Don't Turn Around

by Hunter Morgan

  AT RISK

  Staring at the intruder, Casey slipped her hand behind her, hoping to locate something on the counter to defend herself. A knife, a glass pitcher. Anything.

  He lunged for her. “Don’t scream,” he warned, clamping his hand painfully over her wrist. “I’ve only come for you.” Catching her other hand, he then pulled both of her hands forward. “Make a sound and I’ll kill your father now. He’s watching TV. He can sit there and continue to watch TV or I can slit his throat. Your choice.”

  Casey shook with fear. She didn’t recognize his voice, which was muffled by the latex mask. It shouldn’t be happening. It couldn’t be. It had to be a dream. She thought she was making tea, but actually she was asleep. She was having a nightmare. A bad one. Any minute, Linda would appear from the dark corner and start shrieking at her.

  He nudged her forward. “If you do anything to attempt to attract anyone’s attention while in the yard, or once we’re on the road, I’ll come back inside and kill your father and you’ll have to watch. Then I’ll kill you….”

  Books by Hunter Morgan

  The Other Twin

  She’ll Never Tell

  She’ll Never Know

  She’ll Never Live

  What She Can’t See

  Unspoken Fear

  Are You Scared Yet?

  Don’t Turn Around

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

  DON’T TURN AROUND

  HUNTER MORGAN

  ZEBRA BOOKS

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Prologue

  The Beginning of the End

  I didn’t start out as a killer. It was not an aspiration. I don’t fit the profile routinely shared among law enforcement agencies.

  As I reflect, I carefully remove each item from the small duffel bag that I have packed according to Maury’s careful instructions. I am taking inventory because I must be careful. I must be careful, not because Maury has warned me to, but because I know. Inherently, I know what to do. How to do it. And my heart thumps in eager anticipation.

  She never saw me coming.

  I am a white male from an upper-middle-class family. I am attractive. Fit. I was never abused as a child, not sexually, not emotionally. In fact, I was loved by my family. I was raised to be a contributing member of society. I was brought up believing that my God-given talents brought a certain responsibility to champion for those less fortunate than me.

  Duct tape.

  I came into the world without complications. I saw a pediatrician regularly and was immunized against all childhood diseases. I attended good, safe schools. I was permitted to participate in extracurricular activities and often had friends to our home.

  A blue bandana.

  I was a bright child. I could count to one hundred and recite the alphabet by the time I was three. I was reading by the time I was four. By the time I reached elementary school, everyone around me recognized my intelligence. My superior intelligence.

  Zip-strips.

  I was placed in accelerated classes, and though I was smarter than my classmates and they knew it, I was well liked. I had friends. Mostly males as an adolescent, but then females as I entered my teen years.

  A spool of #4-gauge wire.

  I dated in high school, and while I was never the most popular boy in my class, I had my pick of girls. Cheerleaders. Field hockey players. Honor Society members. They all admired me. Wanted to be my friend. Wanted to be seen with me.

  A box of disposable latex gloves.

  As a young boy, I dreamed of being an astronaut. Later, as I grew wiser to the world, an architect. A physician. Perhaps a psychiatrist. I understood people. I could empathize, but more importantly, I could see them for who they really were. Perhaps it was because I always knew myself so well.

  Wire cutters.

  I always knew what I was. I always knew I was smarter than them. Than all of them; my parents, my friends, my teachers, my professors. I never had my IQ tested, but I am probably a genius.

  Garden shears.

  For a long time, it was enough to simply know how smart I was. I didn’t need anyone else’s acknowledgment. I was amused by the fact that others had no idea how truly brilliant I am. But later, as I grew into adulthood, I began to resent the stupidity around me. My amusement turned to anger. Eventually, that anger found a way to channel itself. Now, I am simply amused again.

  Hand towels.

  As I run my fingers over the cotton fabric and imagine the ample capacity for mopping up her blood, it occurs to me that my resentment probably started earlier than I realize. It likely initiated the early stealing. Just a cookie at the cafeteria when I was a young child. Later, gum from the mini-mart. It was a thrill to steal and get away with it.

  Drop cloth.

  It was so easy. Too easy. As I grew older, I began looking for a challenge. In prep school, I had a buddy who knew the ins and outs of surveillance equipment. We cased stores together. First it was a Coach wallet. A Fendi tie. Then pricier items. Larger items.

  Hacksaw.

  My friend got busted. I had been ready by then to move on, anyway. I had outgrown his companionship and there were larger, greater challenges ahead of me.

  Disposable coveralls.

  I learned how to handle a gun, although I had the forethought to pretend I oppose them and would like to see stronger laws in legislation against handgun use. I became an expert marksman. I quietly made friends among the retired officers at the firing ranges. They were all too willing to talk with me. To share their knowledge and experiences. They trusted me.

  Disposable shoe covers.

