Killer (20 page)

“Mind if I join you?”

The guy just looked up and gave a vague shrug. So he slid into the booth across from the writer and poured himself a drink, then pushed the one with the Valium across the booth to him. He made some small talk, asked some innocuous questions, and then he listened to the writer. He wanted to get a sense of the guy before he told him anything.

After his third Valium cocktail, the writer’s eyelids were nearly closed and he began talking about his fiancé’s suicide. He let the writer go on about her until he was just about to pass out, and then he took out his yellowed clippings from the West Virginia papers about Caitlin Stubbs, and he began to tell his story. He was careful never to refer to the killer as “I.” Rather, he told the story as if it were just that—a story. He didn’t tell the writer his name, didn’t mention where he was from or what he did. That could come later. He had picked up the crude vernacular of the truckers and loading dock workers and he had begun to speak like them, to blend in. He spoke like that to Rhodes, in a quiet, low voice, affecting a slight Midwestern drawl peppered with ignorant blue-collar idiom. He sat with his back to the lighted bar so his face was in shadow. He wanted the writer’s memory of him—if any—to be a version of him that could be disputed by another version of himself.

And the writer listened.

CHAPTER FORTY

An hour north of Trenton I click the Chrysler’s defroster fan up to its highest notch. The Outside Temp gauge reads 8 degrees and the windshield keeps fogging up. The tiny defroster vents on top of the driver’s side door are plugged with tissues I found in the old man’s glove compartment, leaving my window obscured with fog while the windshield stays clear enough for me to see Laurie Vonn ahead as she takes the New York State Thruway through the heavy sleet that is driven horizontal by the fierce wind.

In the past hour a hundred different worries have gnawed at me.
What if the saleswoman at Nordstrom told Laurie about me and Laurie called the police and they told her to go someplace safe, out of town? Would they tail her? Are they on me right now? What if she saw my picture or heard a description of me on the radio and connected the dots?

A lot of
what if’s,
but still… I realize I am chewing on a tissue and stop.
Calm down.
If that were the case I would be in cuffs by now. They wouldn’t use a young woman like that as bait, anyway…

Would they?

We have traveled a couple of stretches where the traffic was sparse—no one behind us for a quarter mile or so. Outside of town the bad weather has kept people off the road.
This is reassuring. And as I drive, I realize Laurie Vonn may have done me a big favor. It was stupid to think of stealing a car in Trenton. In fact, it was stupid to stay there any longer at all. Trenton P.D. will be looking for the Chrysler, but the police in New York won’t be looking for it…unless FBI has connected the Chrysler to the Mustang. But with any luck, the Mustang is already in pieces in a chop shop in a Baltimore slum. God bless bad neighborhoods. As reliable as dawn.

I have kept a scan going 360 around me as I drive, looking for anything that resembles a police car, and the constant vigilance and hunger and dehydration are wearing me down. What if it never stops? What if this is it? Running… I think of Melvin “Cowboy” Beauchamp, whom I occasionally called at FBI to pester with questions. Over drinks just a few months ago he had leaned his huge frame back in the booth and said,
“I dig your books, Jackie, but I don’t know how long your Killer can stay at large and still be realistic. In real life, at some point, they all make mistakes. At some point their luck runs out. They get tired or lazy and they let their guard down or take an unnecessary risk, and that’s when we’re there to welcome them.”
He had grinned broadly when he said it. Melvin got the nickname “Cowboy” because he had gunned down a whopping total of 6 fugitives in his career so far, and after the third beer he described each killing with a smile of satisfaction.

I wonder what Melvin thinks of me now? Hell, he’s probably leading the investigation, right there with Marsh.
I wonder if Melvin would shoot me dead and smile about it later over beers…

This is not positive thinking.

I turn up the radio to drown out my thoughts. The news channels have been repeating the same information hours, which is a relief but also a nagging worry. The more they talk about me the more people will be looking out for me.

