Evil Never Dies (The Lizzy Gardner Series Book 6) (2 page)

CHAPTER TWO

He carried pen and paper to the table out on his balcony where he could see the magnificent view of the American River. Peaceful. Tranquil. The morning sun hit the water just so, making it sparkle. He then filled his glass with his favorite energy drink, opened his leather-bound journal to its opening pages, which he’d left blank all this time until he felt inspired to supply this introduction, and began to write.

I am a natural born killer. Although some people might beg to differ, I would say I am normal, as far as normal goes. Throughout elementary school, the teachers always liked me. I suffered no psychological abuse while growing up.

Never wet my bed. Not once.

Neither have I abused alcohol or drugs.

I make friends easily, but I prefer to be alone.

You might be surprised to know that I feel things . . . really feel things: emotions, sentiments, and desires. I have them all. I never pretend to be happy or sad. The emotions are right there to be viewed, like the angry scars etched across so many people’s wrists. Unlike most of the people I have encountered throughout life, I am rarely angry or stressed. Drama is something I steer clear of at all costs.

Let’s see. What else?

I have amazing and supportive parents. After forty years, Mom and Dad are still together. And still alive, which was no small feat on my part, thank you very much. There were many times when I wanted to take the butcher knife from the kitchen and carve their hearts out.

Yes. You heard me right. I wanted to kill my parents, butcher them. I wanted to kill them so many times, in fact, it forever boggles the mind to see them alive and thriving. My dad has one of those buzz cuts, along with a big nose and a craggy face. Mom is prematurely gray, though petite, perky, and cute. Not only do they make me smile, seeing their faces also makes me shake my head. They have no idea how lucky they are: two people in their fifties, buzzing around town, always bragging about their only son, the same son who killed their only daughter . . . my sister.

For me, killing is a lot like having an intense craving.

Have you ever been on a diet and you’re watching TV and a commercial comes on? Some big-breasted broad is biting into a big, juicy, perfectly cooked hamburger? Makes my mouth water every time.

Well, that’s how it is for me when it comes time to kill someone. Same exact thing. Same sensation, multiplied by one hundred. When the urge hits, my mouth waters, my heart pounds. Sometimes I manage to hold off for a day or two, maybe even a week, but in the end there’s no stopping me. Somebody out there is going to die. Mostly I already know who it’s going to be.

These victims of mine did nothing to me. My urges have nothing to do with anger or resentment. They were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. So I killed them.

And the reason is this: I like death.

No, let me rephrase that. I love death.

The idea of the soul rising up, perhaps to make its way to earth again in one form or another, intrigues me. The grim reaper is pure genius. Predation is orgasmic. Death by malnutrition and disease, not so much. Suicide fascinates me. Accidents aren’t half-bad—if there’s a car crash, I’m definitely the one craning my neck, causing traffic jams as I try to get a good look at some random victim of circumstance.

But nothing beats killing a human being with my own two hands.

My favorite part is watching closely, intently, as the eyes lose their luster, until the only thing left is a dull, blank stare.

Like most serial killers, I did start with animals. It makes sense, doesn’t it? Most critters are easy to control. Clueless, really. I used to enjoy watching the animals fight for their last breath. But killing people is so much more of a thrill. I wish I could explain it well enough for you to understand.

It’s a compulsion.

Yes. I have a compulsion to kill. I was born with the yearning to kill. When I was eight years old, I killed my first human being—my four-year-old sister. My palms are sweaty just thinking about it. My heart is drumming against my chest. I take a deep breath.

Thirty years have passed since that day.

There are times when I am confronted with remorse. I even hate myself for a moment or two. But more often than not, I feel gladness that she was able to pass so effortlessly once she began to sink. Her eyes were wide open as she descended to the bottom. Her arms and legs hardly moved at all. To this day, I think she knew what was happening and she accepted it. I remember it all so clearly. You see, I have what researchers call highly superior autobiographical memory. This allows me to remember episodes from the past in detail. But even though I have the ability to recall these events in full HD color, I still put every detail in this leather-bound journal.

Why?

Because as much as I love reliving the details stored in my brain, I adore rereading my own vividly descriptive passages filled with sensory details that whisk me back to a time and place where I can see the fear, smell the tangy blood, and taste the panic in the air.

I have other ways of remembering these incidents, too, but we’ll get to that later.

Back to my first kill.

The moment I saw the red rubber ball roll over the edge of the pool and hit the water, I became tense and very alert. My heart rate accelerated.

With her uneven ponytails and big green eyes, she pointed at the ball floating there and asked me to get it for her.

I looked around, but I already knew my parents were out front talking to the new neighbors who had just moved into the house next door. I knew she couldn’t swim, but I told her to go ahead and get the ball herself.

