Next to Die: A gripping serial-killer thriller full of twists

by T. J. Brearton

  She took a step closer, feeling a twist of adrenaline. “Were you outside my house the other night? Did you come into the building?”

  He smoked, and squinted at her, but didn’t answer.

  “I called the cops, Jamie. And I told them I thought it was you. They’ve been looking for you.”

  “I keep a low profile,” he said, the smugness dripping. “I’m not worried about any cops. I know how to handle all that shit.”

  “Whatever you’re doing, whatever you think this is, you have to stop. I’m calling the police, right now. And I’m going to get a restraining order against you. No calls, no texts, no physical proximity.”

  He spat to the side then took a step closer. “Oh yeah? That what you’re gonna do? You gonna beat me up with your karate?”

  “Don’t come any closer.”

  “Come on. Just come with me. I’ve got something to show you.”

  “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

  “Oh no? You think you’re safer out here, on your own? All these fuckin people dying, bodies floating up. Yeah, I know what’s going on. I know all about it.”

  He took another step, and she tensed, feeling fear, then heard a familiar rumble behind her and looked around. Connor’s truck turned off the main drag and came rolling up. He put his window down as he drove up alongside them, and he stared between Bobbi and Jamie. “Hey,” he said. “How you doing, guys?”

  * * *

  The phone rang and Mike jumped for it.

  “Detective Overton’s office.”

  “Um, hi… Looking for Mike Nelson with the state police?”

  “Speaking.”

  “Mr. Nelson, this is Hank Garris. My son Alex told me that… this is about Trevor?”

  “He’s your adopted son, is that correct?” Mike glanced at Lena.

  Garris answered, “Yes.”

  “Can you tell me what Trevor’s name was when you adopted him?”

  “Is there some way I can verify…?”

  Lena was leaning close, listening in, and she reached for the phone. “Mr. Garris, this is Detective Lena Overton with the Lake Haven Police department.” She gave her shield number and said, “This is my number you’ve called. Here’s Investigator Nelson again.”

  Mike took the phone back and Hank Garris still sounded cautious. “What is this about?”

  “Mr. Garris, we’re investigating the death of a woman in Lake Haven. Trevor worked with her at the Department of Social Services. We’re just checking into all staff, getting their backgrounds.”

  At last Hank sounded relieved. “Well, he was John Durie when we adopted.”

  Mike felt the skin tingle around his ears, grabbed a pen from her desk, and scribbled on a nearby notepad: It’s him.

  Lena left the desk, hurrying to the door.

  Mike asked Hank Garris, “He was ten years old?”

  “Eleven. He was in foster care for about a year before we adopted him. The whole thing takes a while.”

  “Did he have… Were there problems with Trevor?”

  A hesitation. “Just what you would expect. It was hard for him at first, but he fit in after a while, he adapted. I mean he did, you know, what teenaged boys do. He had moods. He closed himself in his room and listened to music, that kind of thing.”

  “You have other kids?”

  “Two boys. Twins – Alex and Toby. Toby attends Hobart and William Smith, Alex is going to Fordham, they’re home for a short time this summer. Is that everything you need then?”

  “Did Trevor ever see anyone? A professional?”

  “Why would you ask that?”

  “My information is that Trevor had some trauma as a child. Poisoning.”

  Garris paused again, then said, “He’d been looked at. Pediatric neurologists, things like that. He had a psychiatrist for a while. But he was, I don’t know… We wanted him to have as normal a childhood as possible. He struggled with his classes, but he was smart. Sometimes he… I don’t know what you’d call it. They said “fugues,” but to me it was just like he’d blank out for a few seconds.”

  The way the man was now unspooling, Mike thought, he’d been expecting something like this. Lena came back into the room, gave a nod, then went after her gun and holster, put them on. She’d put the word out on Trevor.

  Mike asked Hank Garris, “Have you had any contact with him recently?”

  “We saw him a couple months ago. My wife and I took a trip up.”

  “How did he seem?”

