Killer Instinct (14 page)

Chapter
Thirty-One

MOM COMES HOME ON SATURDAY
and basically goes right to bed. Sunday we have a family day at our house with movies, grilled burgers, and cards. Neither Victor nor I mention our conversation to Mom. At this point I don’t want to bring anything else up. It will all be smothered in half truths anyway.

By Monday Victor is back at work, Mom’s still recuperating at home, and I’m at school.

Zach comes up to me after the last period. “Hey, you.”

My insides flutter a little at his unexpected appearance. My reaction surprises me.

“Heard your mom came home.”

“Yes.”

“I’m happy.”

“Thanks.”

We both stand there for a second just looking at each other. I’m not really sure if he’s waiting for me to say something else or not.

“Belinda’s in rehab.” He breaks the silence.

It takes me a second to digest the switch of topic. “Okay.”

“I’ve been visiting her.”

Of course he has. It’s exactly what she wants. It’s exactly the type of person he is. And one of the reasons why I like him.

“Anyway”—he glances around the hall—“that’s all, I guess.”

I close my locker and spin the dial. “Later, then.”

I walk off, and even though I don’t look back, I have the distinct sensation he’s watching me. Just the thought of it makes my insides flutter again.

Our FBI watchdog follows us home. Daisy jumps on Facebook, Justin starts his homework, and, while I make a snack, I flip on the news.

“He’s bold. I’ll give him that much,” one reporter comments. “Leaving the leg right in front of the FBI headquarters.”

I freeze in my snack-making and stare at the television. They flash pictures of FBI headquarters and investigators milling about, and from far away some news crew has managed to snap a few photos of the shrink-wrapped leg.

“What happens if they don’t catch that bad man?” Justin asks.

I grab the remote and flip the channel. I don’t want Justin seeing this.

“What will happen?” Justin repeats.

He’ll kill again. Next September. God knows where. “The FBI’s going to catch him,” I assure my brother, even though I highly doubt it.

The Decapitator will be delivering the hands and feet in a cooler soon, and that’ll be the end of it.

Maybe he’ll contact me next year when he starts up again. Or maybe he won’t. Maybe this is my one and only chance to figure this puzzle out.

The office door opens and Mom storms out.

“I thought you were up in bed,” I say. “I was just about to bring you a snack.”

She slowly heads straight up the stairs. “Your dad’s in charge of the case now.”

Justin shoots me a look like he, too, has picked up on Mom’s mood. I shake my head at him, and he nods his silent understanding.

This is the great thing about my brother. He’s one of those go-with-the-flow kids. Now, if I had done that to Daisy, she would’ve flipped me off or given me choice words or any other million infuriating things.

I go find Mom. She’s sitting in their window seat, staring out at the yard.

Quietly I take a seat beside her. “Are you saying you’re not the director anymore?”

“No, I’m still the department’s director. I still have other work, but I’m just not the lead on the Decapitator case.”

“Does this have to do with the leg?”

She turns away from the window. “This has everything to do with the leg. And the fact I went to Four Buchold Place alone. And the fact your uncle is now the prime suspect.”

The Decapitator basically flaunted his freedom right at FBI headquarters. I get it. “He’s made your whole team look inadequate.”

“Fresh eyes, fresh leadership is good,” she diplomatically points out.

“Actually, I never knew you and Victor were working the same case.”

“We weren’t. But he’s got a history with it, so he was a natural pick to step in.”

“Is this going to cause problems between you two?”

“Of course not.” Mom nods to her door. “Give me some time, please.”

“Sure.” As I leave, I hear her throw something across the bedroom. She’s definitely pissed.

• • •

That night Victor’s not even at dinner, and Mom barely speaks.

As I’m looking through my homework, I get a text from a number I don’t recognize.
MAYBE YOUR STEPDAD WILL HAVE BETTER LUCK.

I don’t bother responding and instead work on my assignment.

About thirty minutes later, he’s texting me again.
I GET IT. I’M ANNOYING U. GOOD.

I turn my phone off. He’s right. He’s annoying me.

I go to bed early, and as I’m drifting off to sleep, I register Victor coming in and giving me a kiss good night. He smells like alcohol, and in that sleep/dream haze I mumble, “Sure you should be drinking?”

