No Going Back (Sawyer Brooks)

by T. R. Ragan

  When they were done eating, Sawyer went back to her seat on the couch in front of her laptop and said matter-of-factly, “I’m being followed.”

  “What? Seriously? By who?”

  “All I know is that he or she drives a mint-green Kia Soul. We pulled to the side of the road in the hope of getting the license plate—”

  “We?”

  Sawyer wrinkled her nose. “Don’t tell Harper, but the car was following Lennon and me when we were driving around Midtown earlier today. It was the third time I noticed the car, so we took chase.”

  “With Lennon at the wheel?”

  Sawyer nodded sheepishly. “He’s a natural.”

  “You didn’t get a good look at the driver?” Aria asked. “How about a license plate number?”

  “No and yes. I have the number on my phone.”

  “And you haven’t bothered to look it up?”

  “I’ve been busy. I’ll probably need to pay a PI to get the information for me.”

  “Can’t you just call the DMV?”

  “No. Not since the Driver’s Privacy Protection Act was passed.”

  Sawyer booted up her computer again. Just as she thought, she was unable to find out who the Kia Soul belonged to, so she left a message with a PI she’d used before.

  Aria pulled out her laptop. “Okay,” she said, “I’ve only got an hour before my coffee date with Corey Moran.”

  “You’re meeting him today?”

  “Yeah. Is that a problem?”

  “No, of course not. It’s just that it’s all happening so fast.”

  Aria laughed. “It’s just coffee, Sawyer. We’re not getting married.”

  “Okay. Okay. Got it. Let’s get to work.”

  “I’m already on it,” Aria said.

  Sawyer and Aria had talked about the different cases on their drive to see Nancy Lay, but she hadn’t explained her theory about there being two separate cases going on. The Black Wigs and the Copycat. “Since you don’t have a lot of time, let’s concentrate on the Copycat Killer.”

  “Bruce Ward is a ghost on social media,” Aria said.

  Sawyer nodded. “If not for Bruce’s neighbor, Trudy Carriger, his death would have been ruled a suicide.”

  “She’s the witness who thought the person she saw was a man?”

  “Yes,” Sawyer said. “But I don’t think her eyesight was very good.”

  For the next few minutes, the only sound was their fingers clicking away on the keyboards. “Whoa!” Aria said.

  Sawyer looked up. “What did you find?”

  “Did you know that Valerie Purcell, the headmaster at the children’s home, was found dead inside her Fair Oaks home?”

  Sawyer popped up and went to hover over Aria. The article was short. Apparently she’d fallen down a flight of stairs. Nothing about when she died or who found her. “She’s the third person with a connection to the children’s home who has been found dead,” Sawyer said. “All three within days of one another.”

  “Crazy,” Aria said. “And creepy. Who’s next, I wonder?”

  Sawyer was wondering the same thing as she made her way back to her notepad and computer. After a moment she said, “My gut tells me I should concentrate on locating Felix Iverson and Aston Newell.”

  “And what will you do if you find them?”

  “I guess I would warn them, tell them what’s happened and let them know there could very well be a target on their backs.”

  “But there are other members of the gang too.” Aria anchored a strand of hair behind her ear. “Maybe Emily Stiller will remember their names.”

  “Possibly,” Sawyer said.

  “Speaking of Emily Stiller,” Aria said. “I hate to say it, but if all these bullies are being killed, wouldn’t the likely killer be Emily, Jimmy, or Stanley?”

  “It’s possible. But there were a lot of kids who lived at the home. The fire, unfortunately, wiped out any chance of finding a list of names of children who once lived there.”

  “Bummer,” Aria said.

  “Yes. It’s really going to be a process of elimination at this point, which is why I’ll be meeting with Emily Stiller tomorrow and hopefully get a feel for who she is and whether she might be capable of murder.”

  “I don’t like it,” Aria said. “You’re already being followed. You really do need some protection. Maybe I should go get my gun from home.”

