by Holly Hunt
The lack of descriptions in the journalists' reports suggested the killing had been brutal—possibly the act of a man in a violent rage. Somehow, Liz didn't think so. There were enough similarities between the news reports on the Holiday Killer three years ago and this report to tell her everything she didn't want to know.
The Holiday Killer had claimed a new victim.
His friends—they're back!
Liz was halfway through dialing the station's number when she stopped. It was irrational that she would jump to such conclusions, especially without any evidence to back it up. She stopped the Killer three years ago, and there was no way he was back. This was just another case of domestic violence gone ridiculously out of control. Besides, it wasn't her place to jump to conclusions about this kind of thing—not anymore.
Still, maybe I should call Bill, she thought, chewing on her lip. She decided against it, trying to push the murder to the back of her mind, but there was something about it that she couldn't get out of her head. The Holiday Killer is dead, she reminded herself as she washed the dishes from dinner. Not every plot in this city leads back to him, Elizabeth.
She turned the television off and headed up to bed. She'd never been a weekend kind of person, but the garden was out of control. She'd enjoy hacking the rose bushes apart tomorrow, and giving her mind a rest.
12
Christmas dinner was normally a quiet affair for Liz. She'd make herself a bit of turkey, maybe chicken or ham, and sit in bed with a good book, avoiding the world until the new year, trying to avoid thinking of Jamie. This holiday was different, however, as Bill had cornered her after work one night a few weeks ago and invited her over for his spectacular get-together on Christmas Day, full of delicious cakes, meats, an assortment of fine wines, and good company. She was of two minds on the idea of attending the party, figuring Phil would be there, but she'd told Bill she would go, and there was no backing out now.
Plus, she had a secondary motivation for visiting her former father-in-law tonight: the young boy found off Casula Way on Thanksgiving, and a young girl stolen from her bed last night. She wanted to ask Bill for more details on the case. So far, she thought the case looked like a Killer case, more and more so with every detail reported in the media. She needed to know if the media was just making links up, or if the Holiday Killer had returned.
And if he had returned, she needed to know. She would have to face the possibility that she had killed the wrong man; that the two men imprisoned due to investigations after Mark Windsor's death were either innocent, or working with someone else.
It could be a copycat, she reasoned. It wasn't like the Holiday Killer murders weren't heavily reported in their initial run, and it would be natural for some young psychopath to emulate the Holiday murders to relieve his tensions, and blame them on someone else.
But could it be true? Could it be the Killer back on the rampage? Goddamn it, Liz, get yourself together.
She refused to say she had killed the wrong man that night, but the media was already beginning to play into that idea. Mark was a pedophile and a drug lord, and deserved to be taken off the streets, even if he wasn't the Holiday Killer. But the thing that bugged her the most about the media taking the dead man's side after all this time was the fact that the killings stopped when he died. And that was no coincidence.
But this was all guesswork. Bill would be able to tell her if they thought the Holiday Killer had returned or not, and until then, she refused to think too much about it.
She decided to walk the three blocks to Bill's house, grabbing her coat in case it started to snow. She locked the front door and headed out into the night, tucking her special rice dish under her arm as she walked. The night was silent and still, with the town depressed and half-convinced the Holiday Killer was once again loose. Lights were off and the houses were quiet, as though the people inside believed they could get through the holidays unscathed if they didn't draw any attention to themselves.
Liz smiled as she rounded the corner and saw Bill's house, lit up brighter than a Christmas tree, as though he was trying to make up for all the joyless, abandoned-looking houses surrounding it. She walked up the driveway, happy to be seen near such a brightly lit house.
Bill opened the door before Liz reached the porch and caught her in a bear hug at the top of the steps. Liz laughed and extracted herself from his grip, letting herself be led inside to the warmth.
"Liz! How wonderful to see you again!" Bill took her coat and hung it up, then showed her into the kitchen. She left the dish on the kitchen counter and headed for the dining room, where she could hear people talking.
