The Complete John Wayne Cleaver Series: I Am Not a Serial Killer, Mr. Monster, I Don't Want to Kill You, Devil's Only Friend, Over Your Dead Body, Nothing Left to Lose

by Dan Wells

  I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned to see Officer Jensen; Marci was right behind him and rushed to my side. I reared back, suddenly afraid that he’d come to kill me, but he held up a clear plastic bag with a small, discarded pistol. “He was never going to shoot anybody, either. This was out in shadows, just over there, clean as a whistle—no clip and nothing in the chamber.”

  “He left his gun?” I asked.

  “He probably wanted us to find it,” said Officer Jensen. “It looks like he scrubbed it clean of evidence, and then left it where he knew we’d see it.”

  I leaned against Marci, suddenly tired. “He wanted us to know it was really him. I’ll bet you anything the ballistics of that gun match all four killings, but you won’t find any evidence to tell you who he is.”

  Officer Jensen nodded. “That’s exactly what I thought, too.” He cocked his head to the side. “You’re very good at this, you know?”

  I studied him closely, sizing him up, trying to match him against Ashley’s description of her attacker. He was far taller than she’d described. It couldn’t have been him.

  But it was a man, that much she was sure of. Which meant either Nobody really was a shape-shifter, or …

  … it wasn’t Nobody.

  I stumbled, feeling drained, and Marci caught me and led me out onto the park lawn.

  “You need to sit,” she said. “You’re going to come down off a killer adrenaline buzz any second now, and you don’t want to be on your feet for it.”

  “I’m fine,” I said, but allowed her to lead me to a bench. It was dark, lit only by the flashing lights of a dozen cop cars and fire trucks, and the sidewalks were filled with terrified students. My hands were shaking, and Marci pulled them into her lap and held them tightly.

  “He didn’t say anything,” I said. “He just gave her a note. That either means he couldn’t talk, or he wouldn’t.”

  “You’re an absolute idiot,” she said. “You could have been killed, do you realize that?”

  “This is important,” I said. “None of the victims have ever fought the Handyman, which probably means he gains their trust, which almost definitely means he can talk. So why would he talk to them and not to Ashley?”

  “Just let it go,” said Marci, “just for one night.”

  “No,” I said, fixing my eyes on her. “He just told us he’s going to keep killing, and he just showed us that most of our profile is garbage. We can’t just let it go, we’ve got to figure him out. Or her—we don’t even know that for sure anymore.”

  Marci reached up and touched my cheek, running her hand up the side of my face and straightening my hair. I found myself suddenly unable to think about anything else.

  “You’re a hero,” she said, “but even heroes need a rest sometimes.”

  “He might have a…” What was I going to say? “A, uh, speech impediment. Like the Trailside Killer. But it’s probably not something, um, debilitating.” She was stroking my head, and I could barely concentrate. “It’s probably just an identifier, like an accent. He didn’t want Ashley to hear his voice because he knew he was going to leave her alive. The Handyman has an accent, I’ll bet you anything.”

  “That’s your whole thing, isn’t it?” said Marci, leaning close to my face. I could see the blue and red lights from the police cars reflecting on her skin and flashing in her eyes. “You see something wrong and you have to fix it, and damn the consequences.”

  “But it’s important,” I said again. “She, or he, or whatever it is, will just keep killing and killing until I stop it.” I looked up at the stars. “Now I’ve wasted two whole months building a profile that can’t predict anything, and we’re not any closer now than when we started.”

  “You don’t have to solve everything by yourself,” Marci said softly. “I know you’re trying to do your best to make things right, and I love that about you, but you can’t let it eat you alive. The Handyman left evidence, and the police can use it to track her down, or him, or whatever, and you don’t have to do everything.” She smiled weakly. “You don’t have to march into hell every single time they open the gate.”

  I studied her face, cataloguing every familiar line and curve. I let out a long breath, pushing out the air like it was poison. Calm down, I told myself. I turned and looked at the street. Cars crept past slowly, trying to get a good look at the chaos. “You know, I am suddenly struck with the horrifying realization that you and my mom might really get along.”