  “He was his usual self. Kind of withdrawn. Look, mister…”

  “Mike Nelson. Mike.”

  Garris sounded strained, his voice small. “Mike, what happened? Do you suspect Trevor of something? I think if I’m going to answer any more questions I’m going to need to do it formally, with a lawyer present.”

  “Sure,” Mike said.

  Then Hank Garris let out a sob that went through Mike’s bones.

  * * *

  Bobbi’s pager tweeted again; someone had placed a call to the hotline, notifying the state register via anonymous tip that Roy Richardson was yelling at his kids and hitting them.

  Bobbi thought it was probably his own mother, Anita.

  She walked back up the street to where she’d been standing with Jamie, but Jamie was gone. Connor had parked and was just nearing the bar entrance on foot. “He left soon as you got paged. Walked into that back parking area. I drove in, but he was gone. What do you want to do?”

  “I can’t believe it, but I gotta go.”

  He nodded, looked around. “You want me to try to find him?”

  “No. I’m going to be meeting a policeman on this call. I’ll tell him Jamie was here.”

  After a silence, she said, “Thanks for showing up.”

  “Yeah, sure. You gonna be long?”

  “I don’t know. I hope not.”

  Connor stepped off the curb. “Alright. Well – I’ll go home. I’ll wait for you there.”

  She closed the gap between them, said, “I’m sorry I ruined your night.”

  “No. Not at all.”

  “You’ll be okay to drive and everything?”

  “I’ve had three over the last couple hours, plus drank water. I’m good to go.”

  She felt embarrassed, behaving like his mother or something. “I’m sorry.”

  “For what?” But he knew.

  “Let’s just see what happens, okay? My mind can get ahead of me.”

  He was trying to hide a smile, she could tell, but then it cracked and he reached for her, grabbed her, and pulled her to him. “Be careful out there.”

  “There’s going to be a patrol officer meeting me,” she said.

  “I know, I heard you. Be careful anyway. Call me later, soon as you’re done.”

  “I will.”

  * * *

  Thirty minutes later, she was turning up the long driveway to Anita Richardson’s house. The patrol officer from Lake Haven was already there, but that was it. Anita’s rusted Ford Escort was either not there or off in the dark somewhere out of sight. Maybe along with the Jeep Cherokee that Carrie had been borrowing from her sister, which wasn’t in the driveway either.

  Bobbi parked beside the police car, left her keys in the ignition. When the dirt in the air settled, she saw the patrol officer had gotten out and walked up along the other side of her Honda.

  She knew him from the morning Harriet was found, and later at Lennox Palmer’s house: Officer Mullins. A nice man with laugh lines around his eyes. She shook his hand.

  “Did you just get here?” Bobbi asked.

  “Yeah. Two minutes ago. Looks like everybody left…?”

  “I don’t hear the kids. I mean, it’s late, but the hotline said they were up. I don’t get it. Let’s see if anyone is home.”

  Mullins put up a hand. “Hang on. I got a call just a few minutes ago. We’re looking for someone. Let me just go check the—” There was a loud crack in the air, and Mullins jumped.

  He fum
bled for his gun, looking at the house, and Bobbi looked there too, too stunned to speak. On the upper floor, a window was open, something sticking out.

  Another report, and Mullins’ head jerked back and he dropped to the ground.

  * * *

  Bobbi froze, confused. It took her thoughts a moment to catch up to what she already felt in her gut: Mullins was just shot.

  She ran around the car, saw him on the ground, unmoving. His eyes were open and he stared up at the sky. There was a hole in his forehead the size of a cherry pit, oozing blood.

  Thumping sounds from the house. Like someone descending stairs. Bobbi glanced at the upstairs window: still partly open, but nothing there, just curtains shifting in the breeze.

  Nothing made any sense.

  Her instincts overrode her objecting, rational mind: Get back in the car, there is a shooter in the house. Mullins is dead. Get in the car, drive away, call 911.

