When she pulled the front door closed, Kaitlyn glanced at the BMW in the driveway. She turned to lock the door, but a sense of unease gripped her. Something wasn’t right. She didn’t know what, but something was off. She turned the key in the lock and moved toward the car.
Each step forward became heavier, as if she was wading through molasses. She peered at the car, trying to see into the darkened interior, unable to make out anything other than Brad’s motionless silhouette in the driver’s seat. There’s nothing wrong. She gulped down each breath. Her heart pounded against her chest. She fought the urge to rush back into the house, lock the door, and hide away in a dark closet. Stop overreacting.
“Brad?” she said, half whisper and half shout. He didn’t move.
When she was feet from the car, she glanced through the windshield. The car’s interior was shadowed by the streetlight behind. Beads of sweat formed on her lips. She licked them away, catching the faint taste of salt on her tongue. Why was she trembling? She wanted to call out for Brad, but the words were lost in her throat.
She reached for the car door. The light within the car flicked on as she pulled the door open.
And then Kaitlyn’s scream echoed down Garnet Lane.
18
I’m waiting for her again, but not in the garage. Tonight, I’m parked across from the main entrance to the building. I’d been circling the block for the better part of an hour, waiting for her boyfriend to show up. She didn’t drive into work this afternoon, instead taking an Uber, so it was only fair to assume he was coming to get her. When I saw him pull up ten minutes ago, I pulled over and turned off my headlights.
Fifteen minutes till midnight. She’s still on the air. I’ve been listening most of the night. She still refuses to play the song. Doesn’t she understand that I need to hear it, must hear it? Laura always was audacious. Always independent, never one to bow to pressure. Not even for someone she loved. Oh, the nights we spent on the banks of the Shallows. Just the three of us. Dancing beneath the moonlight, splashing in the water, watching the stars from the dock. REO Speedwagon playing over and over on the boombox. That song was just as much mine as it was theirs. She seemed so innocent back then. We were all innocent. Laura was just a guest, just a fleeting memory compared to me. The Shallows were mine—mine and his—long before she came along.
Why won’t she play the song? That one simple act could change all of this. I might stay my hand if she would just play it once. Just once. Is that too much to ask?
I pull a cigarette from the pack in the cupholder, light it, and place it between my lips. Crack my window and blow smoke out into the night air, and then laugh. Who am I kidding? There is only one way that this will end. Only one thing that I want. Her defiance will only make her downfall all the sweeter. Laura will know my wrath and beg for mercy when I’m done with her.
Five minutes till midnight. He still sits, waiting for her. His head is bowed forward, and the car’s interior is awash with a faint blue glow. Must be looking at his phone. She signs off, saying goodbye to her listeners. None of them know who she really is. None know what I do.
I flick ash out the window, watch and wait. They’re heading to the Poconos tonight. A romantic weekend. Perhaps she thinks that’ll put her out of my reach for a few days. She’ll be surprised tomorrow morning. I’ve got a new letter sitting on the passenger seat, as well as a bottle of bubbly. Nothing ruins the mood more than an unexpected bottle delivered to your door.
Five after midnight. Laura emerges from the building and climbs into the BMW. They have a lengthy discussion before driving off. I toss my cigarette out the window and follow them, but something’s wrong. They’re heading toward Bala Cynwyd, not the Poconos. Why? Did they cancel their plans? Do they know I’m here? I don’t like this. It isn’t the way I envisioned things would go tonight. Maybe I should back off and regroup.
I keep his taillights in sight but follow at a distance. They couldn’t possibly know that I’m following. But this doesn’t feel right. I check the rearview mirror. No one is behind me. I need another cigarette. I try to pull one from the pack as I drive.
Shit. It dropped between the seats, out of my reach. My fingers search between the seat and center console. A quick glance down doesn’t help. It’s all darkened shadows between the seats. When I look up, the BMW is gone. Damn it. This night is starting to really suck. There’s bile forming in the back of my throat. I’m as angry at myself as I am with her. Must keep pressuring her. Must not give up.