  “Then you’re lucky to be surrounded by smart women,” she said. “I can see we have our hands full.”

  She said “we.” She’d seen me be stupid, she’d seen me be obsessed, she’d seen me put my life at risk … and she said “we.”

  “You’re not leaving,” I said.

  She smiled, curling her mouth into a mischievous grin. “Are you kidding? My boyfriend just saved the whole school. He’s a hero! He’s a stupid, reckless, idiot of a hero, but hey, he’s mine.”

  “I’m yours, huh?”

  We watched the chaos swirl around us, curiously separated from it all by darkness and grass. There were police on the front steps, interviewing witnesses; there were long lines of students trying to get to their cars; and long lines of cars trying to get out onto the street. I tilted my head back and looked up at the stars.

  “You know,” said Marci, “it’s getting kind of chilly out here.”

  I smiled up at the sky. “Now you’re regretting that immodest dress.”

  She punched me lightly, laughing. “I’m not complaining, you dork, I’m asking you to put your arm around me. I swear, it’s like dropping hints off a cliff.”

  I lifted my arm and curled it around her shoulders. She laid her head on my shoulder. She was warm and soft and perfect.

  “So,” she said. “How’d your first dance go?”

  “Not bad, overall.”

  “I take it this is also your first bomb threat?”

  I smiled. “Yep.”

  “How about your first kiss?”

  I paused, lost for words, my brain a hollow, buzzing sphere. “Nothing’s happened yet, but it is a night for firsts.”

  She lifted her head, bringing it level with mine. “Well if it’s your first, I’d better make sure it’s memorable.”

  And she did.

  15

  I slept in the next morning, dreaming of Marci, and finally crawled out of bed at ten o’clock. Mom was gone, and I flipped on the TV; there was nothing on, so I turned it back off. I poured a bowl of cereal and was just sitting down to eat it when the doorbell rang. I ignored it, but it rang again, then a third time. I dragged myself out of my chair, walked to the door, then down the stairs to the outside door and opened it. Brooke was in the driveway, walking away.

  “Hey,” I said, suddenly conscious of my wrinkled pajamas and mussed up hair.

  She turned around. “Hey.” She was dressed simply, in jeans and a long-sleeved shirt. She stood silent a moment, shuffling her feet. “I just heard about Rachel, and I wanted to say I was sorry.”

  “Rachel?”

  Her face, already pale, went white. “You haven’t heard.” It wasn’t a question, but a sudden shock of realization, and in that instant, reading her eyes and her face and her stance, I received the same shock. I knew exactly what she was going to say.

  “She killed herself.”

  Brooke nodded.

  “Dammit.” I stepped back, feeling the blood drain from my head, leaving it light and useless; an empty, worthless thing that buzzed with static and noise. The walls were dark and oppressive; the sun was too bright and too cold. “She was a mess all night—crying and depressed and everything. I didn’t think she’d take it that far. I had no idea.” I turned away from the door, saw the wall too close, and punched it in rage. “Why?” My scream devolved into a roar, loud and harsh until it scratched my throat and raked it raw.

  “I’m so sorry to be the one to tell you,” said Brooke, now standing in the doorway. “I knew you w
ere spending a lot of time with her lately, and I thought I’d better come see if there was anything I could … I’m so sorry, John.”

  “Why do they keep killing themselves?” I demanded. “Everything we do, everything we risk, is just … meaningless! It’s like we never even stopped the killers. It’s like they’re all still out there, still killing anyone they want, and we still can’t do anything about it. I don’t know why we even try!” I threw myself down on the stairs, hurting myself as I sat, and I relished the bright focus on pain. I grit my teeth and punched the wall again, hammering it over and over until my hand throbbed red. Brooke put her hands in pockets, then took them out again. She leaned on the doorframe.

  “You want to talk?”

  “Doesn’t matter if I do, since nobody ever listens.”

  “I’ll listen.”

  I looked up at her framed in the doorway. “You think I’m a freak.”

