Only him.
Lisa Briscoe noticed the two police cars parked in front of the Gerrards' white stucco--three lots down from her own house. She was walking Toby, the family's miniature schnauzer. That was what she got for working late tonight. Her husband had taken the kids out to the Olympia Pizza and Spaghetti House. He'd called from the restaurant five minutes ago, saying none of the kids had walked Toby yet, and he'd bring her back an order of cannelloni.
With one hand clutching the collar of her winter coat and the other holding Toby's extendable leash, Lisa passed the Gerrards' house. She'd heard the Gerrards had been hounded by snoops and people driving by the house at all hours. Some of them even snuck across the lawn and tried to peek into the windows. They wanted to look at Molly, the pretty--and now famous--seventeen-year-old who had been on the TV news and in the papers for thwarting a possible massacre at James Madison High School last week. Lisa had heard the Gerrards had phoned the police twice last week because of those obnoxious people skulking around outside their house. Lisa couldn't believe it was still going on.
The residents of this quiet, upscale neighborhood in northeast Capital Hill weren't used to a lot of activity, much less police activity. The houses, ranging from charmingly quaint to old-world impressive, were close together and not far from the street. While walking Toby, Lisa could see the bell tower of nearby St. Joseph's Catholic Church looming over the tops of the bare trees. She could also see her breath. Shivering, she buttoned up her coat.
Lisa approached her usual stopping point: Interlaken Drive, a dark, winding road through dense woods--with the occasional secluded, ridiculously expensive home. Lisa took Toby only to the edge of Interlaken because those woods were full of possums and raccoons, and she didn't want Toby chasing after one. He was no match for such creatures. Ages ago, when she was a kid, her dad had told her how he'd once seen a German shepherd try to tussle with a raccoon--only to be torn apart in seconds. Lisa had steered clear of raccoons ever since.
There was something else about the dark, lonely, snakelike road that scared her. "Sometimes when I'm on this road, I half-expect to find some guy standing there around the next curve," her husband had said, steering down Interlaken late one night after a party. "I can see the headlights suddenly illuminating this dude in a hockey mask, carrying a meat cleaver. And then, farther up the road, there's this car with a hacked-up body in it..."
"Well, gee, thanks for that image, hon," Lisa had said, squirming in the passenger seat. As a joke, she and her husband often referred to Interlaken as "Hockey Mask Lane."
So, raccoons and possums weren't the only reason she rarely took Toby beyond the edge of Interlaken Drive.
But on this December night, Toby still hadn't pooped. Plus it was early, and the cops were parked in front of the Gerrards' house--only two blocks away. So Lisa started down Interlaken with Toby. She pulled a small flashlight out of her purse and switched it on. She would give Toby until the first curve in the road, and if he still hadn't done his business by then, she'd turn around. "C'mon, Toby, this is your last half block," she muttered, glancing at the darkened woods around her. "Time to shit or get off the pot."
There was no sidewalk on the road, and the thicket came right up to the curb. A chilly wind rattled the tree limbs. Bushes swayed slightly and dead leaves scattered across the pavement. Toby strained on the leash. He eagerly sniffed at the base of practically every tree and shrub they passed. Suddenly he stopped, raised a paw, and looked deeper into the woods as if he saw something moving in there. He strained at the leash again.
Lisa gazed over in the same direction. Through the trees, she noticed an eerie red glow in the distance--perhaps around the next curve in the road, or maybe even farther. Was it a car with its parking lights on?
Toby was still staring in that direction. His ears moved, and his little body seemed to stiffen.
Lisa shined the flashlight into the woods. The beam cast strange, flickering shadows as Lisa directed it across the trees and shrubs. She couldn't see anything. "Okay, kiddo," she said, in a shaky voice. "Here's where we do a U-turn..." She tugged at the leash, but Toby wouldn't budge. "C'mon now, there's nothing out there..."
But there was.
A few yards away, deeper into the woods, her flashlight's beam caught a shrub moving--as if someone might have just ducked behind it. She heard twigs snapping.