Laurie Vonn passes the exit for the Newark Bay Bridge, the first exit to New York City. Then she passes the next one, and the next.

Okay, so we’re not going to the city.

She stays in the middle lane, keeping at a steady sixty-five miles an hour.

A family emergency? A sudden hankering to see upstate New York?

I watch the exits for New York City passing by. I could get off right here. I can’t call Nicki but I could waylay her somewhere— No, they’ll have surveillance on her. Besides, what could she tell me? That they’re after me? What could she do for me now?

I drive on, following Laurie Vonn. If I stop following her and she turns up dead and they connect her to me…

I went to her house. I was seen following her at the mall.
I have to keep on her. Have to protect her.

I have to save her.

* * *

Three hours later, in rural upstate New York, Laurie Vonn takes the VT-22A exit.

Vermont.

THINGS PAST

It took him three nights of careful conversation to tell his stories to the drugged, drunken writer—including his plans for Laurie Vonn. And on the third night, he doubled the dose of Valium in the booze—a recipe for a complete blackout—and drove him to Temescal and showed him the grave of Beverly Grace, and the hair clip he had placed in the tree.

He knew there was little chance the writer would remember any of it. And anyway, the guy was a world-class lush and no one would believe him even if he did. But he had laid the groundwork. He had planted the seed. Most important, he had relieved himself of the burden of his stories. He luxuriated in un-spooling the details of his adventures, and the writer was listening—REALLY listening to him. And even though Rhodes’ eyes were barely open and his speech slurred almost to the point of incoherence, he was delighted when the writer asked the occasional question. Here was a man who could fathom a mind like his. A man who had written so clearly about others like him. Here was a man who understood.

He didn’t know where it would lead, but he knew where Rhodes lived, knew where he drank, and if he ever wanted to tell more of his stories to someone, he had found him. Maybe he could even take the chance one day to return to Pasadena and tell him more without drugging him. And maybe—just maybe—Rhodes would one day write his story for the world to read. Just like the stories in the dog-eared paperback on the seat next to him; the collection of killers, which Rhodes had written, and which he read daily.

But when he brought Rhodes back to the bar after Temescal, it was just before closing time. After last call he left the writer, unconscious, slumped in the booth. And as he got in his van, he saw the bartender half-carry the staggering writer out to the alley and slam the door behind him. The writer slumped to the gritty pavement of the alley and slept.

He watched from the van, debating whether to go and help him—to take him home—when he saw a rough-looking fellow slip into the alley and pull the writer’s wallet and keys from his pocket. When the writer stirred, the robber began to beat him, and that’s when he got out of the van.

* * *

Richard Bell never saw the knife. The serrated edge sliced completely through the front of his throat and into his spinal cord and he was dead when he hit the ground.

He dragged Bell to the writer’s car—too much blood to put the body in the van without the heavy plastic tarps he normally placed there before a transformation. And he couldn’t leave Bell where he lay. Police would come, and they would find Rhodes and question him. He couldn’t run the risk that Rhodes’ fresh memories might surface under pressure from the police. So he drove Bell to Highland Park in the writer’s car and heaved the body into a dumpster in a dark alley behind a hardware store. He quickly wiped down the car for prints—usually he wore latex surgical gloves, just as a precaution, even though he knew his prints weren’t on file anywhere. Nonetheless, he had never murdered on impulse before and he was careful to clean up. He took the writer’s keys and left the car next to the dumpster and walked all the way back to his van, reaching it by morning.

He drove to his rig, pulled the van inside, and left the city. His New Jersey Angel would have to wait even longer now. He had never killed without careful planning and he wasn’t about to take any more chances. He had told someone his stories and he had murdered on impulse. He would have to get out of the state—possibly out of the country—and lay low for a long, long time.

