere.”
She wasn’t trying to sound like a martyr, but a part of Mal did want something from him, even if she couldn’t quite figure out what.
“What now?” he asked. “Why are you even here?”
“I’ve got a protection detail. Surprised they didn’t stop and frisk you.”
He smiled, but his eyes were worried. “How long are they there for?”
“I dunno. I’m not worried. Let that fucker come back. I’ll blow his ass away.”
“Yeah, if you’re not sleeping.”
She hadn’t told him the worst of it, how he stood over her putting the gun to her head. He would’ve freaked out. Ray was still a boy scout, wanting to protect her.
“I’m more worried about that little girl, Jessi Price. Gloria’s not doing shit to find this bastard, and time is running out.”
“Is that why you talked to the reporter, trying to light a fire under her ass?”
“Yeah, for all the good it did. She just does a press conference and buys herself more time to do nothing.”
Whatever with the wate
r. Mal went to the fridge for a beer. “Want one?”
“No thanks.” Ray eyed her with his usual worry, treating her like a kid who didn’t know any better. She already had a daddy, and Ray’s overbearing behavior reminded her of one of the reasons their marriage fell apart. Now she felt stupid for wanting to sleep with him.
She flicked the cap off the beer, took a deep swig, and studied Ray’s discomfort with a bit of nihilistic glee.
He took another drink of his water. “When’s the last time you went to a meeting?”
She sipped her beer and smiled.
“You gave up?”
“Sorry, I know the 12-steppers help you, but if I wanted to be around a bunch of dysfunctional miserable fucks, I’d go back to work.”
He looked exasperated. “I’m just saying, if you wanted to go back, I could go with you.”
“Thanks, but no.” She laughed. “I’m doing just fine without having sanctimonious people using me to feel better about themselves.”
“I think you’re missing—”
“I said no,” she snapped, colder than intended.
Ray was quiet for a long moment, as if trying to work up the nerve to say something else. She hoped he wasn’t going to harp on the benefits of 12-step meetings because damn, she was tired of that particular song.
“Have you considered maybe selling the house?”
She set her beer on the island. “I told you, I’m not selling the house.”
“It isn’t safe here.”
“So, what you think if I move this creep won’t follow me? He’s a stalker, rapist, and murderer. I doubt he gives up easily.”