“So who’s going in?” he asked.
He shouldn’t have bothered. Once they confirmed that Laurence wasn’t home yet, Janus was already moving to approach the house.
“Does he even know where he’s going?” Quinn asked.
Kate shrugged.
They watched Janus approach the backdoor. It was a nice double door opening out to a patio. Janus tripped a motion-detecting floodlight, but clearly didn’t seem worried about it. He stood there, standing out.
“This isn’t going to work,” Quinn said.
“Could you please try and be a little positive?”
“Well, I didn’t bring up the part where we all get fired and go to jail. I thought that was pretty positive.”
Janus had pulled something out of his pocket—Quinn at first thought it was going to be his lighter, the one he carried with him everywhere. Instead it appeared to be a tool of some kind. He was using it on the door. Within seconds, the door came open.
Quinn braced himself. If there was an alarm, this would be when it was triggered. After the attacks by Lord Halloween, most Loudoun residents had bought an alarm. But he heard nothing. Instead Janus gestured back at them.
Seconds later, Quinn and Kate were through the door. The house looked nice considering he knew how little Ethan Holden paid anyone. It was possible Laurence was paid more money than most, but he doubted it. Laurence wasn’t a tough negotiator and it was hard to imagine Holden ever willingly parting with cash when he didn’t absolutely have to.
“Let’s spread out,” Kate said. “The shorter time we’re here, the better chances we have.”
“Nothing ever went wrong with that plan,” Quinn said, but Janus and Kate had already split up.
Quinn decided to stick to the back. He walked through the dining room, which looked totally bare except for a table, and then briefly stopped in the kitchen. He doubted Laurence would have any files in there. As he turned the corner, he saw a door to the basement. He felt like he was in a bad horror movie. Don’t go in the basement, he told himself. But didn’t that seem like a better place to hide files?
Slowly, he walked down the steps, taking care not to trip in the dark. When he got to the bottom, he fumbled along the wall until he found a light switch and turned it on. He hated turning on the light—what if Laurence came home—but had no choice. Without it, he was effectively blind.
The basement wasn’t as dank or scary as Quinn had feared. It was largely bare, however, with a big TV and a stationary bicycle on the far side of the wall. It didn’t look like either had been used recently. But feeling the urge to be thorough, he walked to the back of the room and found another area off to the right.
The room was an almost identical replica of Laurence’s office at the Chronicle. Two desks were pushed together and an older-looking computer sat at the direct center of one of them. He flicked on another light to get a better look. Bingo! Two filing cabinets sat by the far end of the room—just like at the office. He was just about to shout upstairs to the others when he heard something that made his blood stand still.
The front door had opened.
He couldn’t move, he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t think. He was a journalist—trained for stressful situations—but Quinn could see getting fired, possible jail time and the end of everything he had tried to build here. What paper would hire him now? He would be a part-time criminal. Maybe he could convince Laurence not to press charges. He could just walk upstairs and admit it.
He heard footsteps as someone walked in the house. From the sound of it, it was probably two people. He heard voices, even giggling. Quinn had to do something.
The files, a voice in his head said. Get the goddamn files. If he was going to go down, he shouldn’t be standing around waiting for something to happen—he should act.
His eyes darted to the filing cabinets. Please don’t be locked, he thought, as he heard more talking upstairs. How long until Kate gets caught? What about Janus?
Focus, he thought. Focus on what you are here to do.
He examined the filing cabinets and tried to pull them out. But as he feared, they were locked.
“Shit,” he said under his breath. “Motherfucking piece of shit.”
He looked around the room. Keys, keys, there have to be keys somewhere. The desk was bare. Near the computer was a series of newspaper clippings, laid out in an unusually neat pattern. He opened the drawers and started looking through. How long before they notice the light is on downstairs? How long do I have? There were pins, pens, notepads, paper clips, staples, a letter opener, highlighters and every kind of other junk in the first drawer. The second drawer was filled with random stuff as well, as far as Quinn could tell. There were papers in there, but nothing else.
There’s no key here, Quinn thought. He should run now. Just get out of there while he could. But this would be his last chance. He wasn’t going to get another shot at this. And if Laurence caught even a glimpse of him, he would know it was Quinn.
He could hear the voices talking upstairs, moving around a little. It sounded like they were in the kitchen—he could hear glasses clinking.
“Shit,” he said again.
His eyes searched the room. He returned to the filing cabinet and gave it a good look. It looked like solid oak, but the lock was very small. Maybe it wasn’t that stable. He could see the piece of metal through the opening slat holding the drawer shut. If he had something flat, small and hard, he could maybe move it without a key. His brain was working on overdrive.
The voices had stopped talking and he could not hear anything upstairs. He didn’t know where Laurence and his friend were, but they could be anywhere.
The letter opener, Quinn thought. He moved back to the desk, pulled open the drawer and grabbed it. Please let this work. He slid the letter opener into the slat and tried to push the latch. At first there was nothing and Quinn thought it was over, but then it gave way slightly. He pushed a little harder. It was resisting him, but also moving.