I’m guessing they’re heading to her house. I might still be able to catch up to them.
I was right. When I pull past her house, Laura is just climbing out of the BMW. She leans in and speaks to Brad for a moment, then heads toward the house. I drive past, turn around up the road, and pull over by the curb a few houses up. His window is down and the blue glow within the BMW returns. He is so preoccupied, so vulnerable. If I wanted to, I could easily . . .
Could it be that easy? I look at the letter still sitting next to the bottle on my car seat. Its message would be appropriate. Think of the blow it would deliver to Laura. The pain it would inflict. My stomach quivers as my mind races through the scenario. How would I do it? A gun would be too loud. Don’t want to draw attention to things before I’m away. My knife. A short, serrated blade I keep on my belt, hidden in the small of my back. Silent. Deadly. Perfect.
What about the risk? Any of her neighbors could look out their window and see me. Or worse, Laura could come out of the house before I’m finished. There are so many ways this could go south. Damn the risk. It’s too good of an opportunity to pass up.
I slip on surgical gloves, pull out the knife, and give the handle and blade a careful wipe on my coat. Then, I return it to its sheath. I dig the cigarette pack out from beside the seat and light one up. Out of the car, my footsteps move to the beat of my racing heart. I pause at the end of the driveway and take a deep breath. My senses are hypersensitive, feeling and hearing everything. A dog barks in the distance. The breeze excites the hairs on the back of my neck. Cigarette smoke cools my throat and nostrils. I toss it away into the nearby storm drain, then bury my hands in my coat pockets and walk toward the BMW.
The driver’s window is still down, and he doesn’t appear to hear me approach. As I draw near, he must catch sight of me in the mirror. He turns his head toward me. “Hi. Didn’t expect to see you here.” He pauses, then adds, “Especially at this hour.”
I shrug and position myself close to the car window. “I was in the neighborhood.”
“Oh.” He seems puzzled. His eyes narrow, and his mouth turns up in a crooked smile. He doesn’t ask further questions.
“I thought you were going to the Poconos this weekend.”
He looks toward the house. “Kaitlyn ran out of time this afternoon to pack. She’s throwing a few things in an overnight bag.”
That name makes me cringe. Does Laura think she’s fooling anyone? What if I told him the truth right now? I could bring her whole world crashing down in an instant. But no. I have something better in mind.
I pull a pack of cigarettes from my coat pocket and light one. “Has she ever told you about the Shallows?”
He doesn’t turn toward me, just keeps looking at the house. “I’ve tried to get her to talk, but no luck. I know there’s something she’s not telling me . . .”
He turns to look at me. He frowns, perhaps at the sight of my gloves. He holds me with a perplexed gaze. “Why are you wearing gloves?”
Adrenaline surges through my body, putting it on a razor’s edge. There is no thought in my mind, just an uncontrollable urge that sends my head spinning. He has no idea how much danger he is in. This will be too easy.
With a slow, calm motion, I place the cigarette between my lips, and take a long drag. “Don’t want to leave fingerprints.”
I catch the questioning look in his eyes as I reach behind me and draw the knife from the sheath. His eyes widen with realization. He’s a moment too la
te.
I drive the serrated blade into the side of his neck. It’s a quick, hard thrust. There is little resistance. The blade pierces the skin and plunges through muscle. He gasps for breath. A gurgle escapes from his lips.
My god, I’ve done it. I feel lightheaded, dizzy. The thrill of feeling his blood trickle over my fingers is almost orgasmic. It’s warm, thick, and I want to laugh aloud. I want to roar to the highest heavens. I’m trembling, but not from fear or shame, but from excitement. Utter exhilaration. My knees go weak. I rest my free hand on the car to steady myself.
He tries to speak, but it is just an unintelligible whisper. I tighten my grip on the knife’s hilt and lean toward the car window.
With my free hand, I pull the cigarette from my lips and blow smoke into the car window. “What’s that? You want to know why?”