She didn’t hesitate. She headed that way, reached for the ball, straining every tiny muscle in her arms. But the ball bobbed farther away, just as I knew it would. She reached for it one more time, and that’s when she fell in. Water splashed as my little sister fought for her life. She struggled valiantly that day, instinctively paddling both arms, swinging madly until one of her hands got a good solid grip on the pool’s edge. Not only was I stunned by her fight for survival, I was panicked by the thought of her tattling on me. I had no choice but to kneel down and pry her little fingers off the edge, one at a time until she had nowhere to go but down.

I could go on and on about that day: the look on Dad’s face right before he jumped into the water. My mom falling apart, all snot and drool. The neighbors, complete strangers, trying to console everyone.

I remember feeling afraid.

Once I realized my sister was truly dead, I missed her. I still do. But I would do it all over again if given the chance.

I have killed many times since then.

I have never shot anyone, never used a gun. Much too loud, for one thing. What good would it do to call attention to myself? Like many killers, and so-called normal people, for that matter, I like control.

Who doesn’t?

When I overpower someone, I prefer to strangle them. I rarely drug my victims because most medications take all the fire out of their eyes.

I don’t know why I’m so passionate about killing.

There are days when I wish I could stop.

No, not days, but moments. There are moments, long moments, when I wish I could stop killing. But I’m thirty-eight now, and if there is one thing in life that I’m certain of, it’s that I will never stop.

If it makes you feel any better, I rarely rape or torture my victims. If that gave me a thrill, I might, but I’m not your typical serial killer. I’m not trying to play cat and mouse with the authorities. There was one particular FBI agent who intrigued me for a while there, but he’s dead now. I have no desire for notoriety. My ego is plenty healthy enough as it is.

I simply want to keep doing what I do best.

I want to kill people. And then write in my journal. And paint. I will always paint.

I am almost finished with my latest work of art, which involves my last kill. It’s the eyes I’m having problems with. I can’t get the right look because it was dark outside. She was walking in a half-decent part of town, but it was an unusually dark night devoid of stars, and she was alone. The moment I spotted her, I opened my window, slowed my vehicle to a leisurely pace, and proceeded to warn her about the perils of being out alone at night. She looked worried, assured me she was almost home.

That’s what they all say.

I drove ahead, parked around a bend, and waited for her. She didn’t see it coming. Everything considered, it was all very anticlimactic.

Ahh, I hear the newspaper hit my front door. Wonderful. Will there be any news of the woman’s death? The anticipation is delicious. Today, or someday soon, I’ll have my answers: Who was she? What was her age? Her story? Everyone has a story.

I must go. The suspense is killing me.

But first, there is one more thing you should know about me. Above all else, I am an incessant liar. White lies, black lies, green lies. It doesn’t matter. I love death and deceit. In fact, the truth is, my parents are now dead. I killed them both five years ago. They left me no choice.

Until next time,

ZT

CHAPTER THREE

Lizzy pulled her car into a parking space and shut off the engine.

The corporate SRT building in Folsom was a giant block of steel and concrete dotted with windows. Stacey Whitmore, anchor with Channel 10 News, sat beside her in the passenger seat. All the way here, she’d been clicking one of her perfectly manicured fingernails on the console. “I don’t like this one bit,” she said, not for the first time.

Lizzy felt a muscle tighten beneath her cheekbone. Up until now she’d just let her whine, but the time had come for Stacey Whitmore to grow a spine. “If you can’t do this, then I’ll take you back to your house right now.” She reinserted the key in the ignition. “I’m sure Derek Murphy will be more than willing to help me out.”

“Put your keys away,” Stacey said. “The last thing I want is for you to call Derek Murphy every time you have a new story.” Stacey looked squarely at Lizzy. “If anyone finds out about this, though, I could lose my job.”

For the past few weeks, Lizzy’s focus had been on Wayne Bennett. He was rich and powerful, and he used that power to take advantage of young women. He was the worst kind of predator. People, young and old, thought they could trust him. He was a self-made millionaire. But like many highly successful leaders, he was seduced by money and power, and somewhere along the way he had lost his moral bearings.

“Wayne Bennett is scum,” Lizzy said. “You read the testimony from those three young women. And you know he won’t call your boss to complain or to find out what’s going on—the last thing he wants is the media coming around and asking him more questions.”

“The judge dropped the case against Bennett. Why would he do that if there was enough evidence to bring Bennett to court and let a jury decide?”

“I talked to Grady Orwell, the prosecutor on the case, and he said the judge dropped the case on a simple technicality during preconference. You know as well as I do that power and money buy a lot of privileges, including time.”

“You think the judge took a bribe?”

“I think that’s obvious.” There was a long pause before Lizzy added, “Somebody needs to get this guy off the street, and I have a feeling it’s going to have to be me.”

“There are hundreds, if not thousands, of rapists in Sacramento.
Why him?”

“Because he has easy access to too many young people. The young women he purports to be helping put their trust in him because everything about him appears to be on the up-and-up. He’s a wolf in sheep’s clothing. By the time he strikes, these young women don’t know what hit them. The worst part is that he thinks he can get away with it.”