Above him, he could hear people moving and voices again. It didn’t sound like anyone had been caught—maybe Kate and Janus had gotten out already. But the footsteps sounded like they were coming towards Quinn. He could almost make out what the people were saying.
The lock gave way. One minute it was resisting slightly and the next it had slid all the way into the drawer. He’d done it. He pulled open the drawer and looked at a series of files. At first he couldn’t make out what he was looking at. On each file was written a name—and there were at least two dozen files. They meant nothing to him until he saw one near the front: “Mary Kilgore.” The murdered woman.
He pulled it out. In it was his newspaper article on the murder and even the metro article from the Post. A headshot also fell out. Until that moment, Quinn hadn’t known what she looked like. She looked in her early fifties. Her hair was dark, but Quinn had a feeling it was colored. She had been pretty once, but in the photo she just looked tired. Her smile looked forced, as if she didn’t have any reason to be smiling. Quinn put the photo back in the file and returned it to the drawer.
He looked at the other names until one jumped out at him: Sarah Blakely. It was Kate’s mom. He looked more carefully at the names now and could see he recognized many of them: they were all victims of Lord Halloween. Laurence had an entire drawer filled with information. Had he also done his own investigation?
He didn’t have time to think about it. The footsteps now sounded like they were at the top of the basement stairs. He heard a voice as clear as day.
“Just one second,” Laurence said.
He started walking down the basement steps.
“I didn’t think I left the light on down here,” Laurence said to himself.
Quinn was finished. In five seconds Laurence would be down the steps and it would be over. Instead of his life flashing before his eyes, Quinn saw his career flash before him. Starting as a cub reporter working sports, trying to learn the ropes, then finally working his wa
y up to general assignment. It was over. It was all over.
At that moment, the doorbell rang. Laurence paused on the steps, turned around, and walked back up them. Quinn nearly shouted in relief. His heart was racing. Whatever chance he had just been given, he took it. He looked back at the files and frantically searched through the names until he found the one he wanted: Tim Anderson.
He grabbed the file. It was clearly one of the biggest. Quinn didn’t read it. If the letters weren’t here, they weren’t anywhere, and now was not the time to check. As an afterthought, he grabbed the file on Blakely as well—and shut the filing cabinet as gently as he could.
Hoisting the files under his one arm, he began to creep up the stairs. Whoever had rung the doorbell, he just hoped they would keep Laurence busy. At the top of the stairs he stood and listened.
“I just thought it was worth bringing to your attention,” a voice said. With shock, Quinn realized it belonged to Janus. He had been the one to ring the doorbell. He must have snuck out of the house and gone back around to the front.
“You really think he’s harassing her?” Laurence asked.
“Well, I don’t know that it’s risen to that level yet,” Janus said. “But between you and me, he hasn’t had a good date in a long time and the way he looks at her—well, frankly, it makes me uncomfortable. I can only imagine how I would feel if I were a new reporter.”
What the hell was Janus even talking about? Quinn knew he was just creating a diversion, but the conversation sounded…
“I’m worried about Quinn,” Janus continued. “I really am. He’s been acting all paranoid lately, and he had that run-in with the police. You should have heard him. He was downright disrespectful to the police—Kate and I were shocked.”’
Oh, fuck, Quinn thought. He wanted to go out there and set the record straight and realized with a start that he had broken into this house. It was now or never to get away.
He walked toward the kitchen and heard someone open the refrigerator. Laurence wasn’t alone, he should have remembered. Whoever it was wasn’t rushing out to meet Janus, though. Quinn couldn’t go that way.
Instead, he went the other direction. He was near Laurence’s living room. He crossed quickly in the dark through the dining room. He hoped whoever was in the kitchen didn’t move.
“I just really wanted you to know about it,” Janus said.
“Well, thanks Janus,” Laurence said. “I’m very glad you brought these concerns to me. Rebecca and I will talk to Quinn first thing in the morning.”
Quinn was about out of time. He moved carefully but quickly through the dining room and to the back door. From there he could see into the kitchen and was surprised to see Rebecca standing in it. She was clearly listening to Laurence’s conversation, but did not appear eager to give herself away. If she looked away now, she would see Quinn.
He quietly opened the door and backed out of the house. The floodlight was still on, but Rebecca was looking the other direction, toward the front door. Quinn backed across the lawn. He had to be sure he wasn’t seen. As soon as he was out of the light, he turned and ran across the back yard, grasping the files in his hand to keep them from falling out.
When he got to the rendezvous point, he stopped.
“You made it,” Kate said, and Quinn nearly screamed. He hadn’t seen her in the dark. “Janus and I knew you were still in there: he hoped to create a diversion.”
“Well, he did that, although I think he was saying I was stalking you.”
“What?” Kate asked, but her eyes were on the folders under Quinn’s arm.
“Did you find something?” she asked.
Quinn nodded. “He has files on every victim of Lord Halloween, Kate.”
He handed the files over to her.
“That’s Tim Anderson’s,” he said.
The next thing he knew Kate had kissed him again. It was brief—all too brief—but it felt great. She let him go.
“Fantastic,” she said. “Let’s get out of here.”
“What about Janus?”
“What about me?” Janus said, appearing from nowhere. Both Kate and Quinn jumped.
