The Watcher in the Wall (22 page)

This, though, was bona fide bonkers.

“I need you, Madison,” Brandon said, and she could hear it in his voice. “If you don’t come with me, I don’t know what I’ll do.”

Madison blinked back to the present. Barely hesitated. Skip town to save the boy of her dreams, or stay put and let him suffer alone?

“I’m in,” she told him. “Don’t do anything scary, okay? I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

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Gruber ended the call.
Pocketed his cell phone and walked out of his house. Came back an hour later with a jerry can full of gasoline, set it down beside him and composed a text message.

See you tomorrow,
he told Madison.
Can’t wait.
P.S. Buy a burner cell phone at the drugstore and text me the number. Then ditch your real
phone. Otherwise, they can follow you. They’ll go crazy when they find out you’re gone.

He pressed send. Then he went into his living room and rifled through Donovan’s pockets until he found the kid’s wallet. A couple hundred bucks in cash, an Ohio driver’s license, a buy-nine-get-one-free coupon to some Cleveland sandwich shop. Gruber took the cash, stuffed the rest back. Tore Earl’s picture off the wall, stuffed it in his pocket with the cash. Deleted everything on his computer, wiped the hard drive as clean as he could, every chat log, screenshot, saved password and username. All of the evidence, gone.

Then he picked up the jerry can, unscrewed the lid, and poured gasoline all over the machine. All over the rug, the table, the living room couch, all over Donovan’s body. Made a trail with the gasoline through the kitchen, into his bedroom, the fumes overpowering, wafting through the house, making him light-headed and dizzy.

When he’d doused the whole place in gasoline, he set down the empty can. Walked to the front door and surveyed the living room, Donovan in the computer chair, his arms and legs still taped tight, the blood everywhere on his clothes, his eyes still half open. And around him, the litter everywhere, old junk-food and candy bar wrappers, soda cans, the fumes from the gas making Gruber’s eyes water. The house had been his prison for too many years. He wouldn’t miss it.

He took a lighter from his pocket, a cheap gas station Bic. Flicked it until the flame appeared. Knelt down to the carpet and touched the flame to a wet spot, a puddle of gasoline, jumped back as the puddle ignited.

“Whoo.”
Laughing now, his eyebrows singed, the heat fast and intense,
the flames starting to grow. He stepped out onto the lawn, watched the place go up, black smoke and roaring flames, the cheap little house a firetrap to begin with, never mind the accelerant.

Satisfied that the house would burn to bare ash, he turned away and crossed the lawn to the sidewalk, where Donovan’s old white Lincoln sat waiting by the curb, Gruber’s suitcase beside it, stuffed with those few belongings he valued: some clothing, a picture of Madison, his voice disguiser, and the knife.

Whistling to himself, unable to contain his excitement, Gruber picked up his suitcase and chucked it into the passenger seat of the Lincoln. Turned the key in the ignition and idled away down the street, left the house burning behind him. He would find Earl tomorrow. By nightfall, he’d be with DarlingMadison. He couldn’t wait to show her the real Brandon.

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The burner phone
more or less exhausted Madison’s meager savings.

She unpacked the phone from its casing, powered it on. Spent twenty minutes stealing electricity from an outlet in a McDonald’s, waiting for the phone to charge to full power. Texted Brandon the new number, and a few minutes later the burner phone buzzed.

This is me,
the text message read.
Text me when you get on the bus. I’ll be waiting in Louisville.

Kk,
Madison wrote.
See you soon.
She powered off the phone to save the battery and left the McDonald’s.

She couldn’t go home. If Brandon was right, the police in Iowa would have already called Tampa. They could be trying to find her. She wouldn’t risk going back to her house, not with so much at stake, but she needed money; she was broke. She needed some way to buy a bus ticket to Louisville.

Madison stood in the parking lot outside the McDonald’s and thought about it. Watched traffic stream by, headlights, cars pull in and park, people climb out of their cars and walk into the restaurant. Couples, families. Single men.

