Illusions of Death (21 page)

Chapter 40

“Brad? What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be in Atlanta.”

“I got to feeling guilty. With Logan out of town and you with a bum ankle, I was afraid you might need something. So I met my friend for dinner and headed back to the Springs. I even texted Logan and told him I’d come sleep on your couch tonight.”

She lifted the cane. “You’ve already left me in good hands. The cane’s been a lifesaver. There’s no need to stay over.”

“Don’t make me beg, Karlyn. I already promised Logan I’d come play nursemaid. He seemed relieved—especially with Roy still out there. I don’t want to go back on my word.”

She shrugged. “Okay. Looks like the cops are ganging up on me.” Karlyn ushered him in and locked the door, arming the alarm.

“Can I get you anything? Dr. Brad would be happy to prescribe a glass of medicinal wine for your ankle.” He winked.

She laughed. “No. I’ve already had two tonight at my mother’s and will probably have trouble sleeping because of it.”

He thought a moment. “How about I make you a cup of tea? You have any chamomile? That always helps me sleep.”

“I do. But only if you’ll join me in a cup. Then I think I’ll hit the sack. Chris is coming over early tomorrow. We’ve got a lot of work to do.”

“Okay. Go park yourself and put that ankle up. I’ll make the tea.”

She limped back into the den and used the cane to ease onto the sofa, resting it next to her. She glanced over and saw her cell still sitting on the table. She hadn’t thought to charge it when she finished talking with Alicia because she’d been distracted by the charming Matt Collins. She hoped Logan hadn’t been trying to reach her on it. They hadn’t bothered putting in a landline yet since they both used their cells so much.

Karlyn slipped the phone into her pocket so she’d have it when she went upstairs for the night. The charger was next to the bed. She could plug it in and call Logan to wish him sweet dreams.

And maybe talk a little dirty. The thought made her smile.

Brad joined her a few minutes later, walking slowly as he balanced two cups and saucers. “I didn’t take time to find a kettle and boil the water. Hope you don’t mind your teabag dropped into microwaved water.” He rested both saucers on the coffee table. “Do you mind if I pick your brain for a few minutes while you drink your tea?”

“Sure.” She leaned over and picked up her cup and took a sip, burning her tongue. “Whoa. Too hot. I need to let it cool some.” She returned the cup to the table. “What’s on your mind?”

He sat. “I was thinking about . . . well, I’ve actually started . . . a book. Or tried to start one.”

“I’m intrigued. What’s it about?”

He looked sheepish. “The presidents. What else? You know how I’m fascinated by them.”

“Uh, I hadn’t noticed,” she deadpanned.

He laughed. “Okay. I’m obsessed. I believe they were simply ordinary men who rose to the occasion. Or at least most of them did. Fuckin’ Fillmore will never earn my respect. But they were Average Joes. I want the public to relate to them as they would a friend or somebody they know.

“Think about it. How many people have gotten a speeding ticket before? Lots, right? Well, Grant got arrested for speeding while he was driving a horse and buggy in D.C. Had to pay a twenty-dollar fine. And Harding loved to play poker. Who doesn’t like to do that? He once lost all the White House china when he bet it on a losing card hand.” He gave her a sly look. “You do
not
want to know what Florence Harding had to say when she found out.”

“You’re kidding. I never knew that.”

“I think kids would find the presidents more relatable if they knew tidbits like that. Hence, a book.” He paused. “I was wondering—if I paid you for your time—would you help me out? Maybe in structuring it. Or reading it and making a few editorial suggestions?” He shook his head. “No, you’re too busy. I shouldn’t even ask. You’ve got lots of projects going, I’ll bet.”

“I do. I’m in the middle of writing another Matt Collins. I literally started it today. Plus, Chris and I have contracted for an original screenplay due in six months.” Karlyn saw the disappointment in his eyes. “But what I can do is hook you up with my agency. They have two people who rep non-fiction clients, and one has experience in children’s literature. I think they’d like your angle.”