He doesn’t reply, only gasps for a breath that doesn’t come. His eyes dart from side to side. I draw the knife out until only the tip remains within the wound. The skin around the wound is ripped and jagged. The blade’s teeth drip with his blood.
“She never told you about Laura Hobson, did she? Too late to ask now.”
I thrust the knife forward again. My pent-up anger and hatred powers the knife into his neck up to the hilt. I twist it and give it a fierce jerk forward. Blood pumps from the wound. Must have hit an artery. It is like a waterfall, pouring down his neck, soaking into his shirt. The smell is sweet and metallic. It’s one I’m so familiar with, but it is somehow different this time. It is euphoric, like a sugar rush I’d get as a child. I want this moment to last forever.
His body convulses. Blood seeps from the corner of his mouth. I untangle my fingers from the knife hilt. My hand is coated with the thick, dark fluid that drips to the ground. I flex my fingers. The surgical gloves crinkle. Oh, if Laura could only see me now. To see my fingers covered with his blood. To see the pure joy on my face. To see who I am.
The BMW’s horn startles me. His hand presses on the steering wheel. The final desperate action of a dead man. He gasps. Then dies. The horn goes silent.
Time for me to leave. But, there’s one last thing to do. I pull the folded letter from my pocket and lean into the car. Where to put it? I don’t want it found immediately. It takes a couple tries to get it to stay in place. It falls into the pool of blood once, staining the paper a dark red. When it’s in position, I stand and take one more drag on the cigarette, then toss it away into the grass. One more thing to do. I reach into the car and honk the horn. Why not? Might as well wake the neighborhood. Let them all watch Laura fall to pieces. Then, I rush to my car. Need to go to the Shallows and tell Jesse what I’ve done.
19
Rodney had always been amazed at how much blood there was in the human body. Ten years of viewing crime scenes had done little to dull the awe in which he often found himself. Every pool of blood was shaped differently. Every splatter had a unique motif. It was not so much a morbid fascination with gore as it was an appreciation of the unintended art of human nature. The colors, the smells, and the patterns always varied, but the wonderment that came within the first minute always remained. This amazement, however, would quickly dissipate to be replaced by a faint sense of nausea. The realization that the captivating yet grotesque composition was nothing more than the result of human-on-human violence would return him to his senses, leaving his fascination to retreat inward in shame.
He made a slow circuit around the BMW, studying it with meticulous attention. The harsh halogen lights that had been set up around the car obliterated the shadows of the night. He ignored the red lights flashing in the corner of his eyes. The three police cars, as well as the ambulance, clogged Garnet Lane and drew the attention of the neighborhood gawkers, who had come out in force. Men and women in robes stood in a small huddle under the streetlight across the lane, watching the flurry of activity and whispering amongst themselves.
Rodney walked along the side of the car and halted by the driver’s door. Kneeling by the window, he peered in at the driver. He sighed loudly as he made mental notes. A knife driven straight into the side of the neck. Small spiraled handle in black and white. No other sign of injury. Must have hit the carotid. Substantial blood loss. Death was probably instantaneous. He’d have to wait for confirmation from the Medical Examiner on that last point. He returned his gaze to the knife handle. Where had he seen it before?
He glanced toward the house for a moment and wondered how Kaitlyn was coping. It was one thing to lose a fiancé to murder. It was something totally different to be the one who found the body. This had to be a terrible shock for her. Returning his eyes to the body, he studied Brad’s ashen face. The bulging eyes stared straight ahead, frozen in a state of deathly blindness. The mouth gaped open, a trickle of blood creeping from the corner. The crimson fluid from the wound on his neck had saturated his shirt and flowed down onto the seat and floor. It was a brutal scene. Rodney chewed on his bottom lip. Brad didn’t deserve to die like this. No one did. “I’ll catch the bastard,” he said quietly. “I promise.”
Footsteps approached from behind him. He knew who it was without looking. The sound of her boots on the concrete was distinctive. “Took you long enough,” he said.
