Dead Air

by Michael Bradley

  She stripped off her clothes and turned the water on in the shower. Just before stepping under the showerhead, Kaitlyn heard the doorbell ring. She paid it no heed. The hot water pummeled her sore muscles and soothed her aches. She turned her face up into the spray, feeling the sting of scalding droplets on her skin.

  Kaitlyn knew Rodney wasn’t pleased with this arrangement. She had seen it in his eyes earlier at the radio station. He was suspicious of everyone, not that she could blame him. Until there was more evidence, anyone could be a suspect, even Sammy and her husband. No, not Sammy. She trusted Sammy. It had taken a lengthy discussion to convince Rodney that she was trustworthy. Even then, he still eyed her with doubt.

  Julie Lewis had driven Sammy and Kaitlyn to the apartment late that afternoon. Rodney said he’d stop by later in the evening to check up on her. That was probably him at the door. Julie had been silent for most of the ride, but, when they arrived at the converted townhouse, she inquired about the neighbors who lived below.

  “A half-deaf old lady. Rarely ever see her,” Sammy had said.

  Inside, Julie made a brisk assessment of the apartment, looking briefly into each room. She asked a few additional questions about the locks on the windows and doors. Apparently satisfied with the answers, Julie headed toward the door. She paused just before opening it.

  “We’ll arrange for a city police patrol to watch the apartment,” Julie said. “But I doubt we can push that through for tonight. Make sure you know who’s at the door before you open it.”

  A loud pop from somewhere in the apartment snapped Kaitlyn back to her shower. The water muffled the noise, making it difficult to make out what it was. She dipped beneath the showerhead to rinse the shampoo from her hair. Kaitlyn was startled by two more sharp pops in rapid succession. She turned off the water and listened. The apartment was silent. Stepping from the shower, she dried herself, then slipped on her shorts and T-shirt. Kaitlyn’s hand trembled when she touched the doorknob.

  The faint odor of gunpowder met her as she stepped into the darkened hall. “Sammy? Zeek?”

  Most of the apartment was in darkness. A single light radiated from the living room. She remained near the bathroom, afraid to move down the hall.

  She called out again. “Sammy?”

  The stillness in the apartment was deafening. Her bedroom was a few feet behind her. Her iPhone was on the dresser just inside the door. A couple quick steps and she could barricade herself until the police arrived. But she couldn’t make her legs move. Petrified, she remained still. Listening. Waiting.

  Suddenly a figure stepped into the hallway, framed by the dim light from the living room. Kaitlyn drew in a deep breath. The shadows hid the face, but she knew who it was. She’d missed all the clues, ignored the nagging sense of familiarity.

  “Hello, Laura. It’s been a long time.”

  40

  Rodney grabbed a bottle of water from the kitchen and returned to the living room window to gaze out onto the street beyond. Night had fallen, and rain coated the pavement with a wet sheen. He was tired and frustrated. His body was bruised and achy from his fight with Kevin O’Neill. He’d spent the rest of the afternoon being questioned first by the Conshohocken Police and then the Philadelphia Police. Neither of them was overly happy with Rodney’s actions. The Philly Police were, in particular, not happy that the GBT Strangler was dead. Rodney simply shrugged, pointing out that impact with a bus tended to do that to a person. They weren’t amused.

  He’d driven back to the Lower Merion Township police station. After he updated Bernie on the case, Rodney returned to his desk, checked his email, and caught himself staring at the computer screen without actually reading a word. Did the death of the GBT Strangler mean the end of the Kaitlyn Ashe case? Bernie seemed to think so, but Rodney wasn’t sure. There was no hard evidence to implicate Kevin O’Neill in the death of Brad Ludlow, but then there wasn’t much evidence at all.

  Something bothered him about the case. The killer had always been a couple steps ahead of him. No clues. No real suspects. Not a fingerprint. Not a DNA sample. Nothing. Was Kevin O’Neill that meticulous? He’d love to tell Kaitlyn that her stalker was dead, and she had nothing further to worry about, but he didn’t really believe that this was true.