“He might be right.”

“Not if I can help it.” Lizzy anchored strands of hair behind her ear. “Listen. Think about all the young women you’ll be saving from his abuse if I can get the proof I need and get this guy behind bars where he belongs. Karma will pay you back in triplicate.”

“What sort of proof do you really think we’ll get out of him today?”

“I want you to ask him about Miriam Walters. Ask him what he knows about her disappearance.”

Silence.

“So, what’s it going to be?” Lizzy asked. “Are you in?”

“I’m in. But you owe me.”

Lizzy took a look outside. It was mid-April. The air coming through the vents was cool. White clouds billowed against a backdrop of gray sky.

“There he is,” Stacey said, pointing. “That’s his car pulling into the lot.”

“Where? Which one?”

“The cream-colored Mercedes.”

“Let’s go.”

Before Stacey could answer, Lizzy got out of the car, opened the trunk, and began to gather the video equipment she’d asked Stacey to bring. The Channel 10 News logo would make it all look official.

Stacey climbed out of the car and came around to the back. She took the microphone Lizzy handed her. She looked professional in her matching two-piece suit. Her hair and makeup were flawless.

“Ready?” Lizzy asked her.

“Three questions and then we go.”

“That’s right.” Lizzy slid on a pair of black-rimmed eyeglasses that were nothing more than clear glass. Usually her hair was tied back in a ponytail, but today she’d taken the time to curl it. The last thing she wanted was for Wayne Bennett to recognize her as a private investigator from one of the many cases she’d worked on. If everything went as planned, he would think she was a camerawoman, and he wouldn’t pay her any mind.

Lizzy was halfway across the parking lot when she spotted him as he neared the entrance to the building. “Hurry up,” she told Stacey. “We’re going to lose him.”

Wayne Bennett was six feet tall, probably 170 pounds. His dark hair was thick and speckled with silver. His suit was well tailored. His shoes newly shined. Every step, every movement was sharp, rhythmic. He never looked their way.

“Mr. Bennett,” Stacey called out, her heels clacking against the pavement. “Congratulations on your CEO of the Year Award.”

He stopped. Turned. Smiled into Lizzy’s camera.

Stacey was brilliant. She knew exactly what would get his attention.

“Hi. Stacey Whitmore with Channel 10 News
.
”

He nodded. “What can I do for you?”

“You have gotten a lot of bad press lately despite all the great work you do with the underprivileged kids. I thought it was only fair that someone point out the good you’ve done for our community.”

He straightened his tie, stood a little taller.

“The Sacramento area is home to a vast array of top-notch companies, and it’s the CEOs who get the job done,” she went on. “How does it feel to be included on the roster of those to be rewarded?”

“I am honored to have been selected and to be in such good company.”

“Could you tell us about your organization outside of SRT, and about some of the work you do to help so many young men and women in Sacramento?”

He fairly beamed. “I’d be happy to. Five years ago, I started Opportunity Knocks, a nonprofit company that receives sponsorships and donations from many of the area’s businesses. SRT is the biggest contributor. My team works closely with underprivileged kids who are right out of high school. We give them a crash course in technology and then teach them necessary social skills. Basically, we build a bridge between those less fortunate and the companies that end up employing them because they have been through our program. We have a very high employment rate.”

“I understand you work especially closely with young disadvantaged women who might not otherwise have the chance to intern with large companies like SRT.”

“That’s right,” he said. “Well, young men and young women. Every young person in our program has gone through a rigorous selection process that ensures that every participant is well motivated and eager to learn. Their only disadvantage is the environment they were born into. In six months’ time, they are ready to go out into the world and interview for jobs they would have otherwise had no business seeking. Over fifty percent of these gifted men and women are given internships and then go on to accept well-paying jobs.”

“One particular young woman has been extremely outspoken about the work you do. Her name is Tammy Walters. Her sister, Miriam Walters, has been missing for five days now.”

Bennett stiffened. Through the camera lens, Lizzy saw the muscles at the hinges of his jaws pulse. Stacey was holding her own, refusing to flinch. At the bottom of the frame, Lizzy saw his left hand roll into a fist. At first Lizzy worried he might take a punch at Stacey, threaten her at the very least, but his voice was calm when he said, “I think I read something about this in the newspaper, but I don’t know either of the women, so I really can’t add anything to the discussion.” He glanced at his watch. “Time has gotten away from me. I do need to run.”

He was not going to get away that easily. Leaving Stacey behind, Lizzy followed Bennett to the entrance. “Are you saying you’ve never met Miriam Walters?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.” He stopped short and turned, as if he’d just realized it wasn’t Stacey asking the question. He looked Lizzy over, his eyes hardening. “Do I know you?”

The double doors slid open, and Mr. Bennett slipped away without waiting for an answer.

“No,” Lizzy said, “but you will.”