  “No,” Sawyer said. “I’ll be fine.” Sawyer continued clicking away on the keys of her laptop, typing Felix Iverson’s name into one of her search databases. More than one Felix Iverson appeared, but only one with an address in the area. She typed the address into another database that revealed his age. “This has to be the same guy. He lives in Sacramento, off El Camino Avenue.”

  Aria was also typing. She stopped and said, “Looks like Aston Newell works at an automotive shop in Midtown. That’s not too far from here. He works Monday through Friday.”

  Sawyer wrote down Felix Iverson’s address and then made note of Aston Newell’s workplace. She then shut her laptop and got to her feet. “I can’t just sit here. I’m going to drive to Felix Iverson’s house right now.”

  “Wait a minute.” More typing. “Did you look at Felix Iverson’s Facebook page?”

  “No need. I have his address.”

  “He looks pretty sketchy.” Aria’s mouth dropped open. “It says here that he attended Chico State University.”

  Sawyer went to stand over Aria again. Aria had clicked on a photo that showed him shirtless, holding a beer, and laughing. He was about five foot nine, his dark hair peppered with silver streaks. He had a bony chest and arms. Sawyer winced.

  Aria scrolled through a few more pictures, each one worse than the last. Felix pointing a BB gun at the back of his friend’s head. Felix guzzling wine from a box. Felix firmly clutching his balls as he looked directly into the lens of the camera.

  “Okay. I’ll bring my pepper spray and Taser, just in case.”

  “Guess I’ll go to the coffee shop early.” Aria shut down her laptop, gathered her things, and got to her feet. “Text me later so I know you made it home.”

  “I’ll be fine. But okay. I’ll text you. And good luck with Corey Moran.”

  Sawyer stared at her sister for a moment too long, prompting Aria to raise her hands and say, “What?”

  “Just be careful.”

  Aria chuckled. “I’m meeting a guy for coffee, and you’re telling me to be careful? You’re the one traipsing off to see a possible killer.”

  “I don’t think Felix Iverson is a killer. I think he could be in danger, and I need to warn him.”

  “Text me when you get home,” Aria said before she walked out the door.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Cleo stood in front of a tall, rectangular mirror propped against the wall in her bedroom—the bedroom she used to share with her husband. It was hard to believe that she’d had a taste of normalcy—a kind, gentle man and two perfect children—and then threw it all away. Somehow, the people she loved most hadn’t been enough to stop her from drowning in her past. Why hadn’t she been able to reach out, just one more time, and grasp on to the lifeline her family had tossed her way?

  She had no idea. But she did know it was a miracle she’d lasted this long and still walked among the living. And yet that didn’t stop her from wondering when, exactly, she’d passed the point of no return.

  Taking more care than usual to put on her wig, she flattened and prepped her long black hair, twisting and twirling before pulling on a black cap. Over the cap she placed the wig on her head, starting at the front. Using a wide-tooth comb, she brushed the shiny black hair into place. There. She was ready to go.

  Next, she picked up the tube of lipstick and began to apply the color she’d seen on the slightly fuzzy image of the person leaving the home of a dead man. The photograph had been caught from a security camera, then leaked to the media. She found it humorous that she was copycatting a copycat.


  What was his or her deal? she wondered. Did the Copycat Killer have a list of people to go after? Or were the victims random?

  Starting at the center of the upper lip, she then moved the creamy red lipstick outward toward one corner of her mouth and then the other. After using a tissue to blot her lips, she gazed at her reflection. Exotic is what many called her. Her father was white. Her mother was Asian. Cleo was neither, yet both. Either way, the woman staring back at her didn’t look anything like the horribly wretched woman she always saw in her mind’s eye.

  Once, a therapist had asked her how she envisioned herself, and Cleo had told the therapist that when she spoke, she heard a voice of thunder. And when she closed her eyes, she saw herself as a woman with flaming red eyes and clenched fists.

  Nothing about her reflection hinted at the rampant madness that resided inside her. Even now the rage tossed and turned, bubbling over, creeping into every nook and cranny within. Anger had been building inside her for so long that it had become a limb, an organ, a part of her.