  The first time I held up a convenience store, the exhilaration was incredible. The look on the counter guy’s face when I shoved the barrel of the pistol between his teeth reminded me just how stupid he was. How smart I was.

  Hunting knife.

  And the first time I ever saw one of my crimes in the pages of a newspaper…I experienced an amazing high. Unidentified suspect. How I loved that phrase. Still do.

  Mentally, I go through the list of items that do not fit in my bag.

  Shovel.

  That first convenience-store robbery opened up so many avenues to me. B&Es were so much more personal. Sometimes I would steal things from the homes I invaded. Other times, I would just watch the occupants while they slept.

  Plastic sheeting.

  An accidental meeting with a would-be thief on a fire escape was what really launched my career. By then, I was bored by simple thievery. I wanted to kick the thrill up a notch. But I recognized the need to be safe. I was never one of those mentally deficient criminals who want
ed to be caught. Indeed, I hope—I know—that my career will span decades.

  A sound taps my attention and I glance down. I pause. Listen. I hear nothing but the throaty voice of Pavarotti.

  Just nerves. She is silent.

  I place each item back in the bag, gently, lovingly. The bitch won’t be silent for long.

  Chapter 1

  The Beginning

  The phone woke her on the first ring. She was used to calls in the middle of the night, either from the hospital or, more recently, from the assisted-living facility, where her father was a resident. As she reached for the phone in the dark, she prayed he hadn’t wandered away from Oak Orchard again. One more incident, the director had warned her, and she would have to “seek placement for Mr. McDaniel elsewhere.”

  Even though she was used to the interruptions of her sleep, her heart still thumped in her chest as her fingers found the cordless phone on the nightstand. Calls in the middle of the night were never good.

  “Hello.”

  “Casey? Oh, Jesus,” a female cried on the other end of the line. “You got to help me.”

  Casey reached for the lamp switch, fumbling. Her heart raced faster. She recognized the voice, but still half asleep, she couldn’t put a name to it. “Who is this?”

  “It’s me! Linda! Linda Truman.”

  Casey thought she heard a thump in the background. Linda yelped.

  “Do you hear that? Did you hear it?” Linda pleaded. Her voice trembled on the verge of hysteria. “Oh, Jesus, Casey. You got to help me. He’s back. It’s him, I know it’s him.”

  Still trying to find the lamp, Casey threw her feet over the side of the bed. At last, she located the switch and turned it. Light flooded the room.

  “Linda, you have to calm down. Talk to me. Who’s trying to break in?”

  “It’s him,” Linda gasped. “It’s Charlie. I know it’s him.”

  The terror in Linda’s voice became Casey’s terror. She had seen the woman’s battered, bloody face two weeks ago in the ER. She’d held Linda’s hand while an intern had applied a cast to her broken wrist. Casey gripped the handset. “Doors and windows locked?”

  “Yeah. But it sounds like he’s got a crowbar or somethin’. He’s tryin’ to get in the back door. I…I fell asleep on the couch and now he’s here, Casey. Oh, Jesus God, he’s here.”

  “Did you call the police? You called the police, right?”

  “No. No, I called you.” She was crying so hard now that her words were nearly indistinguishable. “You…you said I could call you any t-time day or n-night.”

  Casey’s bare feet met the bumpy, soft wool of the rug on the floor beside her bed. “Listen to me. You have to calm down. I’m going to hang up, Lin—”

  “No! No, don’t hang up,” she begged, sniffing. “Don’t leave me!”

  “I’m going to hang up and call 911. The police will come, Linda.” Casey raced across the cold wood floor and grabbed a pair of dirty jeans off a chair. “They’ll be able to get there faster than I can.”

  “No, don’t hang up,” Linda half sobbed, half shouted. “Don’t leave me alone with him. He’s gonna kill me. He told me he was gonna kill me if I left him. If I ever kicked him out.”

  “Linda,” Casey said firmly. She cradled the phone between her shoulder and her ear as she stepped into her jeans, hopping on one foot and then the other. “We both have to hang up so I can call 911, but I’ll call you right back. I’ll call you from my cell phone so I can talk to you while I’m in the car.”

  “You swear you’ll call me back?” Linda’s voice sounded smaller than before. Deflated. She didn’t believe Casey. She didn’t believe Casey would come for her.

  “I swear. Now, where are you right now? In the living room?”

  “Yeah. Yeah, and he’s at the back door. It opens into the hallway. I…I live in a trailer.”

  “Can you get to a bedroom or a bathroom, Linda? Somewhere with a door and a lock?”

  There was another loud noise in the background. Casey thought she heard splintering wood and she fumbled to zip up her jeans.

  “Linda!” Casey repeated, grasping the phone again, as if she could somehow physically reach the terrified woman. “Are you listening to me? Answer me! Can you get to a room with a lock on the door?”

  “No. Yeah. Yeah. I…I think so. But…the front door. Maybe I should go out—”

  “No. No, don’t go outside. You don’t know where he is.”