  The front door to the house banged open. A man came out holding a rifle, then pointed it at her. Bobbi scrambled away from Mullins and hid behind the car, her heart beating so hard she thought she was going to have an attack. She struggled to dig out her phone, hearing the footsteps of the man crunch along the gravel driveway.

  She knew who he was.

  Big guy, young face, but with a receding hairline. Someone she saw around the office.

  He worked on her computer.

  * * *

  Mike drove the Impala, not knowing where to go, but cleared the town, running on instinct, headed toward Tupper Lake, where Garris had first grown up as John Durie. And where Melissa Clay was buried, his biological mother. It was as good a direction as any; Garris was not at his home; no one knew where he was.

  Mike dialed Lena, his cell phone mounted to the dash, using speaker mode. “How did I miss this guy?”

  “We missed him,” Lena said, in her own car. “He was hired on a contractual basis,” she reminded. “No civil service exam, background check was clean. He gave an alibi, Mike. We just never checked it because he was nobody to us compared to Pritchard, Fuller, and the rest. It took us by surprise. It took me by surprise.”

  Mike slammed a fist against the steering wheel, cursing. He urged the Impala faster.

  “Everybody else missed him, too,” Lena went on. “It’s been fourteen years. He looks completely different – he’s going bald, looks older than he is. These caseworkers see hundreds of kids in their careers…”

  An idea sliced through his thoughts and he let off the gas for a moment. “He’s tracking them down. He knows their schedules! He knew when Harriet was going to be alone that night. Jesus, Lena, Jesus.”

  “Slow down – what are you thinking?”

  He hit the gas again. “We need to find out if there’s a caseworker on call today. This guy, Garris – he could fake a call or something; call in a complaint. He’s got Lennox Palmer – I bet he’s got Lennox Palmer somewhere – but he hasn’t done anything yet.”

  “Why?”

  “First he abducts Corina Lavoie, kills her, and hides her. But he kills Harriet at DSS, leaves her right out in front for someone to find, for all of us to see, and it’s a more violent stabbing. Going back to hiding victims with Lennox Palmer? I don’t think so. He’s working his way toward something, I just don’t know what. But he’s going to try and make it big. He’s got something to show everybody.”

  * * *

  There was music playing. It was faint, like it was far away, coming from inside the house. Bobbi thought she recognized “Riders on the Storm” by The Doors.

  The shooter was standing on the other side of the police car. She could see his feet.

  “Hey.”

  Trevor. It’s Trevor from work.

  “Hey, Bobbi. C’mere.”

  She didn’t move. The air was still. Her heart was beating so hard she was afraid she was going to pass out.

  Breathe.

  “Come on, Bobbi. It’s alright. I want to show you something.”

  Frantic piano playing from inside the house – still the same song. Now it was quieting down, and she could hear the rain effect on the track. Then Jim Morrison’s voice floated out, singing something about being thrown into the world like a dog without a bone.

  “Come on, Bobbi,” Trevor said. “Up. I’m gettin’ impatient.” His boots crunched gravel again as he started around the car.

  She was on her hands and knees. She finally rose to her feet, slow, legs like rubber. Trevor walked around behind the car, stopped a distance from her, leveled the rifle.

  “See this?” He dipped his head toward the gun. “This is my new toy. Bought it yesterday. Just had to walk in and plunk down my cash. Instant background check; no problem.”

  She looked at his face, willing her mind to work. He looked the same as when she saw him around the office. The big forehead. The dark brown eyes; dark enough that the pupils and irises sort of blended together. That slight furrow to his brow like he was working on a complex computer problem, which usually he was.

  But he’d been up to more than just networking their new system, nursing them through their software upgrade. He’d been spying on them. It was the only thing that made any sense – Trevor was the man who had killed Harriet. And Corey Lavoie. And probably Lennox, too.

  If so, he had a reason. Or thought he did.

  She tried to speak, but her vocal cords weren’t cooperating. All that came out was a weak, whistling breath.

  He seemed to be studying her, a bemused look on his face.