“You would?” He broke out in a boyish grin. “Oh, Karlyn, that would be great.” He waited a beat. “Speaking of non-fiction. You didn’t mention working on your book about the Rainbow Killer.”

“That’s on hold. Indefinitely. You know I’ve done some research on killers for other books. But with what I have on my plate now, those are firm contracts with deadlines. A book about Roy would be on spec. I don’t have time now to pursue it. I’m hoping at least some of the research I did on serial killers and sociopaths will come in handy in some future novel, though.”

He smiled. “I’m sure your Matt Collins fans will be happy that you’re sticking to what you do best.” He reached for his teacup. “Let’s drink to that.”

Karlyn picked up her cup and toasted his. “To Matt.”

Brad’s cell went off. He frowned as he looked at it. “Work. I’ve gotta take this. It’s a CI. He’s a little jumpy now. I’ll be right back. Go ahead. Don’t wait on me. Drink your tea. I won’t be long.”

Logan ran his lights and siren as he raced toward home. He refused to imagine life without Karlyn. She was his world. They would build a life together. They’d put roots down by purchasing the old Kinyon place and would raise a family.

She
had
to be okay. They
would
grow old together. He had to have faith because if he didn’t, the despair he felt would swallow him whole.

He dialed the only person he trusted to keep Karlyn safe till he arrived in the Springs. Brad answered on the fourth ring.

“Where are you now?”

Brad laughed. “For once on a Friday night, I’m in the Springs. Driving home from the diner. How’s the—”

“Shut up. I need a favor. I don’t know who he is, but I figured out Roy’s pattern.”

“
What
pattern? There
is
no pattern.
That’s
the pattern. That’s the beauty of this monster. It’s made him uncatchable.”

“No, listen. It’s the presidents.”

“Presidents? What the hell are you talking about, Logan?”

“The presidents. Their names. Roy is killing people in the order of the presidents. Washington, Adams, Jeffer—”

“—son, Madison, Monroe. You’re right!”

“He’s coupled the chronological order with the order of the colors in the rainbow.”

“Pretty damn brilliant of Roy. Sorry,” Brad apologized. “Sounds like I admire the guy. I’m just pissed I didn’t pick up on it. Me, of all people. And it was staring us in the face. So do you know who Roy’s next vic is? Wait a minute. It could be Artie Lincoln, the drama teacher. No, what about that Lincoln in dispatch they hired. Todd? Tim?”

“Karlyn. Karlyn’s his next target.”

“What? No. The next president would be Lincoln. Lincoln followed that asshole Buchanan. Not Campbell.”

“It’s her
middle
name. Pierce. Spelled like Franklin Pierce. Roy skipped from Fillmore to Buchanan.”

“But that doesn’t make sense. Why would he break his pattern now?”

“I don’t know,” Logan said in frustration. “But he skipped the name and the color. Bucky Buchanan’s shade was violet. Not indigo.”

“But why Karlyn? Most of the killings have happened in Atlanta or other cities. Roy would have dozens of Pierces to choose from there. Finding out Karlyn’s middle name would be a long shot.”

“I don’t care!” Logan yelled. “Get over there. Now. For me. For Karlyn. Keep her safe till I get there.”

Brad chuckled. “Buddy, I’m pulling up in front of your house now. Believe me. I know how important she is to you.”

And then Logan’s gut and brain connected. No one knew presidents like Brad Patterson. A man who worked in law enforcement. Who’d be able to stage a clean crime scene that held no clues.

Brad was Roy.

Chapter 41

Karlyn took a sip of the chamomile. Her tongue was still tender after scalding it a few minutes earlier. She really didn’t want to drink anything this late, knowing if she did, she’d have to get up during the night to hit the bathroom. With her swollen ankle and dealing with the cane, it didn’t seem worth it.

She didn’t want to hurt Brad’s feelings, though. He seemed proud that he was taking such good care of her for Logan. She smiled, ready to see her man again. He’d be happy to learn that she’d decided to drop the idea of working on a book about Roy G. Biv.