She could rob someone, she supposed. She would need some kind of weapon, and let’s face it, she wasn’t exactly the robbery type. Hell, the thought of riding a bus all the way to Kentucky by herself was scary enough. She didn’t need to be committing any felonies.

So, no robberies. Madison walked away from the McDonald’s, the new burner phone weighing heavy in her purse. She thought about texting Brandon back, asking if he could send her some money for the ticket, through Western Union or PayPal or whatever. But that would create a paper trail, wouldn’t it? If people were really looking for them, they would figure out where Madison was headed pretty quick.

Anyway, she kind of wanted to show Brandon she could make it to Kentucky on her own. Prove she was someone he could count on, independent and resourceful, a good partner. That left only one option.

Madison pulled out her old phone and opened Facebook. Typed a name into the search box and found who she wanted.

Need to see u,
she wrote in a private message.
Urgent. Can we meet?

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Dylan Price
didn’t know much that Stevens and Windermere hadn’t already figured out.

They found him gathered with his family inside their handsome brownstone, an FBI special agent with them, a woman from the local office named Pickford. Stevens had been in touch with her from Phoenix, asked her to keep an eye on the situation before he and Windermere arrived.

Douglas Price stood by the window, looking like he’d paced a track in his expensive carpet. He was a large man, imposing, his wife and son much smaller. Dylan sat, sullen, on an easy chair, staring anywhere but at his father. Windermere could see the bruises on his neck from the noose.

“I’m sorry I hung up on you,” he told Windermere, his voice flat. Hollow. “I know you were trying to help.”

Windermere studied the kid, figured he was probably pretty pissed off at her, ruining his big plans and keeping him around on this earthly plane a little longer. “I’m just glad it worked out,” she told him. “I know you don’t feel it right now, but we’re glad you’re still with us.”

Douglas Price snorted from the window. “He’ll be paying for the doors your officers kicked down,” he said. “He knows it, too. First thing tomorrow, he’s finding himself a part-time job. What a mess.”

“Forget about the doors,” Stevens said. “I’m guessing you won’t have a problem scaring up enough cash for replacements. What we’re
concerned about is that Dylan’s all right, and that he understands what happened here today.”

Douglas Price gave Stevens the once-over, a long, assessing stare. Then he turned back to the window.

“The police kind of gave me the basics,” Dylan said, still staring at the coffee table. “They said Brandon wasn’t, you know, actually Brandon. That he was some old guy, some freak who liked watching teenagers kill themselves.”

“His name is Randall Gruber,” Windermere said. “Comes from small-town Indiana, a rough upbringing. Abuse, violence, neglect. He watched his stepsister hang herself when he was fifteen.”

“We’re hoping you might have picked up on something that could lead us to where he’s hiding,” Stevens said. “Any kind of clue about his real identity.”

Dylan’s brow wrinkled in thought. “I don’t know,” he told Stevens and Windermere. “I always just figured he was Brandon, you know? I wasn’t really looking for, like, clues.”

“Did anything ever seem weird to you? Anything ever sound off?”

“His voice,” Dylan said, “but I guess you already know that. It wasn’t the voice of an old dude, that’s for sure.” He thought. “I remember he messed up his time zones once. Like, we were talking and it was night and he said something like, ‘Crap, I have to go to bed, it’s almost midnight here.’ But he was supposed to be in Iowa, right? And that’s a different time zone from Baltimore, but the thing was, it was almost midnight
here
.”

“Could be he’s still on the East Coast,” Stevens said. “His last known location’s still Cleveland.”

“There were always these noises in the background, too, when we
talked,” Dylan said. “Like train whistles or whatever, locomotives. They were usually pretty constant. He told me he lived near a train yard.”

“Train yard on the East Coast,” Windermere said. “Anything else?”