He headed north.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

The horizontal sleet has turned to horizontal snow in the Chrysler’s headlights and I can no longer see or think clearly. The Outside Temp gauge reads 2 degrees. I have followed Laurie Vonn for an hour into Vermont, giving her a long lead. I am able to keep her in sight through the heavy snow and the foggy windshield because we are the only cars on the miserable road, and because the red plastic lens of her left rear tail light is broken and I can pick her car out from a long way off by looking for that bright point of white light.

But there is no such beacon for my mind. I can’t think straight, and the treacherous driving conditions have added yet another vexation to my overflowing pot of confusion and fear.

Where the hell is this girl going?
I think for the thousandth time. And for the thousandth time I have no answer. Nevertheless I think it again, stuck on the thought, stupid with exhaustion.

Ping!
The LOW FUEL light blinks on, bright orange. I look down at the fuel gauge, which shows empty. I look around the dashboard controls to see if the onboard computer will tell me how many miles I have left—

The Chrysler suddenly loses traction and goes into a slide, which I steer into and straighten out when I take my foot off the gas.
Keep your eyes on the road.
I slow to twenty miles an hour and then ease back up to forty just in time to see Laurie’s turn signal blinking as she gets in the right lane and slows down and I suddenly know exactly where I am.

“No…
No
…” I say as I see the reflective white letters come into view through the thick snow, forming the word FEATHERTON on the exit sign. I take my foot off the gas and watch as Laurie Vonn takes the exit and heads down the ramp toward the county road that leads to my cabin, three miles from here.

What in God’s name is she doing here?

I am far enough behind her to take a full minute to decide whether to follow. I leave my foot off the gas and let the inertia of the heavy Chrysler guide me closer to the exit.

Take it or not?

If I take it and the police are there…?

If I don’t take it…

…What? Keep going until I run out of gas? Pull over and wait for the weather to clear? How long? What if I fall asleep? I would wind up face to face with police, who will be out checking the roads for accidents and stranded motorists. There is nothing around for miles and the weather has gone from worse to God-awful.
I
could wind up stranded. I wince at the thought—trapped in my stolen car and rescued by Vermont’s finest...

The closest gas station is in Featherton. I guide the car to the exit ramp and roll down it slowly, my decision borne more from a lack of imagination than anything else. I can’t see the Honda but I turn right, toward town, toward my cabin. I can drive right by the cabin on the way to town and get gas…

The police will be at the cabin. They will have searched the place and—

—and then it hits me: FBI would have already searched my cabin and taken my computer
.
They
HAVE
read the fourth book, the unfinished manuscript on my hard drive.

They know about Laurie Vonn. They know where she lives. They contacted her and warned her and this is a trap.

I curse myself for not realizing this earlier.
In real life, at some point, they all make mistakes.

No, they wouldn’t use Laurie Vonn as bait. They would have contacted her and instructed her to drive to the police where I would have been arrested. They would never let her lead me all the way back here, especially not in this weather...

The Chrysler slides on the snow-packed road again. I slow down to fifteen miles an hour.

Maybe the police aren’t at the cabin. In this weather…

But then what the hell is she doing here?

The snow is coming down so heavily I can only see a few feet ahead of the car. There is a turnout ahead. I could turn around and get back on the interstate and keep going north. I could be in Canada in two hours. They’ll be watching for me at the border, of course, but maybe I could get close enough and cross on foot somewhere… But I need gas and food and a heavy coat... If I turn around and get back on the interstate, the next gas station is at least ten miles away. The one in Featherton is closer. Five or six miles. But I’ll have to pass my cabin.
Shit.
How much gas do I have left? Five miles? Ten? I have no idea and I can’t risk running out.

I will drive on, passing the cabin like any other slow-moving motorist caught in the blizzard. There is a mini-mart at the Featherton gas station and I can get food and supplies. If it isn’t open I can pull right up to the pump and wait until morning—
No, the owner, old Virgil, will recognize me if I go inside to buy food. Virgil takes the night shift himself at the gas station; he’s too damned cheap to hire someone. And if I use my credit card to pay at the pump there will be a record of it and they’ll know I was here.