She made small talk with some of Bill's friends while the man himself got dinner ready for his guests. There was no sign of Phil, and Liz guessed the old man had intentionally avoided inviting him to give her a chance to enjoy herself. No doubt he'd catch up with his son in a couple of days, at the big family Christmas dinner.
She chatted with a few of the officers from the station, but they all out-ranked her, and she didn't feel comfortable talking with them so casually. So she excused herself and stepped into the kitchen to give the old man a hand. He smiled at her as she closed the door, clearly trying to keep the party out of the conversation.
"Liz! What can I do for you?" he asked, loading baked potatoes onto a platter.
"I came to talk to you, actually," she said, grabbing a large pot of peas off the stove and draining them in the sink. "I saw the murder on the news at Thanksgiving. And I saw about the kidnapping last night."
The old man slowed, his smile becoming a little forced. "Do we have to talk about this now? It's Christmas day, after all."
Liz opened her mouth, but the door to the kitchen opened, distracting Bill. More volunteers appeared in the kitchen and Liz gave up the idea of talking to the sergeant for the time being.
The dinner was a success, with Bill's friends and Liz trading stories and tales over the meal, while Liz stayed away from Phil and Lisa making puppy dog eyes at each other at the other end of the table. There was no mention of the murder and kidnapping in the conversation—no mention of the Holiday Killer. Some of the guests might have recognized her as the police officer that killed the Holiday Killer, but the last two years had evidently dulled the memory in most peoples' minds.
By 11 o'clock, most of the guests had gone home, leaving Bill and Liz alone with a pair of his old drinking buddies. Liz was tempted to go home as well, but knew she wouldn't get another opportunity like this for a while. Bill and a couple of his mates were leaving the city until after New Year's, and there could be more murders between now and then.
She knew she should leave it alone, that she wasn't meant to be sticking her nose so far into the case, but if the Holiday Killer—or one of his friends—was active again, she needed to know. She needed to know if she had killed the right man, and whether there were other people out there, trying to carry on the Holiday Killer's legacy.
Bill's friends finally left at quarter past 1, leaving Bill and Liz standing in the doorway. Bill was uncomfortable, and hurried back to the kitchen as though to avoid the conversation he knew was coming.
But his retreat did no good, as Liz followed him into the kitchen, helping him clean up the plates. And now she decided not to beat around the bush.
"Bill, about that murder—"
"Look, Liz, I'm really tired—"
"Bill!" She grabbed his hands, stopping him from picking up the dish he was reaching for. "I just need to know, Bill. I need to know if he's back. I need to know if … if I shot the right man, if he's got friends continuing his work, if it's a copycat, if it's completely unrelated."
The policeman sighed, gesturing Liz to a chair. He sat down and opened another bottle of wine. "I shouldn't be telling you this, and if it gets out, I'll know who to blame."
"Bill, I was a cop, too," she said with a tone of admonishment. "I know how to keep an investigation under my hat."
He sighed, looking her in the e
ye. "The boy was kidnapped in November in the dead of night, a turkey feather left on his pillow. The girl taken last night had a Santa hat left in the middle of her bed."
"It could be a copycat," she said, sitting back. "The details of the case were shown to the world in those interviews the parents gave."
"Not all of them." He wiped the sweat off his brow with a napkin and took a couple sips of wine. "It was never mentioned that the rooms were cleaned when the children were taken. It was also never mentioned that he took their favorite toy with him."
The bottom dropped out of Liz's stomach and the taste of the wine turned sour in her mouth. She felt sick.
Sitting back in her chair, she stared at the wall, thinking. After the shooting—now three years ago—the majority of the public had come to the same conclusion as Liz: that Mark Windsor was overwhelmingly guilty; the trophies from his victims had been strewn around his million-dollar mansion, for crying out loud. She'd been cleared of any wrongdoing in the case.
So how could this true?