Lisa tugged at the leash again. But Toby was immobile, still staring in that direction. He let out a yelp. Again, Lisa saw something move amid the shadowy trees. She directed the flashlight's beam past the base of a tree. Close to the forest floor, she saw two eyes staring back at her. They glinted in the light.
"Oh, my God," Lisa gasped.
The raccoon didn't seem startled or riled. He merely glanced up from his meal for a moment. Then he went back to gnawing at the bloody slash across the dead girl's throat. The pale cadaver was clad in just a bra and panties.
Lisa couldn't move. She watched in horror as the raccoon half-stood on its hind legs, hovering over his feast. Tresses of the girl's long black hair were caught in the creature's claws, and her head turned a little when he moved again.
In the flashlight's beam, Lisa could see her face now.
She recognized the dead girl--even though Molly Gerrard wasn't wearing her glasses.
"The person you are calling is not available," said the recording on the other end of the line. "This call is being forwarded to an automated voice system. Please leave a message for..." Erin's voice chimed in for two words: "Erin Travino." Then the recorded generic voice took over again: "...after the tone."
Standing on the stairway landing of the movie theater's lobby, Kim held the cell phone to her ear and waited for the beep. On the wall behind her was a huge old poster of Gene Kelly dancing with Leslie Caron in An American in Paris.
She only reached the automated voice system when Erin switched off her cell phone or her battery was dead, and Erin practically never switched off her phone. Erin's regular message had her own voice with rock music in the background: "Hey, this is Erin, and you know what to do!"
But right now, Kim didn't know what to do.
She'd been sitting in the theater for the last fifteen minutes with an empty seat beside her and Erin's coat draped over the armrest. One of the guys behind her had stepped out and come back in the duration, but that had been at least ten minutes ago. Finally, Kim had gotten up and hurried to the lobby, but she hadn't seen Erin anywhere. So Kim had pulled out her cell phone, dialed Erin's number, and started up the stairs to the women's restroom.
Beep.
"Hello, Erin?" she said, holding the phone to her ear as she continued up the stairs. "Where are you? Did you ditch me or something? I can't believe this. You've totally ruined a really good movie for me. You're not in the lobby, so I'm about to check the restroom. I'm hoping you're there." She let out an exasperated sigh. "If not, for God's sakes, call me, okay?"
Kim clicked off the line as she approached the women's restroom on the second floor. Pushing open the door, she stopped suddenly. The light was off. As far as she could tell, no one was in there. Past some muffled rapid Italian dialogue from the film showing upstairs, Kim only heard the rhythmic drip of a leaky faucet. She felt along the wall for the light switch.
Her hand brushed against something wet on the wall. Shuddering, she stepped back and gazed at her fingertips. Blood.
He paid for his latte, and then politely asked the barista for the bathroom key.
No one in the Joe Bar Cafe paid much attention to him. As far as he could tell, none of the other customers in the bistro had seen him emerge from the old, three-story brick building that housed the movie theater across the street.
He found a small table by the window, with a view of the theater entrance and the lighted marquee. Leaving his latte on the table, he asked the bearded twenty-something man with a laptop notebook at the next table to make sure no one took his spot while he was in the washroom.
"Sure, no swea
t," the guy said, barely looking up from his notebook.
He thanked the man, then carried his Nordstrom bag into the bathroom at one side of the barista counter. It was tiny, with a narrow door and barely enough room for the sink and toilet. The walls were painted burnt orange, and the management had posted a reminder above the sink that all employees had to wash their hands after using the facilities. Above that little sign hung a mirror.
He studied his reflection for a moment. His face was clean, and his hair appeared slightly damp. With a sigh, he lowered the toilet seat lid and set down his bag. Then he turned to the mirror again. With his hand, he pressed down on the top of his head, mashing the hair against his scalp. Drops of blood slithered down his forehead.
He quickly grabbed a paper towel from the dispenser above the toilet and dabbed up the blood. Then he ran the paper towel over his head, and glanced at the crimson streaks soaked into the fiber sheet.
He should have worn a shower cap when he'd killed her.