  She shrugged awkwardly. “Even freaks need to talk sometimes. I wouldn’t mind talking about it myself, honestly.”

  I stood up slowly, rubbing my hand, waving weakly at the wall as if to say that was nothing; just forget it ever happened. “Come on up, then,” I said. “My cereal’s getting soggy.” I walked back up the stairs and she followed. I sat down to eat, and pointed in the general direction of the cupboard.

  “Bowls are in there if you want some.”

  “Thanks.” She poured a bowl of cereal and sat down across from me, pressing the flakes down into the milk with her spoon. “Did you know Rachel well?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t think I know anyone well.” I took a bite, chewed and swallowed. “She’s Marci’s best friend, I guess, but we never really did much with her.”

  Brooke smiled. “I kind of think you’re Marci’s best friend now.” She smiled, then winced. “I mean, even before her other best friend died. I’m sorry, that sounded totally bad.”

  I shrugged. “It’s hard to make a suicide sound worse than it is. Say whatever you want.”

  “I don’t know if I have a best friend,” said Brooke, staring at her cereal. She hadn’t eaten any yet. “I knew Rachel pretty well, though; we always got along.” She smiled and looked up. “I remember this one time when we had a slumber party at her house, in seventh grade, and we dared each other to call the boys we liked. She called Brad.” She looked down again. “I’m glad they got to go to a dance, even just once, before she died.”

  I scowled. “She didn’t just die—it’s not like she was hit by a meteor or something. This wasn’t an act of nature, or an attack, or an accident: she killed herself. She was sitting there, perfectly alive, and said ‘you know what? I’m going to end my own life,’ and now she’s gone. What makes a person do that?”

  Brooke shook her head, eyes wet. “I don’t know.”

  “Mom talked about leaving,” I said. “We can’t, obviously, because scary, dangerous times are the only times we make any money in this pit. We have to take care of the dead. We’ll have to take care of Rachel, now. But sometimes I just want to get out. I just want to get out on the highway and drive and drive until I can’t even remember this place. Until I get somewhere good.” I laughed, and it was brittle and humorless. “I guess everywhere sucks, though.”

  Brooke stared at nothing, her eyes wet.

  I played with my cereal, tapping the spoon against the bowl, then set it down. “I thought I could stop it.”

  Brooke looked up.

  “I thought I could wave a magic wand,” I continued, “or a knife, or whatever, and make all the killing stop, make all the sadness stop, and no one would ever have to die again. No one would ever go away. But that doesn’t happen. People always go away, and it doesn’t matter if they’re shot or stabbed or hit by a truck or killed by cancer or worn out by old age; it’ll never stop.”

  “Everybody dies,” said Brooke. “It’s just that not everybody dies when they’re supposed to.”

  “How do you know when they’re supposed to?”

  She shrugged. “You don’t. I think you just try to help everyone as much as you can, and even if you only give them one more day, then that’s one more day they didn’t have before.”

  “And you think one more day is going to change anything?”

  “I don’t know. You can do a lot in one day, I guess, but I think the people it really changes are the ones who do the helping, you know? When you help somebody, even if it’s only for one day, then that means you’re the kind of person who helps people.” She looked back up. “I think the world needs more people like that.”

  The outside door banged loudly, muffled by the intervening walls. The sound was followed by footsteps on the stairs and then another bang as the inner door opened and Mom came in, arms full of groceries.

  “John, can you help me with—oh, Brooke—” She froze in place, mouth open. “I … didn’t know you were here. What’s up?”

  Brooke wiped her eyes with the tips of her sleeves. “Hi, Mrs. Cleaver, we were just talking. Do you need help with the groceries?”

  Mom pushed past us to the counter, looking back and forth between us, still surprised. “No, that’s fine, I can manage.” She set her bags on the counter. “Is everything okay? You’ve been crying.” She stepped forward. “You’ve both been crying.”

  “Rachel Farnsworth killed herself,” I said.

  Mom’s eyes went wide. “No.”

  “It was last night,” I said, “after the dance, I guess. Brooke just came over to tell me.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Brooke.