Dylan thought for a minute. “I really just thought he was Brandon,” he said, and he looked down from the ceiling and found Windermere, then shied away. “I thought he was, like, my
friend
.”

Windermere felt a fresh wave of anger. Dylan Price looked small, vulnerable, a
child
. And Gruber had taken advantage of that vulnerability. It was brutal and unconscionable. And it pissed Windermere off.

“So, let me get this straight.” Douglas Price turned from the window. “You’re saying my son is a victim, is that right? He’s not a head case; there’s nothing actually wrong with him.”

“We wouldn’t be here if Dylan wasn’t unhappy,” Stevens said. “Randall Gruber found him on a website for suicidal teenagers. You’re going to want to think about therapy.”

“Wait a second,” Douglas Price said. “You just said he wasn’t a head case. Now you want to send him to a shrink?”

“Not just your boy,” Windermere said. “We’re talking about all of you. Because from what I can tell, sir, your boy isn’t the only person in this room who has issues.”

Douglas Price opened his mouth to reply. Couldn’t. Closed his mouth and opened it again, stood there dumbfounded, his face going red, his muscles rigid.

Windermere felt her phone go off in her pocket. Ignored it. “You played a role in this, Dr. Price,” she continued. “Your son didn’t just wake up this morning and decide to off himself. I’ve read the logs from his chats with Gruber. You want to know what got him into this mess, it was you, sir.”

Price turned on her. “I don’t believe this,” he said. “You come into my house and—”

“And save your kid’s life?” she said. “Yeah, we did. You’re welcome.”

Now Stevens had her, was pulling her back, away from Price, toward the living room doors. “I think that’s our cue,” he told Pickford. “Keep an eye on them, would you? Anything comes up about Gruber, let us know.” He tugged Windermere away. “Come on, Carla.”

Windermere shook him off. Hit Douglas Price with the side eye one more time as she turned and walked out of the room, walking fast, blood pumping, feeling pretty good actually.

She walked through the Prices’ empty, expensive house, Stevens hurrying to catch up. “What the heck was that?” he asked her. “You can’t just—”

Windermere felt her phone buzz. Voicemail from Agent Schwartz in Phoenix. She held up a finger to Stevens, hit redial. “Talk to me, Schwartz.”

“Oh, hey,” Schwartz said. “Was just reviewing those chat logs for your Gabriel98 character.”

“Yeah,” Windermere said. Made the Prices’ front door and burst out into the evening light. “And?”

“And it sounds like he was grooming another teenager,” Schwartz said. “Someone named DarlingMadison, out of Tampa. Sounds like she and your subject have their own suicide thing going on.”

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“Wait,” Paul said.
“You want me to lend you money for
what
?”

“It’s just two hundred bucks,” Madison said. “Well, two hundred for the bus ticket and, I dunno, fifty for, like, food? Two hundred and fifty bucks?”

Paul’s eyes goggled. He sipped his milkshake until the straw made a slurping noise. Then he sipped some more, maddening Madison both with the sound and the lack of a coherent answer. Time was wasting.

She’d found him on Facebook. They weren’t friends, but that hadn’t stopped her. She’d sent him a private message, asking if they could meet, and he’d pulled into the McDonald’s parking lot twenty minutes later, driving some kind of beat-up brown Buick. She’d been working on him ever since.

“A bus ticket,” he said. “What, so you can go meet your boyfriend somewhere? Why can’t he just come to you?”

“His parents found out about us,” Madison told him. “They probably called my mom already, so we have to sneak off together. We’re meeting in Louisville tomorrow night.”

“Assuming you can get the money for a bus ticket,” Paul said, grinning.

“Duh. So are you helping me or not?”

Paul picked at his fries. He was taking a long time to come up with an answer, and Madison was using the time to compile a mental list of other people she could hit up for the cash. It was a short list.

“I don’t really have very much money,” Paul said. “I don’t even know if I have two hundred bucks in my savings.”

“I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t an emergency,” Madison said. “Paul, please?”