Bill looked at Liz and stood up to clear the table around her. She was gripping the glass so hard she was surprised it didn't crack.
The mental stability that she'd spent the last three years building for herself threatened to come crashing down with this news. The idea that she got the wrong man that night had her thinking back on Windsor's death … and Jamie's. If she truly did get the wrong man, it meant that Jamie hadn't been avenged, and the guy she'd been chasing was still out there, attacking kids.
Not only was the grieving mother in her seeking revenge, but as the head investigator for over a year, the cop in her couldn't let the unsolved case go—not with new evidence presenting itself to her.
She said goodnight to her father-in-law and headed out into the snowy night, her coat pulled tight against the wind. She walked absently, not thinking about where she was going, until the sun began to rise and the cold of the night finally reached her bones. Then she blinked the snow out of her eyes and looked around, trying to figure out where she was.
Finally, it clicked. There was only one payphone left in the town, located around the corner from her old home. Without realizing it, she'd walked home, even if it wasn't where she lived anymore. Phil had managed to win the house in the divorce, and she hadn't been able to bring herself to return since.
Facing the choice of freezing to death on the street or having to face her ex-husband for the first time since the divorce to tell him that it looked like she'd killed the wrong man, she turned around and started back.
She'd gone barely a half-dozen paces when a horn blew behind her and a car pulled up next to her.
"Liz! What on Earth are you doing here?" Phil's voice came out of the car window and Liz was forced to stop her march through the snow.
"Just out walking," she answered, trying to be civil.
"I know that, but Dad's had half the police station out looking for you. When he called early this morning, you weren't at home and he got worried." Phil leaned over and opened the passenger door. "Come on, I'll take you home. Lisa's been called out to a scene, so I have time to kill."
Phil's words caught her attention. "Called out to what kind of scene? Did they find the girl?"
Phil looked uncomfortable as Liz climbed into the car. "I shouldn't be telling you this, but I figure you can keep it a secret. The Holiday Killer has attacked again, Liz."
"I know," she said, looking out the window as they headed for her house. "Bill told me this morning. Do you think it really is him?" she asked, turning to look him in the eye.
"Dad and Lisa certainly seem to think so," he said in a noncommittal tone, clearly uncomfortable discussing the topic with her. "Look, Liz, you and I haven't talked since the divorce hearing. Can't we talk about something else?"
She sighed, looking back out the window. Everyone seemed to be on edge around her when it came to this latest surge of murders. Or maybe she was just imagining it. Either way, it made her uncomfortable.
"You've shaved your moustache off, I noticed before."
"Yeah. It was kind of annoying, almost long enough that I was eating it every time I ate." He smiled at her, but she didn't respond.
After ten minutes of tight silence, Phil pulled up in front of her home, looking up at the townhouse. Liz climbed out of the car, unwilling to offer Phil the courtesy of a farewell. She stopped halfway up the path, however, and stared at the open front door. Phil climbed out of the car as Liz pulled her cell phone out, ringing the familiar number to dispatch.
"Marie, it's Liz Rhodes. I think someone's broken into my home. Sure. 1860A West Parkes. I'll wait here for them. Thanks, Marie."
She hung up as Phil stepped up beside her, staring in shock as she pulled her pistol from the holster under her arm.
"What?" she asked, checking to see it was loaded. "Just because I'm not part of the force anymore doesn't mean I have to go unarmed. I always carry this."
"Isn't that breaking your probation or something? Didn't you have your firearms license suspended?" Phil asked as she stepped up to the front door, using her elbow to push the door open a bit more.
"You're really going to do this now? Shut up and stay close." She stepped into the house carefully, noticing the broken vase in front of her.
She gestured to Phil, who was following close behind her, and they stepped over the glass, the nose of Liz's pistol leading their way through the house. The kitchen was clear, so they headed upstairs, halting on the stairs when something ahead creaked.