  Trevor jerked his head toward the house. Anita’s house. How had he gotten here? Why was he here?

  “Come on; go on inside.”

  Her voice finally cooperated. “I don’t want to.”

  “Well, I don’t give a shit if you want to or not, Bobbi. Go on inside.”

  “Why are you doing this?”

  He blinked at her then turned his attention toward the police car beside him. She could see him working something through. He said, “Come on. This piece of shit has to radio in, do a status check. When he doesn’t, they’ll send out backup. So we got like twenty minutes, maybe a little less if it’s a statie.” He turned back to her. His eyes looked like normal eyes, his face just a normal face. “Get going,” he said, “or I’m going to shoot you in your head, right fucking here.”

  “He’s not a piece of shit,” she said, her voice quavering. “His name is Cal Mullins. He has a wife and—”

  Trevor raised the rifle, pointed the barrel at her nose. She could almost reach out and grab it – he was just a couple of paces too far.

  “Go the fuck. In the house. Right now.”

  “No.”

  He wanted something from her, she thought, which was why she was still alive.

  He stepped closer. “Bobbi, move your fucking a—”

  She lunged. With her palm, she drove the barrel up toward the sky and came for his midsection, aiming for his crotch. But the rifle went off, startling her, and she missed him and fell, skidded across the gravel on her hands and knees.

  She was quick. Before he knew what was happening, she swept his legs with her own. He was too big to knock down, and only stumbled forward a few steps, his eyes wide, mouth opened in an O.

  Get in the car.

  The keys were in it. She could leave right now.

  But the kids might be here and in danger.

  Bobbi scrambled to her feet and ran. She knew Anita had a landline in the house but she wasn’t going in there, not yet. She had her own phone in her pocket as she sprinted around behind the house. The land sloped up into the woods – she could hear Trevor yelling behind her and wanted to find some cover before she called. She clawed and toed the dirt up the embankment, grabbed the trees, dug for her phone, and it fell from her grip.

  It tumbled down the hill, toward the yard, back the way she’d come.

  She went after it, slipped, managed to grab it. Bobbi jammed her heels into the earth then flipped over and scrambled up further into the tree
s.

  She found a spot where she could hold on and use her phone at the same time. She dialed 911 and waited for the call to go through. From her position on the hill, she could just see Trevor: He was moving alongside the house, doing something with the rifle, pulling a piece of it back, like he was loading another round.

  “I’m gonna kill him!”

  Bobbi waited, her breathing so fast she was going to hyperventilate. She closed her mouth, pulled the air through her nostrils, willed herself to slow it down, slow it down.

  Trevor was getting closer to the woods, starting up the hill.

  “Bobbi! Bobbayyy…”

  She checked the screen of her phone. The call was still placing. The network indicator said 1X. There was barely any coverage out here; she wasn’t getting through. Bobbi had her arm wrapped around a tree. There were bits of things in her hair and something in her mouth she spat out.

  Trevor aimed the rifle. She was confident she could see him but he couldn’t see her, but he was pointing it right at her.

  “Bobbi. Come on down! Your phone ain’t gonna work, kid – no towers out here. Or if it manages to get through, they ain’t gonna hear shit. Come on, now. Come on down.”

  No way was she going back down there. She looked behind her. The embankment kept going up, though she thought she could detect the top of the hill in the dark. Tough to say. But far better to run deeper into the woods and wait this thing out than to do what he said. Trevor was probably right, too – Mullins wouldn’t be doing any status update, and the police would send another car out to investigate. Maybe.

  If so, Trevor would probably shoot at them.

  I’m gonna kill him – Trevor must’ve meant Mason.

  How was Trevor even here? Anita was supposed to be home with the two kids but her car was gone.

  Panic.

  Maybe Trevor had hidden Anita’s car somewhere on the property. She could be in the house along with Mason and Hailey. Trevor had shot a cop. He’d murdered Harriet. He was a killer. It could be bad in there, a nightmare.