It did bother her that she hadn’t solved the pattern of the Rainbow Killer. Not that law enforcement experts had, but she did this for a living, thinking about killers and their victims. Roy’s seemingly aimless killings had to have some kind of connection. He was too clever to be that random as he killed.

Karlyn thought it sweet that Brad wanted kids to make a connection with the presidents. She thought about how he could organize his book to make it accessible to younger readers. Maybe he could group the presidents by their home states. Or by eras. Maybe sort them by their occupations. Since he was in the beginning stage, he could probably write each profile chronologically and then slide the stories into whatever slots he created as his theme.

She wondered if he could even . . .

Oh, God
.

She froze. Everything became crystal clear, in the blink of an eye.

Cyndee Washington. Jerry Adams. Claudia Jefferson.

It had been staring her in the face the entire time.

Roy G. Biv selected his vics by their last names. Surnames that corresponded to the chronological order of the US presidents. She quickly ran through the list of those murdered. It all made perfect sense.

And the pit of her stomach went ice cold.

Karlyn Pierce Campbell.

She was next.

Panic flooded her, like an adrenaline rush. She knew without a doubt that the Rainbow Killer would come for her. Her mouth grew dry as sandpaper. A trembling overtook her limbs. She gripped the handle of the cane till she thought it might snap.

Then a moment of clarity cut through the maelstrom.

She’d already admitted the Rainbow Killer to her home.

Roy G. Biv had eluded capture because he knew crime scenes. Processing. Profiling. Procedures.

And presidents.

Everything she’d researched about serial killers, be they sociopaths or psychopaths, began taking form. Not as a character she’d created in a novel.

But in the form of Brad Patterson.

He had the expertise. No real attachments to anyone. Charm. Intelligence.

Karlyn had no doubt tonight he would strike here—tonight—especially with Logan out of the picture. Immediately, her eyes focused on the teacup. She figured he’d put a sedative or possibly Rohypnol in it. She took a cleansing breath, willing herself to remain calm. Physically, she would never be able to flee with her bum ankle. She needed to mentally outsmart him.

She instinctively went into writer mode, playing out quick choices in her mind. She liked to plan a scene out but let the characters’ dialogue and actions form organically. Tonight, in this moment, she knew the scenario—a killer stalked his supposedly clueless victim. She would have to fly by the seat of her pants and let it play out.

And hopefully survive the encounter.

She had a choice—either dump her tea and pretend to act drugged—or switch cups with him.

Karlyn heard Roy coming her way.

And made her choice.

She yawned as he entered the den. “Sorry. I’m getting a little sleepy.” She watched his eyes drop to her empty cup. “The tea finally cooled off. It was delicious. Thanks for going to the effort of making it. I’m sure I’ll sleep better because of it.”

He sat next to her and picked up his own cup, draining it.

“Sorry that took so long. My CI needed talking off the ledge. He has a tendency to be paranoid. I give him a little TLC to boost his spirits. And promised him fifty bucks when I see him tomorrow.” He laughed.

She studied him. “You know, you’d probably be a great resource for me. Logan doesn’t like to talk shop, but I’ll bet you have some good stories I might be able to use. I promise I would change names and places and circumstances—if you’d talk off the record with me.”

He looked pleased. “Sure. Anytime.”

She twisted a lock of hair in her finger. “I’m toying with a new outline for a standalone. About a serial killer.” She smiled. “Don’t want to waste the background research I’ve already done on Roy. I’m trying to decide on his pattern.”

Karlyn yawned again. “Sorry. This idea is a little rough, but at the beginning of the book, he’s about to complete a cycle of murders. Maybe killing people alphabetically. Andrea, Barbara, Cathy, etc. The book would open with Zoe, the last of the women to find herself on his table. She was an investigative journalist who hunted him—only to become the hunted.”

The light that sparked in his eyes gave her goose bumps. “Intriguing concept.”

“Zoe plays on his ego, telling him he’s too smart and will never be caught. But she knows with the end of the A to Z cycle that he’ll need a new challenge. She begs him to spare her. She’s a writer and promises to create a new challenge. If he’ll let her live.”