  The video cameras found in Kaitlyn’s house were police-grade equipment. Forensics was tracking the serial numbers. Perhaps that would give him a break in the case. He wondered how long they’d been in the house. The batteries in that particular model would only last a week or two when configured for continuous streaming. Could someone have installed them while Kaitlyn was staying at the Marriott? That meant accessing the house after Brad was murdered, slipping in while the crime scene was still secured by police. Either the killer had an extreme talent for performing covert operations right under the nose of the police, or . . .

  The alternative was too concerning to think about.

  He read through Brad’s autopsy report and studied the photos taken at the crime scene. Nothing. The Philly police report from Kaitlyn’s motorcycle accident offered up nothing of importance either. He scanned through the scant forensics report from the murder scene. A few cloth fibers had been found, but nothing else. No fingerprints. How could there be so little to go on? It was as if the killer was a ghost. He smiled, remembering a quote from Sherlock Holmes. “The world is big enough for us. No ghosts need apply.”

  He continued to shuffle through the various reports for another half hour. He couldn’t shake the sense that he had missed something obvious. He came across a newspaper clipping about Jesse Riley’s death. A small black and white photograph showed a teenage Kaitlyn—or Laura as she was known then—sitting on the back step of an ambulance. He studied the frozen apathetic look on her face. Perhaps it was shock. The indifference in her hard stare was curious. She’d just lost her high school sweetheart. He knew everyone dealt with grief in their own way, but . . .

  A car turned onto his street. Its headlights arced across his townhouse window. Rodney snapped back to the present and squinted at the momentary glare, realizing that he hadn’t moved for a good ten minutes. He sipped from the water bottle as the taillights moved on up the street. The wet pavement reminded him of the night of Kaitlyn’s accident in downtown Philly. It had been raining then as well. It was a shame he hadn’t been able to get the full plate number off the Volkswagen. That could have opened the whole case up. Maybe even saved Brad’s life. He swirled the water bottle, watching the water roll around the clear plastic sides. Something bugged him about the Volkswagen. Something about the license plate. Julie hadn’t found any Volkswagen Beetles with a plate that started with BG. He returned his gaze to the window. Then it hit him.

  The report about the license plates was not in the case files. Julie must’ve forgotten to put it in there. He ran his hand through his hair and turned away from the window. That wasn’t like her. She was always conscientious about maintaining a complete case file. He crossed to the bookcase and picked up the bust of Aristotle, staring into its white, lifeless eyes. He couldn’t help but quote Shakespeare. “Something is rotten in the state of Denmark.”

  He replaced the bust and roamed in aimless circles around the living room. The case was a tangle of loose threads that he couldn’t follow to their source. He knew they all met somewhere, but he couldn’t figure out where. A decades-old drowning. Anonymous letters from a stalker. An attempt on Kaitlyn’s life. The murder of Brad Ludlow. He feared that there might be one final thread still out there—Kaitlyn’s murder. Everything was building to that. He was sure of it. He should never have left her at Sammy’s house. It would’ve been better to bring her here, to his own home. Julie would’ve raised holy hell over that. “Getting far too close to the victim,” she’d have said.

  As he continued to pace, something nagged at him from the dark recesses of his mind. Something he’d seen earlier in the day. There was something in the case file . . . something important that he’d missed.

  Rodn
ey crossed the lobby of the Lower Merion Township Police Station. He waved at the night desk officer, then climbed the stairs to the Detective Division offices. As he took the stairs two at a time, his mobile phone chirped.

  “Rodney?” Bernie said.

  “Yeah, Captain. What’s up?”

  “I’ve got a situation.”

  Rodney entered the darkened office, flicked on the overhead fluorescent lights, and crossed to his desk. He only half-listened to the conversation. “Okay. What is it?”

  “Philly police called. There’s been a double homicide in Fishtown.”

  Rodney shuffled through the papers in the case file on his desk. “Hmmm . . .”

  “A sub-nosed .38 Special was found at the scene.”