Earlier, in the women's lavatory at the movie theater, he'd quickly rinsed off his face. He'd shucked off the blood-spattered, plastic rain jacket and gloves. They were now in a dark plastic bag stuffed inside the Nordstrom tote. He hadn't much time to clean up in that theater washroom, and the job on Erin had been messy.
Molly Gerrard had been much easier--and neater--three hours earlier.
She had been his first kill--ever. He'd tried to kill before, years ago, but it hadn't worked out. That failure was still the source of a lot of bitterness and frustration in him.
So he was surprised to have pulled off Molly's murder without a hitch. He'd been following her around for days now. He knew her car and had overheard several of her cell phone conversations. So he often knew what Molly was going to do before she did it.
Late this afternoon, he'd skulked up the Gerrards' driveway, crouched down behind Molly's Honda, and set a small board with four nails driven through it under the left rear tire. Less than an hour later, she stepped out of the house and hurried into the car. It only took four blocks for the tire to deflate--and in a perfect, remote spot, too.
He pretended he'd just happened by. And Molly looked so glad to see him--right up until the moment he punched her in the face. With one blow, he bloodied her nose, broke her glasses, and knocked her unconscious.
He drove her eight blocks to the ravinelike drive, where she started to regain consciousness. She was dazed and almost docile as he hauled her into the dark, wooded area. But then Molly seemed to realize what was happening. She pleaded with him--employing, no doubt, the same kind of reasoning and logic she'd used in school last week to save the lives of her classmates. Only it didn't work this time. It was hard for Molly to rely on those powers of verbal persuasion once he slashed her throat. Instead of words, a strange gurgling sound came from her mouth during the last few moments of her life.
He'd gotten only a few drops of blood on his glove and on the sleeve of his clear rain jacket. He wiped it clean with two Kleenex.
Along with Molly's broken glasses, he took her cell phone. There were three messages from Erin Travino about the movie: first, saying she'd meet Molly in front of the theater; next, asking Molly what had happened to her; and, finally, saying where she and Kim were sitting if Molly was still interested in meeting them.
As if Erin hadn't already made it easy enough for him to find her, she was the one who kept switching on her cell phone and checking her messages during the movie. That little blue light had stood out in the darkened theater. He'd followed her--and that blue light--out to the lobby, then up to the women's restroom.
He wondered if someone had discovered her body yet. Standing over the small sink in the coffeehouse washroom, he rinsed Erin's blood out of his hair. He watched the pink water swirl against the white porcelain. With some paper towels, he pat-dried his scalp, then checked for more blood on his jeans and shoes. He'd lucked out, just a few drops on his black sneakers.
After cleaning off the sink, he was about to toss away the used paper towels, but hesitated. They were smeared with blood. He didn't want anyone in the cafe later linking him to the murder across the street.
He stuffed the bloodied paper towels into the plastic bag, which was tucked inside his Nordstrom tote. Then he stepped out of the bathroom, returned the key to the barista, and headed back to his table. He set the Nordstrom bag down by his chair.
Sipping his latte, he stared at the theater across the street. He couldn't help feeling a bit disappointed. Perhaps that was why he took a chance coming here. He would have been better off getting as far away from the theater as quickly as possible. But he needed to see people's reactions to what he'd done. From this front-row seat, he could see their shock and panic. Maybe then it would feel complete.
He heard sirens in the distance.
Across the street, the theater door flung open. He spotted the woman who had taken his ticket earlier. With a look of alarm, she paused at the threshold, a hand over her heart. She anxiously gazed up and down the sidewalk. The pale, stocky, baby-faced guy who worked the concessions stand trotted around from the other side of the building. Like his friend, he, too, was looking in every direction. "Shit, I didn't see anybody!" the guy screamed to the ticket taker. "Jesus, maybe he's still in the theater..."
The girl shook her head and started sobbing. She said something, but her words were drowned out by the sirens. The piercing wail grew even louder. Swirling beams of white and red lights from the approaching patrol cars already illuminated the street.
