Killer (18 page)

I stop and think before I head back out. I decide I’ll sit in the diner, order something to go, then return to the car. Beyond that, I don’t know what the hell I’m going to do.

I walk back into the restaurant. Laurie Vonn had worked the section by the front window, so I take a booth on the opposite side of the dining area. It wouldn’t do to have her come up to take my order and recognize me. I take one of the menus from the metal rack that holds the condiments at my table and open it and look over the top of it, watching for Laurie. After a couple of minutes a young woman hurries up to me with her order pad in hand. She is slightly heavy but cute and she wears the same orange uniform as Laurie. Her nametag says
Orlanda.

“What can I get you?” she asks. She barely glances at me.

“Coffee and a grilled cheese to go.”

She writes it down. “You want fries or cole slaw?”

“Fries, please.”

She writes it down and turns my upside-down coffee cup over so it can be filled. “Be right back with your coffee,” she says, and hurries off.

I put the menu down—now that I’ve ordered it might seem odd if I keep reading it. Or am I being paranoid?

Can you be called paranoid if people really
are
after you?

A New Jersey State Police car pulls up and parks right outside the window. Two beefy state troopers get out of the car and head toward the restaurant.

Call me paranoid,
I think as I raise my menu to hide my face again.

Orlanda returns with the coffee pot as the troopers walk in the front door and head right for my booth, looking right at me.

Shit. I look away, then look back at them. There is no question they are headed right for my booth—for
me.

I raise the menu higher. I can see only their Smokey the Bear hats approaching over the top of the laminated plastic.

No, no, not here, not now, not like this…

Orlanda starts pouring my coffee as they come up behind her. They stop and look down at me.

Fuck.

They stand there, behind Orlanda, waiting for her to finish with my coffee. In the time it takes her to fill the cup, dozens of frantic thoughts ricochet around in my head—

They’ll wait for her to finish and then they’ll start asking me questions: “Would you mind stepping out of the booth, please?”

Run.

No. Just get up and walk the other way as soon as she fills the cup. There’s another exit, by the restrooms…

NO. Stay put, you jackass. Don’t make eye contact. If they question you be casual but remember that cops expect a certain amount of fear when they confront civilians... What the hell’s that on his hip? A .357? No way that’s State Police issue. I’m Sam Blevins, I live at 6130 N. 53
^rd
Terrace. “Hang on, I left my wallet in the car, I’ll go get it...”

Shit shit shit—

The big trooper suddenly winks at me over Orlanda’s shoulder, then he grins broadly at me.

What the FUCK?

Then, as she finishes pouring, the big Trooper wraps his arms around Orlanda and gives her a big hug, startling her.

“Ah!” she yells.

“Hey, Orlanda!” The bear-hugging Trooper says.

“Jeez— God! Don’t do that!”
she says, laughing. She knows them. “You nearly made me spill coffee all over this nice man.”

“Aw, we wouldn’t do that,” says Smokey the Bear Hug, and he looks down at me and grins again. I grin back, adjusting the brim of my hat so that my hand moves in front of my face. I laugh a little, pretending to enjoy this light moment, but all I can think is
you fucking asshole, you should be out looking for people like me, not harassing waitresses.

The troopers flirt with Orlanda all the way up to the counter, where they each take a stool and order coffee and turn their backs on America’s most infamous rampaging serial author.

THINGS PAST

After leaving Los Angeles, he meandered across the country in his rig for two months, taking a rambling route that eventually led him to Trenton, New Jersey, where ordered breakfast at a truck stop from a waitress whose nametag read
Laurie
. She had a perfect oval face, with clear, clean skin that was flawed only by a splash of tiny freckles across her nose and high cheekbones. She even wore her hair the same as the Angel—long ochre locks that piled around her shoulders in silky coils. Physically, she was nearly identical to his original porcelain Angel.