Liz motioned for Phil to wait while she climbed the stairs to the landing, then headed down the hall. She had all her attention scanning the area around her, clearing every room before she continued onward.
Outside her bedroom, she hesitated before pushing the door open, gun aimed at the room. She knew this room well, in both the light and the dark, and couldn't see anything out of place. Within moments, she'd cleared it, seeing no one hiding in the shadows.
She stepped through the room, of a mind to clear the bathroom, when someone darted out of the closet and through the door.
"Phil, incoming!" she yelled, using the doorframe to turn quickly into the hall.
"Oomph!"
The sound of Phil falling down the stairs was drowned out by the sirens of police cars converging on the house. Liz jumped over Phil's crumpled form and darted out the door in time to see three policemen take off after the figure, dark against the snow. She abandoned the chase to them and went back inside to see to Phil, tucking her gun back into its holster.
What the hell was that guy doing in my house? He clearly wasn't robbing the place, she thought as she checked Phil's breathing. Nothing seems to have been taken.
Phil was conscious, and it didn't take much jostling to realize he had a broken arm and a sore head. Liz helped him to his feet and out the door, toward the officers now rushing up to the house.
"He was in the bedroom closet," she told them, pointing the way. "I'm taking Phil to the hospital. If you need me for anything else, we'll be sitting in the emergency room."
The police officers nodded and headed upstairs as she helped Phil toward the car.
13
Liz dropped Phil off at the hospital and borrowed his phone to ring Lisa and let her know where he was. By the time Lisa arrived, Bill was already in talking to his son. Phil was laid up in bed with a fractured spine, broken arm, and concussion. Bill stuck around long enough to make sure his son was taken care of before he pulled Liz aside, sweating a little bit.
"They found something in your bedroom, Liz," he said, pulling a photo out of his pocket and showing it to her. "More specifically, they found it on your bed."
Liz felt sick as she took the photo and closed her eyes, not ready for what it held. She took a deep breath and looked down at the photo.
A small heart sat in the middle of her pillow, thick black blood dripped all over. She sat down, staring at the photo. The heart had been pretty fresh when laid on her pillow, as demonstrated by the b
lood. It wouldn't have been more than a few hours since it had been removed.
Something niggled at the back of her mind and she looked up at Bill.
"Was there a body found?"
"No, and that's the thing. If you want to find the body this heart came from, you'd better check a butcher's shop." He took the photo, putting it back in his pocket. "It's a lamb heart."
Liz stood up, her face twisted in disgust. "Who would want to put a lamb's heart on my pillow?"
"I'm more interested in why they did it," he said, folding his arms. "You know the drill, Liz. Any conclusions?"
Liz frowned, thinking. "Unless the killer has worked out where I live, I have no idea who would have done it."
Bill sighed in frustration and rubbed his forehead. "If it was them, I would have expected them to have moved a lot sooner than now." He glanced back at the door to where his son was lying in bed. "Do you have somewhere to stay, Liz? I don't mind you staying with me. I'd prefer you didn't go back to that house, to be honest. If security was breeched once, who's to say it won't happen again."
"I agree. I don't like the idea of you going back to that house on your own." Lisa appeared in the doorway, smiling at Bill. "Phil wants to talk to you, Dad. I'll drop Liz off at your place. I have to get back to work, anyway."
Liz felt a twinge of jealousy at Lisa calling Bill 'Dad,' but when she saw the expression on his face, she felt smug satisfaction; Bill didn't like her calling him that, either.
"Very well." He looked to Liz. "Try and play nice, for my sake."
The pair smiled innocently at him and he shook his head, then vanished back into the room. Lisa looked from the door to Liz, to see her back retreating down the hallway.
"Hang on—Liz, wait up!" Lisa jogged down the hall to catch up to the woman, who completely ignored her. "Jeez, it's been two years, Liz, cut me a break!"
Liz turned around just as Lisa got close, getting in the woman's face. "You're right, it has been two years. And two years just isn't long enough."