“Sorry. I was over in Jersey when I got the call,” Julie said.
Rodney rose to his feet, turned his back to the BMW, and peeled off his surgical gloves. “It’s a messy business.”
Julie’s hands were buried in the pockets of her jacket, holding it closed as if she were cold. Her shoulders quivered, and her face looked pale. Perhaps it was just the harshness of the halogens. Rodney frowned. “You okay?”
Julie nodded. “Huh? Yeah. Just a little tired.”
He stepped aside while she gave the scene a closer examination. He turned toward the street, catching sight of her blue Volkswagen parked up the road, the red teardrop adding its own light to the already kaleidoscopic flashes from the other police cars illuminating the night.
Julie gave a low whistle. “Straight through the neck. Very clean.”
Rodney returned his gaze to the BMW. “Not easy to do.” He motioned with his right hand to demonstrate. His arm touched the window post. “If the attack was from behind, the door frame gets in the way.”
“Seems awkward. Maybe left-handed?” Julie added.
Rodney changed positions and repeated the thrust, this time with his left hand. “It works, but that means he would see it coming. Why would he not defend himself?”
“Maybe he knew his assailant. Thought there was no threat.”
“Perhaps,” Rodney said. “He pointed toward the cigarette stub he’d stepped around earlier. “He might’ve been a smoker.”
Julie straightened up, turning to face him. He was surprised at her very cursory examination. It wasn’t like her to give a crime scene such a brief review. He’d seen her spend an hour or more on the initial examination. He narrowed his eyes. “You’ve seen all you wanted to see?”
She moved around the car, hands still deep in her pockets. “I’ve seen enough.” She turned toward the house, and then looked back at him. “What’s her story?”
Rodney stared at her. Perhaps she was tired after all.
“I haven’t gotten too many details yet, but they were heading for a weekend away,” he started to explain.
“To the Poconos.”
He raised one eyebrow. “How’d you know?”
“She told me the other day.”
Rodney rounded the car to stand next to her. “They had to stop here on their way out of town. While she was inside the house, someone killed him.”
Julie was quiet for an instant, chewing on her bottom lip as her gaze focused on the house. “Seems like a convenient story.”
“It’s a bit early to be casting suspicions, don’t you think?” He frowned, folding his arms.
“Just keeping an open mind.”
A crime scene technician approached with a camera to take crime scene photos. Rodney touched Julie’s arm and
guided her away from the BMW. “What’s gotten into you? We’ve not even spoken to her yet, and you’re already casting her as a murderer.”
Julie pulled her arms into her body, wrapping her coat even tighter around her. Her eyes darted down toward the ground, and then back up at him. “Sorry. I’ve . . . There’s been a death in the family.”
He closed his eyes, letting out a long sigh. “Julie, I’m sorry. Why didn’t you say?” It was just like her to be dealing with a personal tragedy and still come to a crime scene. He placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “You shouldn’t be here. Go home.”
Slipping her hands from her coat pockets, she folded her arms and shook her head. “No. I’ll be fine.” She paused, as if to rein in her emotions. “Just a little distracted. Work’s the best thing for me. Helps take my mind off it.”
Rodney frowned, then glanced back toward the car. The forensics investigator leaned in the driver’s window, preparing to take another photo. He never could understand Julie’s obsession with working so hard. He’d learned long ago that he needed to make a point of separating from the job lest the job tear him to pieces. Rodney had always assumed that viewing death as frequently as he did couldn’t possibly be good for him. Violent or nonviolent. Accidental or murder. It didn’t matter what kind of death. Finding a way to stifle his own natural tendency toward obsessive curiosity had become his upmost priority. His study of ancient philosophy was his latest purview.
“Who died?” he asked.
She was slow to answer. “My cousin.”
“Damn it, Julie. Go home. Take care of your family.” He glanced at the crime scene tech, still leaning in the car window. When he looked back at Julie, he locked eyes with hers. Perhaps it was a trick of the light, they looked vacant.
Dead Air Page 11