  An uncontrollable tremor got her moving and set her on her way. She walked determinedly to the steel safe hidden away in the bedroom closet, used the key around her neck to open the small but heavy door. Reaching inside, she grabbed hold of the Zip Blade Tiny Knife and put it in her front pants pocket. She then guided the KA-BAR Becker hunting knife with the chromium vanadium drop point steel blade, full tang, into the leather sheath around her waist. Next came the Havalon Piranta Z skinning knife with its unassuming but extremely sharp blade. That went into her leather bag along with her Glock 43X.

  A short time later she was in her car, her mind focused on one thing.

  Don Fulton. Number two on her list.

  She didn’t need The Crew.

  She had realized that after Psycho had left her alone in the warehouse with Eddie Carter. She’d lied about him running off. After cutting the zip ties, she’d dragged him to Otto Radley’s burial site. When he tried to crawl away on all fours, she’d followed him deeper into the woods where the moonlight was blocked by fluttering leaves. She’d pulled out a knife from her ankle strap and slit his throat, severing his trachea. He had managed to rip the duct tape from his mouth and take a few giant, gasping breaths. He’d gargled blood and coughed. Within thirty seconds, he’d fallen unconscious. Died while she collected broken branches and piles of twigs to cover his body with. She’d considered burying him atop Otto Radley. The dirt had still been semisoft, but she needed to clean the warehouse and return to her apartment before dawn.

  The trek back home had been a long one. Once she got as far as Sutterville Road, she’d called Lyft and gotten a ride to Treetop Apartments in West Sacramento.

  Overall, getting rid of Eddie Carter had been surprisingly easy.

  In fact, she should have taken care of Eddie, Don, and Felix a long time ago. Maybe then things would have turned out differently. Maybe she would be happily married, at home with her family. Maybe. Just maybe.

  If only.

  A few houses away from Don Fulton’s house, she pulled to the side of the road. It was a nice house. A large house. Too big, in her opinion, for a single man without children. From the road, the home looked like a European country estate, stretched out on an acre of green grass and tall redwoods.

  Before she could make a decision as to whether she would walk from here or pull closer, Don Fulton walked right out the front door. From where she sat, it looked as if he hadn’t changed much over the years. He still had a full head of hair. He was wearing baseball pants and a jersey, and carrying a duffel bag.

  He walked with confidence. At a good clip with shoulders upright, looking straight ahead. The lift gate on his Cayenne popped open, and he slung his bag inside and shut the trunk and then walked around the Porsche and climbed in behind the wheel.

  She was glad she hadn’t yet gotten out of her car. From where she sat, the acoustics coming from the Porsche sounded smooth, impressive. He didn’t just drive off. He took off, leaving her in the dust.

  Shit.

  Thank God for speed bumps and stop signs because she might not have caught up to him without them. Her 1.6-liter engine didn’t stand a chance against his Cayenne. Once they hit the main road, she was sure she’d lost him until she spotted his bright-red shiny Porsche in the gas station.

  Back on the road, she lucked out when less than five miles from the gas station, he pulled into a baseball park. He had a choice of three different parking lots, none of which were paved. She followed him to the lot farthest from the baseball field. He found a spot in the shade. A lot of guys with expensive cars tried to stay away from other cars to avoid getting their car dinged by careless people. Whatever the reason, his parking choice made her job easier.

  She pulled up next to him, not too close, not too far.

  He looked over at her. His narrowed gaze made it clear he was not pleased with whoever had gone out of their way to park so close to his prized possession.

  She made eye contact and smiled her most dazzling smile.

  For a split second, she wondered if he’d recognize her from all those years ago. She would enjoy that. Another thought that suddenly struck her was that she had no plan. Zero. She thought about raising a hand and curling her finger, asking him to come to her.

  Nah.

  Instead, she watched him jump out of his Porsche and walk around to the back of his car without another glance her way.

  She grabbed a handkerchief from the glove compartment and slipped it into her pocket. Then she opened the door and climbed out, pulled the Zip Blade Tiny Knife from her front pocket, and unfolded the blade. The knife was so small she knew he wouldn’t be able to see the blade in her hand.