  He pulled an old newspaper clipping he’d seen earlier from the file and scanned the article. “Hmmm . . . Why’d they call you? Can’t Philly police solve their own murders?”

  “The gun was registered to you.”

  The newspaper clipping fell from his hand onto the desk. “What?”

  “Where is your spare gun? The one you usually wear on your ankle.”

  Rodney remembered taking the holster off before he showered earlier in the evening. It had been empty. He’d given the gun to Kaitlyn the other night for protection but forgot to get it back. “I don’t have it. Where was that double homicide?”

  “Fishtown. Philly police are anxious to know how your gun got there.”

  Rodney’s eyes dropped back to the newspaper clipping. A sentence near the bottom of the article jumped out at him. In particular, a name. His mind raced, frantic to process the possibilities. Could it be the killer had been right under his nose the entire time? He grasped the various threads and began to weave together a theory, seeing the face of a killer begin to emerge.

  “Kaitlyn?”

  “Missing. She wasn’t one of the victims,” said Bernie.

  Rodney flipped the lid closed on the case file. “Captain, tell them I’ll give them a full account later.”

  Bernie protested. “I can’t do—”

  “Get some men over to Julie’s place. Tell ’em not to knock.”

  “What the hell’s going on?”

  “I know who killed Brad Ludlow.” Rodney turned from his desk and dashed toward the stairs. “And, I think I know where they’re going!”

  41

  The darkness made the ride nauseating. Curled up with her knees almost pressed against her chest, Kaitlyn could barely move in the Volkswagen’s trunk. Other than the occasional streetlight glare filtering through the cracks between the seats, she was enveloped in blackness, jarred by every pothole. She tugged again at the zip ties that bound her wrists behind her back. They were tight and cut deep into her skin. She pressed her feet against the side of the trunk. Tried to shift herself into a more comfortable position to no avail. The cliché about not having room enough to swing a cat came to mind. But, if she had a cat right now, it would have most likely suffocated in the cramped space. She’d considered kicking at the back of the seats. But, although her legs weren’t bound, there was no room to get enough momentum to do anything useful. Kaitlyn reached the frightening conclusion that she’d have to wait it out.

  The image of Zeek and Sammy’s lifeless bodies sprawled on the floor in the living room, a bullet hole in each of their foreheads, was etched in her mind. Zeek’s shirt was bloodstained, marking a second hole in his shoulder. Their killer stood over them with a face stern and cold.

  “Turn around.” The words were accompanied by the flick of a revolver Kaitlyn recognized. She’d held it herself just a few nights ago.

  She remained motionless, glaring back up the gun barrel. “Why? Why are you doing this?”

  The command came again through gritted teeth. “I said, turn around.”

  Kaitlyn’s heart pounded against her ribcage. Fear gripped her, but she fought against it. Too many people had died because of her. First Brad. Now Sammy and Zeek. “Go to hell,” she said, her voice cracking. “I’m the one you want.” She gestured toward her dead companions. “Why’d they have to die?”

  Before Kaitlyn knew what happened, the revolver was pressed against her forehead and she was staring into a pair of icy gray eyes. “Look, bitch. Feel how cold the metal is? I don’t want to have to kill you here and now, but I will. One twitch of my finger. That’s all it’ll take.”

  Kaitlyn leaned into the gun barrel and tried to keep from trembling. “Why don’t you? Get it over with.”

  “You think I’d have gone to all this trouble just to blow your brains out? Could’ve done that weeks ago, months ago. Now, turn around.”

  Kaitlyn wanted to resist, to make a stand. The eyes glaring back were cold with hatred. After a moment, she gave in to her terror and turned her back on the gun . . . and a killer.

  After her arms were wrenched behind her back, wrists bound tight, Kaitlyn was shoved out of the apartment, down the stairs, and out to the waiting Volkswagen. With the gun barrel prodding at her back, she fell into the trunk and found herself shrouded in darkness as the hatchback closed. She lay face down on the carpet, listening to the silence encompassing the car. Then it shook as one of the doors was opened and then slammed closed.