She took his breakfast order without looking up from her pad. She forgot his coffee. And after she brought his food she didn’t come by his table again, except to slap his check down on the table as she hurried by without a word or a glance. It was late morning and he was the only diner in her section. She wasn’t busy. She was in a hurry to go laugh and flirt with the short order cook.

He lingered over breakfast—over the empty plate she never came to clear away. He watched her.

It was too soon, though. The news about Beverly Grace was still on the cable channels.
Laurie
would have to wait.

He slept in the cab that night, his rig parked near the restaurant, and snapped a picture of Laurie as she arrived at work the next morning. He waited in his cab all day, reading his true-crime paperback and watching the news and checking online for stories about Beverly Grace. Then, just before Laurie’s shift ended, he dropped the ramp from the rear of his trailer, backed his van out, and followed her home. He couldn’t transform her yet—not for a long time. But he could prepare. He hadn’t made any mistakes yet, and he wasn’t about to start.

But when he pulled up to Laurie’s house to snap a photo, he made his first.

He had followed her at a prudent distance, at least five cars behind her on the highway, at least a block away on surface streets, until he saw her red Honda pull into a driveway beside a little red brick house. He slowed, from two blocks behind her, giving her ample time to go in the house. He couldn’t see her car, since the white trellis alongside the driveway obstructed his view, so he pulled over and waited for a full minute before driving up to the house and lowering his window to snap a photograph of the little red brick house, parking just close enough to record the address in the picture, as well as the name VONN on the mailbox—a stroke of luck. He wouldn’t have to search online for her last name as he normally did when laying his careful plans.

But just as he took the picture, she got out of her car and looked right at him, his camera raised, pointed directly at her. He had assumed she had gone into the house, but she hadn’t. She had stayed in her car, gathering shopping bags and her purse from the back seat.

She stood there, looking right at him. Time froze for a breathless eternity. Then, keeping the camera held up to hide his face, he reached down and pressed the button to raise his window. She locked her car, clicking her key fob twice to make sure the alarm was activated, then glanced quickly back and him and walked into the house with her things. He pulled away the instant the front door closed behind her—driving fast enough so that she couldn’t read his license plate from her front window. But not too fast.

He left New Jersey that night.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Five minutes after ordering my food from Orlanda, I glance out the window and see Laurie Vonn outside, her coat on, filling her Honda with gas at the truck stop pump. I start to get up, then stop. My food hasn’t come yet, and I wonder for a moment if I should wait for it.
She said she would call the cops when she got home. Maybe I should just let her go.

But what if she doesn’t call them?

An image of Laurie Vonn’s body, decapitated in a shallow grave, suddenly comes to me.

I get up and leave a twenty on the table and walk out the front door. It’s ten degrees colder outside than it was before and the sky is leaden with clouds and I can smell the rain coming—or will it be snow? I reach the Chrysler and get in and drive around the gas pumps just in time to see Laurie Vonn’s dirty red Honda Civic pull out of the driveway and onto the bypass road.

I catch up to her and then slow to allow a few cars between us. It is getting dark so I turn my headlights on, but Laurie doesn’t turn hers on and I almost lose her.

What will I say when she gets home? The story about the burglar won’t fly. I may have to come clean and just tell her the truth.
But what is that?

Think.
You’re an imaginative fellow, a writer…

I’ll follow her home, knock on her door—no, I’ll stop her before she gets inside the house and tell her who I am— No, need more lead time to get away.

I’ll tell her to go inside and turn on her TV and watch the news and when she sees my picture there will be a tip line or some kind of number to call. I’ll tell her to call that number and then tell them exactly what happened.
Tell them that I told you to place yourself in protective custody. Ask to speak with Detective Marsh from the LAPD. Tell him I said you were in danger.

