Killer: A Novel

by Stephen Carpenter

  But when he pulled up to Laurie’s house to snap a photo, he made his first.

  He had followed her at a prudent distance, at least five cars behind her on the highway, at least a block away on surface streets, until he saw her red Honda pull into a driveway beside a little red brick house. He slowed, from two blocks behind her, giving her ample time to go in the house. He couldn’t see her car, since the white trellis alongside the driveway obstructed his view, so he pulled over and waited for a full minute before driving up to the house and lowering his window to snap a photograph of the little red brick house, parking just close enough to record the address in the picture, as well as the name VONN on the mailbox—a stroke of luck. He wouldn’t have to search online for her last name as he normally did when laying his careful plans.

  But just as he took the picture, she got out of her car and looked right at him, his camera raised, pointed directly at her. He had assumed she had gone into the house, but she hadn’t. She had stayed in her car, gathering shopping bags and her purse from the back seat.

  She stood there, looking right at him. Time froze for a breathless eternity. Then, keeping the camera held up to hide his face, he reached down and pressed the button to raise his window. She locked her car, clicking her key fob twice to make sure the alarm was activated, then glanced quickly back and him and walked into the house with her things. He pulled away the instant the front door closed behind her—driving fast enough so that she couldn’t read his license plate from her front window. But not too fast.

  He left New Jersey that night.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Five minutes after ordering my food from Orlanda, I glance out the window and see Laurie Vonn outside, her coat on, filling her Honda with gas at the truck stop pump. I start to get up, then stop. My food hasn’t come yet, and I wonder for a moment if I should wait for it. She said she would call the cops when she got home. Maybe I should just let her go.

  But what if she doesn’t call them?

  An image of Laurie Vonn’s body, decapitated in a shallow grave, suddenly comes to me.

  I get up and leave a twenty on the table and walk out the front door. It’s ten degrees colder outside than it was before and the sky is leaden with clouds and I can smell the rain coming—or will it be snow? I reach the Chrysler and get in and drive around the gas pumps just in time to see Laurie Vonn’s dirty red Honda Civic pull out of the driveway and onto the bypass road.

  I catch up to her and then slow to allow a few cars between us. It is getting dark so I turn my headlights on, but Laurie doesn’t turn hers on and I almost lose her.

  What will I say when she gets home? The story about the burglar won’t fly. I may have to come clean and just tell her the truth. But what is that?

  Think. You’re an imaginative fellow, a writer…

  I’ll follow her home, knock on her door—no, I’ll stop her before she gets inside the house and tell her who I am— No, need more lead time to get away.

  I’ll tell her to go inside and turn on her TV and watch the news and when she sees my picture there will be a tip line or some kind of number to call. I’ll tell her to call that number and then tell them exactly what happened. Tell them that I told you to place yourself in protective custody. Ask to speak with Detective Marsh from the LAPD. Tell him I said you were in danger.

  That might do it. If I scare her. She should be scared. And if she waits to see a story about me on TV it could give me enough time to steal another car. And by the time she gets through to the police and gets them to believe her and actually gets Marsh on the line I will have enough time to put some miles between me and Trenton, New Jersey. I start looking around for a gas station or supermarket where I can lift another car as I follow her. Think ahead. Anticipate. This could work, this could work. I could warn her and steer clear of the police.

  If a lot of things break my way.

  I follow her back to the interstate but she doesn’t take the entrance. She drives right by it. I follow her for three more miles until she turns into a parking structure at a mall. I follow her into the structure, taking my ticket from the machine and keeping my head low. I am now automatically scanning for security cameras everywhere. Paranoia is progressive, like alcoholism.

  I stop suddenly, as she stops in front of me. Then she turns right and drives slowly down the rows of parked cars, looking for a space. She turns and heads back down another row. Slowly. I take a long, deep breath to fend off my impatience, then follow her car down yet another row of cars.

  What the hell am I doing here?

  Saving someone’s life.

  At last she finds a space. Her backup lights come on and for an alarming moment I think she’ll back right into me but she stops short, then turns the wheel and eases into a tight spot between two SUV’s. I glance around quickly for a parking space nearby and I realize how enormous the parking structure is. Not a space in sight—

  A car horn blares at me from behind. I look in the rearview and see the silhouette of a woman behind me in a Mercedes. I pull forward, trying to find a space and keep an eye in the mirror for Laurie Vonn at the same time.

  Finally I find a space, at the end of the long row that Laurie parked in. I get out and I don’t see her. I look around and see the word Escalators painted on a round concrete column. I follow the arrow to the escalators and ride up, straining to catch a glimpse of her.

  The escalator deposits me on the ground floor of the mall and I see Laurie heading down the broad walkway between the food court and the stationery store and the Brookstone and the Verizon store and countless other shops. I follow her.

  I’m weighing whether I should catch up to her and give her my speech when she disappears inside Nordstrom. I go to the store and follow her inside, past the make-up counter and into the lingerie. She stops and looks at a rack of bras.

