Authors: Dan Wells

I Don't Want To Kill You (24 page)

BOOK: I Don't Want To Kill You

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‘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 Jensens’ 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. Her voice was cracked and feeble.

‘Not even John?’

‘Nobody,’ said Marci, and her mom looked at me helplessly.

‘I’m sorry, John; she’s been like this all morning. Don’t worry, she’ll come out soon enough. You want a piece of bread?’

‘No, thanks,’ I said, being careful not to make a face. ‘Just tell her to . . .’ I paused, desperate to talk about the killers.
There’s two!
I wanted to shout.
There’s been two all along and we didn’t see it!
But her mom was right there beside me, so I couldn’t say anything crazy. ‘Marci! We need to talk.’

‘Not today, John,’ she called back. ‘Can’t you give it a rest?’

Her mom smiled at me sadly. ‘I’m sorry, John. You know how she gets.’

I took a deep breath. ‘Yeah, I know. Tell her to call me. I don’t know.’

‘She needs some time alone,’ said her mom, leading me back downstairs, ‘but it won’t be long until she needs you again. Don’t worry; she’ll call you whether I tell her to or not.’ We reached the kitchen, and she picked up a pair of dirty leather gloves. ‘I need to get the compost tilled in before it gets too much colder. You sure you don’t want a snack or a drink or anything?’

‘I’m fine,’ I assured her. ‘I can show myself out.’

She nodded and went out the back door, and I walked slowly down their dark hall towards the front. It was cold enough now that the front door was finally closed – the first time I’d actually seen it shut. I put my hand on the knob, then froze as I heard a burst of static from the nearest room.

‘Officer Jensen, you there?’ It was his police radio. I heard the creak of a chair and a rustle of newspaper, then Marci’s dad spoke.

‘Yeah, Steph, I’m here.’
Stephanie,
I thought,
from the police station.

‘We just got a call from another searcher, out by the lake. They found another old firepit with some bones in it, and some burned-up gloves – sounds like a bigger glove remnant than we got with Coleman. Moore wants you to go check it out.’

Interesting,
I thought. I crept closer.

‘How old?’ asked Officer Jensen.

‘Pretty old,’ said Stephanie. ‘More likely Pastor Olsen than the Sheriff, assuming it’s even legit. Anyway, bag it all and bring it, and we’ll see if we get a match.’

‘Will do, Steph. See ya.’

‘See ya.’

I heard the faint clink of buckles, probably Officer Jensen pulling on his police belt. I couldn’t open the front door without him hearing, and I didn’t want him to know that I’d been listening, so I slipped out of the hallway and waited in another room, holding my breath. Jensen’s footsteps creaked across the floor, into the hall, and then the front door squealed on its hinges. He stepped outside, and the door slammed shut behind him. I took a breath, waited for several seconds, then went to a window and watched him; he walked to his car, got in, and drove away.

Why is the Handyman destroying the hands?
I wondered.

I opened the door and walked to my Chevy. It was cold and I shivered, wishing I’d brought a jacket. I turned to look up at Marci’s window, where the blinds were closed tightly.
I told Marci that everything was lost, that our whole profile was worthless, but I was wrong. We were right about the religious messages, and we were right about Astrup being next. We just didn’t take it seriously enough – we didn’t realise that the Handyman would fight back when we messed with her plan. Meier didn’t die because we built the wrong profile; he died because the profile was right, and we used it wrong.
I turned away from the house, still shivering, and got into my car.

Two killers: the Handyman and the suicides.
I breathed deeply, trying to focus.
Two demons; it makes perfect sense for Nobody to bring back-up. I told her I was going to kill her – she’d be stupid to come alone. So instead she grabbed her friend the Handyman and brought him along, so he could distract me while Nobody hunted. Why didn’t I see this before?

I shook my head.
Everything I thought I knew about Nobody – the entire profile – was actually the Handyman. That puts me back to square one on Nobody, but the profile of the Handyman is still good. If I can find him, he’ll lead me to her. I just need to focus.

The doorbell rang three times before I got up to answer it. I opened the door and froze.

It was Father Erikson.

‘Hello, John.’

He found me!
My heart jumped into my throat, and I looked desperately at the window as if expecting to be tackled by a swarm of police. There was nothing. I took a step back, poised to bolt.

‘That was quite a scene at the dance,’ he said. ‘I’m told you saved the day.’

So that was it: my big show at the dance. The whole school saw me talking to Ashley. Of course it would get out onto the news. I hadn’t even thought to watch it, I was too distracted with Brooke and Rachel and Marci. I glanced at the blank TV, eager to turn it on and see what they were saying, but it was mid-afternoon; the noon show was over, and the evening news wouldn’t be on for a few more hours. I sighed.

‘You put that together, huh? There’s a lot of kids named John, you know. It wasn’t necessarily me.’

‘Not necessarily,’ he said, ‘but more likely than not. I took a guess and came over.’