  “He’s at the back door!” Linda shrieked.

  “But he could run around to the front at any moment. You’re safer inside. Go to the closest room. Lock yourself in.” Casey gripped the phone tighter. “Now run, Linda. Take the phone with you and run!”

  “The bedroom,” Linda said almost trancelike. “Run for the bedroom.”

  “I’ll call you right back, Linda. I swear.” Casey hit the “end call” button on the phone. Hearing a dial tone, she punched in 911, trying to catch her breath as the call clicked through.

  “This is nine-one-one. Is this an emergency?” came the practiced voice on the other end of the line.

  Casey took a deep breath. This was not the first time she had had to call 911. She knew how to do this. She just had to stay calm. “Yes,” she said. She took another deep breath. “This is an emergency.”

  For a moment, Linda stood motionless in the middle of the tiny living room, the phone still to her ear, her casted arm hanging heavy at her side. Casey was gone. She’d hung up. There was nothing but dead silence on the other end of the phone.

  Linda heard a laugh track come from the tiny TV that sat on the microwave cart under the window. Her gaze shifted to the squiggly lines of the dim picture. Seinfeld.

  Suddenly, another loud slam against the back door reverberated through the dark trailer. The sound of splitting wood and bending metal shocked Linda out of her stupor.

  Casey is coming. The police are coming. Run. Casey had said she should run. She only had to make it as far as the bedroom.

  She bolted. Tripped over the damned laundry basket next to the couch. Fell flat on her face, pain spearing up to her shoulder as the pink cast on her forearm cracked against the end table. The phone slipped out of her hand and slid across the carpet, which reeked of cigarette smoke and cat food. “No! No!” she screamed. She felt for the phone with her good hand but couldn’t find it, couldn’t see it, in the dim light thrown off by the TV. She scrambled to get to her feet. Canned laughter echoed through the cluttered room.

  “You bastard!” she shouted down the hallway. “The cops are coming, you bastard. I’m gonna tell. You won’t get away with it this time!”

  Linda ran. She ran just like Casey told her. She made it to the spare bedroom doorway as he half fell, half leaped through the jimmied back door.

  She couldn’t scream. She was too scared. She was afraid she was going to barf.

  He pounded down the hallway after her. Even in the dark, not able to see his face, she could tell how pissed he was.

  Inside the bedroom, she spun around, throwing both hands against the door. It slammed shut and she felt for the lock on the knob. “Don’t do it. Don’t do it, Charlie,” she sobbed.

  Casey jumped into her car, sneakers untied and hair un-combed. She hadn’t even taken the time to put her contacts in. Pushing her glasses farther up on her nose, she snapped on her seat belt and started the engine. She waited until she was on the road to use her cell phone to call information and have them put the call through to Linda. Thank God I knew the address.

  The phone rang as she adjusted her Bluetooth earpiece. One ring. Two. Three. It rang and rang. With each passing second, dread began to creep up Casey’s spine. Linda didn’t pick up, but there was no answering machine either. Stopped at a red light, Casey ended the call and redialed, remembering the number the mechanical voice had provided before putting the call through the first time. Again, Linda’s phone rang unanswered.

  “Come on, Linda. Come on,” Casey muttered. She glanced u
p at the traffic light that still blared red. There was no one approaching in any direction. “Come on, come, on.” She tapped on the steering wheel.

  Still red. She hung up her cell phone with the earpiece, tapped it again. “Redial,” she ordered.

  Still no answer.

  Maybe the police had called Linda. Maybe that’s why she wasn’t picking up.

  But shouldn’t there have been a busy tone? Then again, everyone had Call Waiting these days.

  At last, the light turned green and Casey stepped on the gas. It took her twenty-three minutes from the time Linda had called until she turned onto the gravel road at the entrance to the trailer park hidden on the edge of town. As she passed a line of beat-up mailboxes, she saw the flash of blue lights. The police. Thank goodness. She heaved a sigh of relief. The police were here. The abusive ex-boyfriend would be cuffed and taken away. He’d go to prison for sure this time.

  He wouldn’t hurt Linda again.

  Casey pulled over onto the grass between two older cars, both parked at odd angles. Lights were on in the trailers on both sides of the street. People in bathrobes stood in their matchbook-sized front yards and in the middle of the street, talking excitedly, all staring and gesturing in the same direction. A poodle yipped from the doorway of an adjoining home. Casey got out of the car and leaned over to tie her shoelaces, putting her at eye level with a cluster of gnomes that guarded a dead rosebush. The warm night air smelled of motor oil, cat urine, and cigarette smoke.

  The pulsing blue lights of the police cruisers blended with the flash of rotating ambulance lights and the blink of red flashers on the rear of several emergency vehicles. The street was a cacophony: the bark of voices from personnel at the scene, the ding-ding warning that someone had left his or her car door open with keys in the ignition, the neighbors’ voices.