“Hmmm. What does she come up with?”

Karlyn laughed. “Who knows? It’s early brainstorming floating around in my head.” She paused, pretending to think. “Maybe . . . maybe he could continue the alphabet murders, but this time he cranks it up a notch. He kills a pair in each state, starting with Alabama and a couple named Albert and Alice.”

He frowned. “Too simple. And he wouldn’t be able to hit every letter.”

She pretended confusion. “So? Why would that matter?”

He laughed. “Serial killers are meticulous creatures. Skipping letters wouldn’t appeal to him.”

She smiled and pointed a finger at him. “That’s what I mean. See, you can help me. If I run something by you.” She stopped, letting her eyelids droop a moment. She took a deep breath and pretended to force her eyes open. “Okay, let’s factor in age. Or maybe couples by anniversary. He could kill a couple married for one year, then two, then three, and so on.”

She watched him consider it. “What about starting with a wedding night dual murder of the bride and groom and then progressing from there?”

The thought sickened her, knowing he was probably considering her pitch as his next crime spree, but Karlyn pushed on.

“No. I really want him to be brilliant. I need a pattern even harder to pick up on. How about Oscar winners? He could use the first or last names of Best Actor and Actress winners. Start with the first pair of winners and move forward.”

He reflected on her idea a long moment. “That’s clever. It might be fun to try to find a Denzel. Or a Meryl.” In that moment, watching his face, he didn’t even seem to be the man she’d come to know. It was as if learning he was Roy made him look completely different to her.

“Or how about the most popular birth name by year? Find the most popular boy and girl baby names of that year and kill a pair born in that year with those names.” She paused. “I could take this a lot of different directions. But knowing I’d have you to brainstorm with? That would be invaluable.”

Karlyn watched his eyes go glassy for a moment. He struggled to focus. He raised his brows and rotated his head around.

“I’m thinking about calling it
Illusions of Death
,” she said. “You know, something that seems real—but isn’t. A killer who portrays himself one way to the world. When he’s actually totally different inside.”

He looked at her funny, his head cocked to one side. Then she saw the dawning realization on his face.

“You know.” His words slurred slightly. He closed his eyes and swallowed, sitting, not moving. Finally, he opened them. “You’re right. The face we show to the world . . . is different from who we really are. The nice nurse you sit next to in church? She’s a drunk. That fireman . . .” His voice trailed off, and he stared out into space, his eyes unfocused.

He shook his head back and forth, trying to stay alert. “Was always good . . . guy. Take extra shift. But beat . . . wife. All the time.”

He reached up and slapped himself hard, trying to stay lucid. “Seth Berger? Demons . . . run deep. Hides with . . . drugs.” He gave her a sloppy grin. “I’m his . . . dealer.”

He reached out and latched onto her wrist, showing unexpected strength. Her other hand tightened on the cane. She readied herself to swing it at his head.

Suddenly, the front door burst open. The alarm screamed. Logan appeared in the foyer, his gun drawn. He raced to her and pried Brad’s fingers from her wrist, shoving him away. “Don’t touch her,” he snarled.

Brad fell to the floor. He grunted.

A dreamy look clouded his eyes. “So smart. You . . . know. You . . . I . . . drank. Huh. I’m . . . Roy.” He giggled. “Also. Cars—” His head dropped to the side. Whatever he’d put in her tea had taken full effect. Switching their mugs had been the right move.

She shivered uncontrollably as Logan rolled him over and cuffed him. He pushed aside the jacket and pulled out the gun and pocketed it.

Then he came to her. Wrapped her in his arms. Safe. Safe. She was safe. She’d always be safe with him. The man she loved.

“Did he hurt you?”

Her knees went weak at the sound of his voice, husky next to her ear. Her fiancé’s voice. In a week, her husband’s voice. A wave of pure love washed through her, comforting her. The tremors stopped.

“Logan.” Raw emotion left her speechless. But no words were necessary between them.

His mouth came down on hers. In hunger. In possession.

But most of all, in love.