  “Let me out! Can’t we talk about this?” she shouted, rocking so her shoulder hit the back seat again and again. It was an anemic attempt that accomplished nothing, and she knew it. But she didn’t want to go out quietly. She had no idea if anyone could hear her, but she shouted anyway. “Help! Help me!”

  “Shut up, Laura.” The back seat muffled the reply.

  Kaitlyn trembled at the mention of her childhood name. She always suspected that she’d have to face her past someday. But she never thought it would be like this. Her hope had always been that she’d someday share her secret with Brad, perhaps after they were married. Just a quiet evening over some wine. A soft-spoken confession. A few tears. An understanding embrace. And, his assurance that it changed nothing. But that dream had ended in a pool of blood on her driveway.

  She shouted again. “Help!” Maybe someone would be walking along the sidewalk. “Someone, help!”

  This time, there was no rebuke from the driver’s seat. Just the car engine roaring to life, then pulling away from the curb and accelerating up the street.

  She had no idea how long they’d been driving. Twenty minutes, maybe thirty. But, when the car accelerated up a long incline, she was certain she knew where they were headed. They were on a bridge, probably the Commodore Barry Bridge. Over the river to New Jersey. There was only one destination for her over there. The Shallows.

  She closed her eyes tight and sobbed. Of all the nights, it had to be tonight. No other would’ve been more appropriate. It all made sense now. All her suffering had been leading up to this. Not just the past few weeks, but the years and years of living as Kaitlyn Ashe. Of denying Laura Hobson and what she’d done. Years of loneliness for fear of getting close to someone who would learn the truth. The denials, the guilt, the life she’d tried to leave behind. It all came back in a flood. She didn’t believe in ghosts, but if there was ever a night for the dead to return, it was this one. Somehow, she knew that Jesse would be waiting. Waiting for her to return to the scene of her crime. To return to the Shallows to face the ghosts of her past . . . on the anniversary of the night he died.

  Over the bridge, the car raced onward through the twilight. Kaitlyn was jerked from side to side as it whipped along the rural roads of southern New Jersey. At times, it felt as if the vehicle was out of control. She half-hoped the driver would miss a turn and crash into a ditch. If nothing else, it would prolong the inevitable . . . or perhaps hasten its inevitability. Dying in a car crash couldn’t be any worse than dying at the Shallows.

  The ride became rough, and Kaitlyn was bounced around the confined trunk. Her head banged against the lid, off the floor, and against the lid again. She figured the battering meant they were close to their destination. This would be her second visit to the Shallows in l
ess than a week. She didn’t know what to expect from her abductor. Perhaps torture? An attempt to get at the truth about Jesse’s death? Or was this to be a plain and simple execution?

  The car came to a halt, and the engine stopped. The door opened and shut. Kaitlyn waited, listening to the silence. She expected the trunk to open any second, but it didn’t. One minute turned to two, and then to three. The taillights trickled a red glow through the cracks in the trunk. The headlights must still be on. But where was the driver? The air in the trunk had become stifling, and she was desperate to be free. The minutes seemed like hours, and the dark, claustrophobic space had become more than she could endure. She wondered if this was how she would die. Suffocated in the back of a car.

  When the trunk flipped open, she was blinded by a bright circle of light. Kaitlyn closed her eyes and turned her head to one side to avoid the glare. A steady rain was falling. The frigid droplets touched her face and rolled down her cheeks.

  “Sorry. Was that too bright?” The flashlight clicked off, leaving the trunk bathed in faint red aura. “Get out.”

  Kaitlyn struggled to climb from the trunk. With her legs dangling over the bumper, she fought to sit up, but with her arms bound, it was an impossible task. After a few moments, a hand grasped her forearm and tugged hard. Kaitlyn fell from the trunk into the mud. She lay still for a moment; the moist ground was cold on the bare skin of her arms and legs. She shivered as moisture seeped into the thin fabric of her shorts and T-shirt.