Then he didn’t know for sure until I—

‘Don’t worry,’ he said, as if reading my thoughts. ‘I recognised the car outside. I would have known it was you whether you opened the door or not.’

I nodded, keeping my face calm, but inside I was terrified.
If the news story is enough for Erikson to put it together and find me, who else is going to find me? Will Nobody put it together as well? The police have tried so hard to keep my involvement with Forman quiet. Will this blow my cover?

I pushed those thoughts away and looked at the Pastor.
Deal with him first.
‘What do you want?’

‘You lied about talking to a counsellor. There’s only one at the hospital, and she’s never heard of you.’

I shrugged. ‘It got you off my back. And it’s a good thing. What would have happened at the dance last night if you’d called the police and I wasn’t there to help?’

‘Technically nothing, from what I hear,’ he said. ‘The bomb was fake. That doesn’t make you any less brave, of course, but it made your attempt to defuse it a lot less vital.’

I smiled thinly. ‘Fair enough. You gonna turn me in now? The Homecoming Hero?’

‘I don’t . . .’ He didn’t finish the sentence. ‘Is your father here?’

‘Nope.’

‘When will he be back?’

‘I’ve been wondering the same thing for nine years.’

The pastor nodded, as if that explained something important. ‘And your mother?’

‘Grocery shopping.’

He nodded again. ‘You know, I’m not sure I understand you, John. I talk to a lot of troubled cases at the church, and all of them lie now and then, and all of them break promises, but you . . . you’re the only one I’ve met who’ll lie to my face and scare me to death and then turn around and risk his own life to help somebody.’

‘I’m full of surprises.’

‘That you are,’ he said. ‘Your theory about the Handyman, at the very least, seems to have been proven entirely accurate.’ He shifted on his feet, looking over my shoulder at the room beyond.

‘Why are you here?’ I asked.

‘Same thing as before,’ he told me. ‘I want you to talk to my friend.’

‘Because you think I’m going to hurt someone.’

‘I think you would benefit from a talk with a therapist.’

I laughed, thin and hollow. ‘How many lives do I have to save before you stop thinking I’m a bad guy?’

‘We had a deal, John—’

‘The deal is off,’ I said firmly.
It’s time to end this,
I thought.
Act forceful – don’t leave any room for argument.
‘You go to the police, and you tell them I talked about killing someone two weeks ago. They’ll ask why you didn’t report this earlier, and you’ll sound like an idiot when all you can say is, “He asked me not to”. They’ll ask if you have any evidence beyond your own word, and you won’t. They’ll ask if you’re aware that John Cleaver risked his life to save a building full of people, and you’ll be officially out of options.’ I folded my arms. ‘The police like me a lot. But you go ahead and try, if it makes you feel better.’

I watched him carefully, keeping my own face impassive.
Did it work? Did he buy it? If he calls my bluff and goes to the police, I could actually get in a lot of trouble.
I had to hope my confidence convinced him.

He stood on the landing, not speaking. After a moment, he sighed and said, ‘I see.’ He looked me in the eye, the corners of his mouth turned down, his own eyes dull.
Sadness.
‘Just . . . be careful, John. You’re getting into something very dangerous, probably more dangerous than I’m even aware of. If you need anything, please call me.’

I said nothing.

He turned and left.

Chapter 17

Sheriff Meier’s body arrived at the mortuary a few days later, on Monday afternoon, and I got home from school just as Mom and Margaret were getting started. I washed up and joined them, cleaning the body and setting the features, smearing the wounds with Vaseline. While we worked I thought about Nobody, trying to piece together what little clues I had about her.
She kills young girls. She makes it look like suicide.

That was it. That was all I knew. There had been no fingerprints at the scene but the girls’ own; no sign of a struggle; no evidence that any of the deaths had been anything but suicide. I supposed it was possible the police knew something they weren’t making public, but any secret evidence they had probably still pointed to suicide, or Officer Jensen would be a lot more protective of his daughter.

As I worked on the body I tried several times to roll it over and work on the back, but every time Mom found something else to do first: there was still dirt in his hair, and we had to wash it again; the string in his jaw was too tight, and it was making the nose looked pinched and unnatural. None of it was true – he looked fine. She was stalling.

‘We’re going to have to roll him over eventually,’ I said. ‘We can’t embalm him until we seal up the back.’

‘I know,’ she said, grimacing. ‘I just don’t know if I can handle it. I’m pretty desensitised to this stuff, but still – David Coleman had how many wounds in his back? And how many more is this one going to have?’

I shrugged. ‘There’s no getting around it.’

She sighed and said, ‘Let’s do it, then.’ We stood on the body’s left and lifted it up, flopping it gently down onto its face. We stopped in surprise, mouths open, then bent over the back to look more closely: it was still heavily mangled, but not nearly as bad as Coleman’s had been. I started counting, and Mom grabbed the file from the side counter.

‘Twenty-two, twenty-three . . .’

‘Thirty-four,’ she said, looking up from the folder. ‘That’s even less than Mayor Robinson.’

BOOK: I Don't Want To Kill You

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