  If I approach her now she could find a cop or a security guard. But maybe she wouldn’t. Maybe she would wait, feeling more secure in public… No, bad idea…

  She moves on to a rack of nightgowns. A saleswoman has noticed me. I slow down, pretending to be interested in a row of panties—but not too interested. I look up and can’t see Laurie. I head toward the nightgowns and look around. I stand on my tiptoes and see the top of Laurie Vonn’s head as she heads into a dressing room with some clothes in her hand.

  “Can I help you?” I turn to find the saleswoman behind me, a middle-aged woman with short gray hair and big glasses with bright red plastic frames.

  “Ah, no, that’s okay, I’m just waiting for my girlfriend,” I say, easing down from my tiptoes.

  “Oh, she’s trying something on,” she looks in the direction Laurie went.

  Shit. Can’t let her think I’m waiting for Laurie. She may say something to her.

  “Oh no, she’s—she’s in another part of the store,” I say lamely. Damn it.

  The saleswoman looks at me for a second longer than I’m comfortable with, then she forces a little smile and turns and walks back to the register.

  I move as far from the lingerie as I can and feign interest in some earrings, keeping an eye on the dressing rooms and the register. The saleswoman says something to the girl at the register and the girl turns and looks at me. I pick up a pair of gold hoops and read the tag. 14 Carat, 49.95. I put them back and glance at the women at the register, who are both looking at me now. I move on, down the jewelry counter, and stop behind a circular rack of nightgowns where they can’t see me. There is a mirror on the opposite wall and I go to it and pretend to look at a row of bathrobes next to it while I watch the women and the dressing rooms reflected in it. I glance at myself in the mirror. I am an unshaven stranger wearing sunglasses at night with my cap pulled low as I linger among lingerie, fingering panties and following a lone girl.

  Smooth.

  The saleswoman is on the phone. Shit. I look at the dressing rooms and see no sign of Laurie. She could be a while. I try to remember how many things she brought into the dressing roo
m but I didn’t get a good look.

  I walk off, toward another part of the store—out of view of the saleswomen at the register. I walk all the way through the store and wind my way back through the sweaters and the jeans and the Junior Miss outfits. I pass a row of sweatpants with suggestive things stitched in sequins across the backsides. I keep moving and it just gets worse—Girls Eight And Under.

  I turn and walk straight back out the way I came, not looking at the saleswomen.

  I walk out of Nordstrom and down the broad indoor boulevard and out of sight from the store. I smell warm pretzels from a stand nearby and my stomach churns eagerly. The last time I ate was last night, with Nicki, at the Mirabelle. No wonder I’m screwing up, I can’t think straight because I haven’t eaten. I watch a man buy a pretzel for his toddler son. I turn and look in the window of an electronics store, waiting for the kid at the pretzel stand to ring up the man’s purchase. The entrance to Nordstrom is reflected in the electronics store window. I can see Laurie at the register, talking to the saleswoman and handing her credit card to her. The man at the stand gives the pretzel to his little son and they leave. I go to the stand.

  “Three pretzels, please.”

  “Onion garlic or original?” the pimply kid asks me.

  “Original.”

  The kid picks up a pair of metal tongs and selects three big pretzels off a rack under a heat lamp and folds each of them into a piece of waxed paper and then reaches for a bag. I glance up and see a mall security guard entering Nordstrom. The kid puts the pretzels in the bag and hands them to me.

  “Three-forty-five,” he says. I take out my wallet and give him a five dollar bill and look at the window of the electronics store and see my face on six different big screen televisions—the same pictures I saw before: my driver’s license photo and the ragged mug shot from the Richard Bell murder. Then I see Detective Marsh in his blue Gore-Tex, talking into a forest of microphones. I strain to hear what he’s saying but the televisions are muted inside the store. The picture cuts to videotape of a roadblock and I see the truckload of Michigan-bound oranges swarmed by cops. They found the phone.

  The mall security guard, a thickset Latino kid, walks out of Nordstrom. I take off my Devils cap and move behind the pretzel stand where he can’t see me. He walks by the stand without looking back. He is armed only with a bulky black walkie-talkie. I take my change from the pretzel kid and walk back toward Nordstrom for a quick look and see Laurie signing her credit card receipt at the register.

  I head for the escalators, devouring the pretzels. I don’t see the guard around, so I take the escalator down. I get to the parking level and wander among the parked cars and suddenly I get the feeling I’m being followed. I turn around and see no one. I walk past Laurie’s car quickly. I hear a shuffling noise. I look around again as I walk and again I see nothing. The parking lot is dark and quiet. It sounded close.

  Footsteps?

  I strain to listen but hear only the distant sound of car doors slamming and kids’ voices far off, laughing. I wind around between the parked cars, beating a circuitous path back toward my car. Have they found the Mustang at the gas station and connected it to the Chrysler?

  I approach the Chrysler cautiously, half-expecting to get jumped by a SWAT team. But the car is unmolested. No SWAT team. I get in and start the engine and look at my watch. I’ll give her five minutes and then I’m gone. If I keep this up I will be caught before morning. And if I’m caught I’m no use to Laurie Vonn or anyone else.