“What the hell were you doing back there?” Quinn asked.
“Saving your ass,” he said. “Now let’s get gone before we have another little incident.”
Kate and Quinn sat in Quinn’s apartment, each of them drinking a Coke. It was late, they should be sleeping, but instead they were sitting with a raft of paper. The file on Anderson had been thick. In it were stuffed Anderson’s articles from the murders: a profile of a kid that was murdered, reports on the police investigation, and a big blow up piece that read, “Who is Lord Halloween?” Below the headline was the deck: “And why can’t the police stop him?”
Quinn glanced through the article. “The police investigation appears crude, inept and ineffective—and the killer undoubtedly knows it,” one article read. “While police routinely try to contain information about a case in order to confront a suspect with evidence unknown to the public, they have also attempted to bury information that could be vital to the citizens of Loudoun County. The police concluded there was likely a serial killer in the area three days before the death of Trudy Pharaoh on Oct. 16, yet refused to acknowledge as much until after her death and those of two other people. Critics charge the police have put the public at risk and are no closer to identifying a suspect in the case.”
No wonder the cops hate us, Quinn thought. Not that what Anderson wrote was untrue, but still, it was harsh. If the police had told everyone there was a serial killer in town, how long before panic set in? As it was, when people had figured it out, the reaction had been over the top. A curfew and a ban on Halloween and related activities had been just the beginning. Then again, weren’t the police making the same mistake now, denying that the deaths of Fanton and Kilgore were related?
“Fascinating,” Kate said. “Lord Halloween really had a yen for Anderson. Look at these.”
She produced a stack of paper and handed them to Quinn. He started reading from the top of the stack: “Some of what I tell you will be lies. I don’t mean to get us off on the wrong foot, but I thought I should make that clear from the outset.”
“He wrote about ten letters, it looks like,” she said. “Though not all of them appear to be here. We are at least missing letters four and six.”
“What do they say?”
“You should read them, but they are quite the ego trip. It turns out Lord Halloween was apparently an anti-development pioneer—way ahead of his time. It’s all about stopping change, and yadda, yadda, yadda.”
“Maybe he’s part of the anti-development team now?” Quinn asked. “One of the people trying to preserve Phillips Farm, for example.”
“I don’t think so,” Kate said.
“Why not?”
“I think it’s all a show,” she said. “I think he was trying to give a motivation to Anderson that would be somewhat sympathetic—however crazy—to people who read his stories. He’s like an eco-terrorist on steroids. But I don’t think he meant a word of it.”
“He might have meant some of it,” Quinn said.
“Everything about these letters is over the top,” Kate said. “Just like the man himself, I assume. I think ‘Lord Halloween’ itself is a put-on, a sham, something designed to scare the kiddies. The man behind it probably thinks it’s all in fun.”
“Then what’s the point of the letters?”
“To establish a mythos,” she said. “To create buzz around him. He’s not just a killer. He’s a serial killer bent on destruction and chaos. But my point is, he feels about as real as a comic-book villain. Yes, he kills people, but the whole, ‘she screamed delightfully’ while she died.”
“The editor in me noted that you can’t really scream delightfully,” Quinn said.
“Exactly,” Kate said. “It’s a put-on. He’s trying to make himself bigger than he is, some kind of arch-fiend. He’s not. He’s just a guy who gets
off on killing people. That’s it.”
“But he also seems to want a certain kind of press,” Quinn said, flipping through the letters.
“Yeah, that’s the other point of the letters, I think,” Kate said. “It’s about control. He’s trying to get around the police muzzle about his existence and using a reporter to do it. When the reporter doesn’t do it…”
“He kills him,” Quinn said.
“Very likely,” Kate said. “Though that last letter has thrown me a bit. Maybe it was meant to throw other people, I’m not sure. But one letter seems to imply he killed Anderson’s girlfriend. That’s a place we ought to start looking. Who was she? Did she work for the Chronicle? It’s too bad you couldn’t steal more files.”
“I’ve had another disturbing thought,” Quinn said. “Why does Laurence have all those files anyway? If it were Buzz, I wouldn’t think twice…”
“I wonder if it’s him,” Kate said.
“Him?”
“Maybe Laurence is Lord Halloween,” she said. “This is his way of tracking his victims, enjoying the thrill.”
Quinn laughed out loud.
“You aren’t serious?” he said. “Have you met Laurence? There’s no way. He can’t even stand up to Rebecca.”
“So maybe he acts out in other ways, Quinn,” she said. “You don’t really know people: not ever. Maybe he’s just a nice guy on the surface and underneath…”
“No way,” Quinn said. “I just don’t see it.”
“I hope you’re right,” she said.
She looked at her watch. It was past three in the morning.
“I should get back to the hotel,” she said.
“You can stay here,” Quinn said.
They looked at each other. For a brief moment, Kate saw the Tarot card lying on Madame Zora’s table: a man and a woman with the Devil standing between them. But she was far too tired to be thinking that way.
“I’ll sleep on the couch,” Quinn rushed to clarify. It was good that Janus had already gone home. He would have mocked Quinn—in front of Kate, no doubt.
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