That might do it. If I scare her. She
should
be scared. And if she waits to see a story about me on TV it could give me enough time to steal another car. And by the time she gets through to the police and gets them to believe her and actually gets Marsh on the line I will have enough time to put some miles between me and Trenton, New Jersey. I start looking around for a gas station or supermarket where I can lift another car as I follow her.
Think ahead. Anticipate.
This could work, this could work. I could warn her
and
steer clear of the police.

If a lot of things break my way.

I follow her back to the interstate but she doesn’t take the entrance. She drives right by it. I follow her for three more miles until she turns into a parking structure at a mall. I follow her into the structure, taking my ticket from the machine and keeping my head low. I am now automatically scanning for security cameras everywhere.
Paranoia is progressive, like alcoholism.

I stop suddenly, as she stops in front of me. Then she turns right and drives slowly down the rows of parked cars, looking for a space. She turns and heads back down another row. Slowly. I take a long, deep breath to fend off my impatience, then follow her car down yet another row of cars.

What the hell am I doing here?

Saving someone’s life.

At last she finds a space. Her backup lights come on and for an alarming moment I think she’ll back right into me but she stops short, then turns the wheel and eases into a tight spot between two SUV’s. I glance around quickly for a parking space nearby and I realize how enormous the parking structure is. Not a space in sight—

A car horn blares at me from behind. I look in the rearview and see the silhouette of a woman behind me in a Mercedes. I pull forward, trying to find a space and keep an eye in the mirror for Laurie Vonn at the same time.

Finally I find a space, at the end of the long row that Laurie parked in. I get out and I don’t see her. I look around and see the word
Escalators
painted on a round concrete column. I follow the arrow to the escalators and ride up, straining to catch a glimpse of her.

The escalator deposits me on the ground floor of the mall and I see Laurie heading down the broad walkway between the food court and the stationery store and the Brookstone and the Verizon store and countless other shops. I follow her.

I’m weighing whether I should catch up to her and give her my speech when she disappears inside Nordstrom. I go to the store and follow her inside, past the make-up counter and into the lingerie. She stops and looks at a rack of bras.

If I approach her now she could find a cop or a security guard. But maybe she wouldn’t. Maybe she would wait, feeling more secure in public… No, bad idea…

She moves on to a rack of nightgowns. A saleswoman has noticed me. I slow down, pretending to be interested in a row of panties—but not
too
interested. I look up and can’t see Laurie. I head toward the nightgowns and look around. I stand on my tiptoes and see the top of Laurie Vonn’s head as she heads into a dressing room with some clothes in her hand.

“Can I help you?” I turn to find the saleswoman behind me, a middle-aged woman with short gray hair and big glasses with bright red plastic frames.

“Ah, no, that’s okay, I’m just waiting for my girlfriend,” I say, easing down from my tiptoes.

“Oh, she’s trying something on,” she looks in the direction Laurie went.

Shit. Can’t let her think I’m waiting for Laurie. She may say something to her.

“Oh no, she’s—she’s in another part of the store,” I say lamely.
Damn it.

The saleswoman looks at me for a second longer than I’m comfortable with, then she forces a little smile and turns and walks back to the register.

I move as far from the lingerie as I can and feign interest in some earrings, keeping an eye on the dressing rooms and the register. The saleswoman says something to the girl at the register and the girl turns and looks at me. I pick up a pair of gold hoops and read the tag.
14 Carat, 49.95.
I put them back and glance at the women at the register, who are both looking at me now. I move on, down the jewelry counter, and stop behind a circular rack of nightgowns where they can’t see me. There is a mirror on the opposite wall and I go to it and pretend to look at a row of bathrobes next to it while I watch the women and the dressing rooms reflected in it. I glance at myself in the mirror. I am an unshaven stranger wearing sunglasses at night with my cap pulled low as I linger among lingerie, fingering panties and following a lone girl.

Smooth.

The saleswoman is on the phone. Shit
.
I look at the dressing rooms and see no sign of Laurie. She could be a while. I try to remember how many things she brought into the dressing room but I didn’t get a good look.