  THINGS PAST

  He headed south from New Jersey in his rig, making sure to take a different route back west. He never drove the same highway twice. He drove and drove, down the eastern seaboard and across Georgia. The long stretches of lonely highway gave him time to think, to plan. He would have to get a new van, of course, since Laurie Vonn had seen him in his current one. But his cash reserves were getting low, given how much fuel the rig required. He thought briefly about finding a route and going back to work, but even that seemed dicey. At least for right now. He needed time. He needed to find a place to park and rest for a long stretch, where he could lay low and save money on fuel. He spent a night at an enormous truck stop outside Atlanta and considered staying there for a while. No, a rig lingering at a busy truck stop like that would raise attention. So he kept moving, through Georgia, Alabama, Mississippi, Louisiana…waiting, chain-smoking, burning fuel and money and heading nowhere.

  He had printed the photo of Laurie Vonn at the business center in the Atlanta truck stop. He pinned it up, over the front page of the Atlanta Journal Constitution, and spent nights in his secret room with his Los Angeles Angel and the photos of all of his Angels. But as much as Laurie’s picture excited him, it also reminded him of his mistake, and he couldn’t find release with her image above him, taunting him.

  The migraines came back, worse than before, as well as the restless anxiety and irritability that now bordered on rage. The only thing he could do to satisfy himself was read the paperback true-crime book about serial killers. He pictured himself in a book like that; he imagined thousands, maybe millions of people reading about him.

  But the fantasies were just that—fantasies. Fleeting and false. He knew he would have to do something to stem the tide of restless rage that was rising in him daily…but what? He had encountered a few potential Angels on his long drive through the South, but that was unthinkably stupid. More than ever now, his desperation to have his story told was urgent to the point that he could hardly bear. He had to find a way…

  And then, on a broiling August day in west Texas—a breakthrough. Another miracle. A vision. A plan. At last.

  He had driven across Texas all day with the air conditioner off to save fuel, and the suffocating heat had stoked his mounting frustration and rage to a new and dangerous level. He was taking Valium and painkillers daily, with little effect. He needed relief. So after he pulled into a truck stop to gas up, he parked his rig at the stop and walked across the highway to a redneck bar and proceeded to get drunk. He took seven five-milligram Valium and ordered drink after drink, and the next thing he knew, he awoke in his secret room the afternoon of the following day, and all around him were the destroyed remnants of his embalming equipment. He had apparently returned to his rig and, in a blind, drugged, drunken fury, he had smashed everything. He had no memory of it, but his hands were scraped and bloody from beating and tossing around the heavy stainless steel equipment. The only things left intact were the Los Angeles Angel and the photos on the walls. He hadn’t opened either of the two padlocked footlockers that contained his St. Stephen Angel and his West Virginia Angel. Thank God.

  At first he was furious with himself for losing control. Who knows what he could have done while he was drunk and drugged like that? Try as he might, he could not remember a thing from the night before. He could have said things, told people things…

  The thought of suicide came to him, and he was suddenly overcome with nausea and he vomited into the bucket where he collected body fluids.

  He could have said things, told people things…told them about his Angels…

  And in that moment, on his hands and knees in the stifling little room, trembling with nausea, tortured with self-loathing, he was suddenly struck with an idea—a brilliant revelation which, merely by thinking of it, calmed him completely, and glimmered with promise.

  He dumped the bucket out from the back of the trailer, then hurried to the cab and turned on his notebook computer and began searching for medical articles on the combined effects of Valium and alcohol. He also read several articles about memory and brain function. He read for eight hours. The articles were very encouraging.

  Then he entered a name into a search engine—an illegal site he had used to find information about his Angels as part of his careful preparation.

  The name he entered he knew well—he had seen it a thousand times. And in half and hour he had an address, a brief biography, and various other bits of information.


  He memorized all of it—never writing anything down—then he started his rig and headed west, brimming with hope and driving with purpose now. He figured he could reach San Gabriel, California in two days, maybe three if he took a less direct route.

  Three days.

  Three days of driving, a few weeks of watching and following, and he could be face to face with him—the man he could tell his stories to, and maybe, just maybe—the man who could become his St. Paul.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  I spend five minutes in the parking lot of the shopping mall, behind the wheel of the Chrysler, trying to think up a way to warn Laurie Vonn. I could call the police hotline myself and tell them to watch out for her. Would they believe me? They would if I gave them information only I would know…

  No, the minute I do that my location can be pinpointed instantly. Right now I could be anywhere, unless I’ve been spotted somewhere I don’t know about. By someone I didn’t see. Unlikely. But I have to call Nicki at some point. It will be helpful to find out what the police know, beyond the news reports.

  I could leave a note on Laurie Vonn’s car. You are in danger. Call the police immediately. Someone wants to kill you.

  Jesus. And I’m a writer.

  But what could I write? Call Detective Marsh and tell him…

  Tell him what? How would I say it? What could I write that would convince her? Come on, think—you routinely write two thousand words a day and now you can’t come up with twelve?

  I look at my watch. Five minutes are up. I start the car. Give her one more minute. Think for one more minute. At least come up with something or this girl could wind up—