  “Wasn’t Rachel in your group for the dance?” asked Mom, sitting down. Her hands were on the table, hovering just above the surface as she wanted to reach and out hold onto mine, but she didn’t. “Did she seem okay?”

  “She was kind of depressed all night, actually,” I said. “I didn’t really see her after the police showed up—Brad took her home, and then Marci and I got a ride with her dad.”

  “Have you talked to Marci?”

  I looked over at Brooke, who grimaced and sucked air through her teeth. I knew that face: it meant she felt guilty.

  I shook my head. “Not yet.”

  “I should go,” said Brooke, standing up. “I didn’t mean to take all your time … I’ll go so you can call her.”

  “Goodbye, Brooke,” said Mom. “Thanks for coming.”

  “Yeah,” said Brooke, and she looked at me. I said nothing, and she left.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” asked Mom. “You seem upset, and you don’t usually get upset when people die. Is everything all right?”

  “I’m not upset because she’s dead,” I said, rising up from my chair. “I’m upset because there’s nothing I can do about it.” I picked up my cereal bowl and carried it to the counter, dumping the dregs into the sink and rinsing it with a burst of water. I held the bowl for a moment, motionless, then placed the bowl carefully on the counter. I set down the spoon next to it, stared at it, then pushed it slightly to the left until it sat parallel to the bowl. It was a perfect table setting, like a photo from an ad.

  “John?”

  “It’s not right,” I said. I adjusted the spoon again, scooting it closer to the bowl.

  “The spoon?”

  “The suicide. It’s not right. Something’s … not right.”

  “What?”

  “Do I look like I know?” I touched the spoon again, shifting it imperceptibly. I stared beyond it, at everything and nothing. “It’s too perfect.”

  “Suicide is perfect?”

  “She slit her wrists,” I said. “Just like Allison Hill, and just like Jenny Zeller. Why?”

  “It’s a really common way to do it,” said Mom. “It doesn’t mean they’re connected.”

  I looked up sharply, my eyes wide. “But they are, aren’t they?”

  “I never said that.”

  “But you know it’s true. We all do, we just haven’t admitted it yet. Too many suicides, and too similar.” I slammed my hand on the counter, suddenl
y angry. “Dammit! It’s a full-on killing spree right under our noses, and we didn’t even think twice!”

  “They’re suicides, John. They’re killing themselves.”

  “No they’re not,” I said, my mind suddenly alive and racing with the possibilities. It’s so obvious! “We’re supposed to think they’re killing themselves, but they’re not. The Handyman is not the only killer in town.”

  “You think the police haven’t already considered that?” asked Mom. “If there’s any evidence of murder in any of these deaths, I guarantee they’re following it up.”

  “But there’s not any evidence,” I said, stepping toward her. “At least not any that the police can recognize. It’s a demon.”

  She stared at me, silent. I felt my heart pounding with a blend of fear and excitement. This has to be it! Last night at the dance I knew there had to be another, I knew it couldn’t be the Handyman, and now here it’s been, right in plain sight all along.

  “Don’t tell me you don’t see it,” I started, but she cut me off.

  “I see it,” she said. Her face was pale. “I don’t want to see it, but I do. It’s like an optical illusion, and you stare at it and stare at it, and once you finally see it you can’t ever … not see it again.”

  “We’re the only ones who can stop it,” I said. “We’re the only ones who know enough to do anything about it.” I ran into the hall. “I’ve gotta get dressed and go to Marci’s.”

  “Wait!” shouted Mom. “Let’s talk about this!”

  “That’s what I’m going to do.”

  “No,” she said, “I mean you and me, here, together.” Mom followed me into the hall. “You don’t have to bring Marci into it. I’m trying to help you and … I’m right here.”

  “Yeah,” I said, “I know.” I went into my room and closed the door.

  * * *

  “Marci, John’s here.”

  I was standing in the Jensen’s hallway while Marci’s mom knocked on her bedroom door. Déjà vu. There was no answer, and her mom knocked again.

  “Marci, are you in there?”

  “I don’t want to see anyone,” said Marci softly. Her voice was cracked and feeble.