  He had unzipped his duffel bag and was putting a pair of cleats inside when she walked up behind him. “Excuse me,” she said.

  “I’m in a hurry. What do you need?”

  “I was just wondering if you remembered a girl named Lena Harris. I believe you two met at a fraternity house party.”

  He whipped around fast. Stared at her long and hard.

  Hands at her sides, she kept a good solid grasp on the knife’s handle. “You remember, don’t you?”

  The confused expression on his face made her happy. Mostly because she could tell by the slant of his brow and the intensity in his gaze that yes, he knew exactly who she was.

  Just as quickly, he snapped out of his momentary lapse of bewilderment and played it cool by slipping on his baseball cap, then tugging it low over his forehead. This time when his eyes met hers, he smiled. “How have you been?”

  “Not too good,” she said, poking out her bottom lip in a “Poor me” pout.

  “Well, you look good,” he said, turning back to his precious car.

  As he leaned into the trunk and set about casually zipping up his duffel bag, she covered the small area between them in two long strides, leaned into him from behind so she could reach her right arm around his neck. She knew the drill. With a thrusting motion, more stabbing than slicing, she severed the trachea, the carotid artery on both sides, and his jugular all in quick succession.

  He slumped forward headfirst into the trunk of his car, body twitching and blood spurting.

  She wiped the blade of her knife against the clean part of his pants to get the blood off, then put the knife away. She looked around. Nobody was there, so she leaned over, circled her arms around his legs, below the knees, and lifted him up and into the back of his nice car before shutting the lift gate. She then used the handkerchief to wipe away her fingerprints.

  Calm as ever, she walked back to her car, climbed in, and started the engine. She took her time backing out, making sure she had plenty of room to maneuver her way smoothly out of the parking lot and onto the street.

  Her heart didn’t beat in earnest until the baseball field was out of sight. The adrenaline rush hit her full force, giving her a high like none other.

  Control. She had it in spades. At this rate, there would be no stopping her
. She wouldn’t just go after three rapists, she’d round up the entire mob and take them out one at a time.

  Yes. That’s right, she thought happily. She would spend the rest of her life going after every guy she could find who had been at the fraternity house. Every male who had dared to touch her, or who had merely stood by and watched, would die.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Sawyer was parked outside the trailer park, about to climb out of her car, when her phone buzzed. She picked up the call. “Hey, Geezer. What’s going on?”

  “Sorry to bother you on a weekend, but I just got a call from a friend at the morgue. Looks like Nick Calderon died of a fentanyl overdose.”

  Wow. “I’m glad you called. That’s huge. Any marks from a syringe?”

  “Funny you should ask. Remember I told you I had seen a shoe and a sock under the dining room table?”

  “Yes.”

  “The examiner found an injection site in his toe,” Geezer said.

  “That’s amazing—you know—that they were able to see that.”

  “I agree. Gotta go now. Just thought you would want to know.”

  “Thanks, Geezer.”

  They hung up, and Sawyer got out of the car and headed for Felix Iverson’s trailer. Her immediate thought was that if the Black Wigs had been responsible for the recent deaths, then why wouldn’t they have injected Brad Vicente or Myles Davenport? She felt confident she was on the right path and that Nick’s and Bruce’s deaths had nothing to do with the Black Wigs, but everything to do with a copycat.

  Dirt and gravel crunched beneath Sawyer’s shoes as she walked past a row of run-down trailers in a dilapidated mobile park. To her left was a trailer home with a roof that appeared to be made from sheets of plywood, then topped with old car parts, including scraps of metal and strips of rubber from old tires.

  A rat scurried out from under the steps leading to the door and disappeared in the high weeds nearby.

  The last trailer home, the one belonging to Felix Iverson, appeared to be the worst off, which was saying a lot. The metal roof sagged in the middle, as if a truck or a giant boulder had fallen from the sky and landed square in the center of his trailer before being hauled off. The grimy, rust-coated windows were covered from the inside with what looked like worn bedsheets.