He noticed other people in the cafe. They'd stopped talking to their friends or typing on their laptops, and now they were looking toward the window.
He had to contain a smile.
He couldn't stay here much longer. If the police did their job right, within five minutes, they'd hold everyone in this cafe and question them about who they saw coming out of the theater. He didn't want to stick around for that. Slowly, he got to his feet.
Three police cars and an ambulance raced up the street and came to a halt in front of the theater. But he wasn't watching them. His eyes were on a middle-aged woman with a pea-coat, purple scarf, and a shopping bag. She headed down the sidewalk in the opposite direction. Grabbing his Nordstrom bag and his latte, he hurried out the door, and caught up with the woman--so they were walking almost side by side.
"What do you suppose happened over there?" he asked her as they passed the ambulance and police cars.
She shrugged and shook her head. "Drugs, probably. It's always something around here. This neighborhood has gone to hell in a handbasket--if you'll pardon my French." She picked up her pace--almost as if to avoid him, then she turned down a side street.
His first instinct was to follow her home, maybe even kill her.
Perhaps that would have made him feel better, but he doubted it. He'd been elated for only a few moments tonight, a rush of excitement as he watched them die by his hand. He'd felt so powerful. But the elation hadn't lasted long.
Those girls--as much as they deserved to die--were just substitutes for someone else. He was thinking of that certain someone when he'd killed Molly and Erin tonight. He wondered if their deaths would affect her at all.
It would be a lot harder to get to her. It would take more planning. But he vowed he would make her suffer. He would wage a campaign of terror against her, inflicting so much pain and anguish that she would almost welcome her own execution.
He paused on the corner and watched the woman with the purple scarf disappear in the night's distance. He smiled.
He was thinking about the next time and how it would be better.
CHAPTER TWO
Portland, Oregon--Two years later
"So, sweetheart, I'm thinking of Tom, Bernie, and Pat for my groomsmen," Jared said to Leah as they walked from his car toward one of their favorite haunts, Thai Paradise on Hawthorne. It was 8:40 on a cold Tuesday night in early December. Holiday lights and decorations adorned the storefronts, but right now the street was
nearly deserted.
Jared had his arm around Leah's shoulder. They were an attractive couple. Jared, tall and lean with wavy blond hair, blue eyes, and perpetually pink cheeks, looked like a thirty-year-old version of Prince William. Leah was thin and pretty, with short chestnut hair. "Waiflike" was how Jared's mother described her, and Leah wasn't entirely sure if that was meant to be flattering or not.
"You mentioned your cousin, Lonnie, as a candidate if I wanted someone from your side of the family as a groomsman," Jared went on. "But you guys aren't really that close. Maybe Lonnie could do a reading or something..."
Leah didn't say a word. She eyed the restaurant's red awning with green Christmas lights wrapped around the poles. She felt the knots in her stomach tightening.
"Are you pissed off?" Jared asked. "If having Lonnie in the wedding party is really that important to you--"
"No, it--it's fine," she said. But it wasn't fine at all. Everything was so screwed up. Jared didn't know it yet, but she couldn't go through with this wedding.
She needed to break up with him--tonight. That was why she still couldn't settle on a wedding date. Poor Jared--in a role usually reserved for the bride--became preoccupied with wedding plans, and she--like an apathetic groom--merely shrugged and said, "That's fine," every time he told her about some terrific caterer or a really cool place to hold the reception. Last week her mother came over and started talking about the wedding. Then Jared chimed in, and Leah had nuptial talk in stereo. It was all she could do to keep from running out of the room, screaming.
It wasn't fair to Jared, stringing him along like this. He was a terrific guy, who did very well at his accounting firm. Leah repeatedly told herself she was lucky to be his fiancee. Everybody else--her family, his family and all their friends--told her the same thing
But she didn't love Jared. Her infatuation with him had petered out two months ago. If she'd had any guts, she would have told him "no" on Thanksgiving night when he'd surprised her with the seventeen-thousand-dollar engagement ring. Thank God he didn't have it engraved or anything. He could still get his money back.
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