“Just a glass of wine,” he whispers and touches the tip of my nose with his index finger. It’s been so long since he’s done that. Like years, I think.

I wonder if he
will
have better luck than my mom.

• • •

The next morning in first period Reggie texts me.
YOUR OLD PRESCHOOL TEACHER & SETH WERE DATING.

And the FBI didn’t know this? Surely they knew something that huge.

But . . . that explains why she was at 4 Buchold Place. It doesn’t explain how she became the first victim.

At lunch the assistant principal finds me in the cafeteria. “Lane, your mom called. She wants you to come home right now.”

I stand up. “What about Daisy?”

“She said just you.”

I throw my half-eaten burrito away, get my stuff from my locker, and, as I drive home, try to call Mom. She doesn’t pick up. Panic has me immediately dialing back. It goes straight to voice mail, and I gun my engine. My brain’s going about a million worried miles an hour when I race into our house. “Mom?”

I go to the office first, find it empty, and head straight upstairs.

She’s sitting at my desk, my laptop on, my room turned upside down around her.

“Sit down,” she orders, not even glancing up.

She pulls up the password-protected nanny-cam footage first. Then all the password-protected files and the text message log. Beside my laptop sit the small white no-return-address envelopes I’ve hidden under my mattress.

Mom finally looks at me. “I knew you were hiding something from me.”

She’s one to talk.

“How’d you figure out my passwords?”

She shoots me a glance like that’s the most ridiculous question I could’ve asked. There’s something to be said for having FBI parents. Pretty much nothing can be kept a secret.

She motions to the laptop, to the envelopes. “He’s been contacting you?”

“Obviously.”

She narrows her eyes in warning. “Explain yourself, young lady.”

“I don’t know why he’s been contacting me, but I’ve been playing things out.”

“
Playing things out?
This isn’t a game.”

“I know that.”

“You nanny-cammed my office?”

“I was desperate. Reggie wasn’t willing to hack your computer.”

Mom just looks at me. “I don’t know who you are, but I can’t trust you.”

I pull up the picture of me at three years old holding my teacher’s bloody hand. “And I can’t trust you. What else are you keeping from me?”

Mom shakes her head. “I can’t believe it’s turned into this between you and me.”

I’m not sorry. She’s just as guilty as I am. I point to the picture. “You knew what happened to me at Four Buchold and you didn’t tell me. You watched me have that horrible flashback and acted all innocent like you had no clue.
I
don’t know who
you
are.” I’m glad to throw that back in her face.

“You were there the night I got stabbed,” she accuses me. “That was you, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“And you left me there.”

It wasn’t like that.

She huffs. “What, were you afraid the
Masked Savior
was going to get busted?”

I don’t bother denying my other identity.

“Do you have any idea
how
dangerous
this secret life of yours is?”

“I’m careful.”

“You’re just a teenage girl!”

“What? Are you saying you’re worried for me?”

“Of course I’m worried!”

Yeah, but she didn’t actually say it until I prompted her. “You seem more angry.”

“Yes, angry!” She holds up a flash drive. “I’ll be turning these files, the text communication, and the envelopes over to the FBI. I will not be giving them the nanny-cam footage or the fact that you wear a ski mask and fight crime.” She stands up. “You and I will deal with that later when I’ve calmed down.”

“Well, I’m angry too!” I fire back.

At my doorway she turns and glares at me. “I want you to think about this. If you had handed this information over as you got it, we would’ve caught this horrible killer by now. Do you realize how many hours have gone into looking for your uncle?” She holds up the last communication I got from him and reads, “‘I know who the FBI thinks I am and they’re wrong.’ According to that statement it may not even be him. But because of you and your sick curiosity, another person is probably going to die.”

Her words send prickly chills racing across my neck.

“
And
I am making an appointment for you with a psychiatrist. There is something not right with you and, frankly, it scares me.”

Chapter
Thirty-Two

OVER THE NEXT FEW DAYS
I barely see Victor, and my mom only speaks to me when absolutely necessary.

Her underlying hostility and extreme disappointment unnerve me.

Because of you and your sick curiosity, another person is probably going to die.

Is that what I have—sick curiosity? It doesn’t seem sick and unnatural. It’s such a part of me I can’t imagine it not being there. Between my abusive grandfather, my real father who killed him, and my uncle the possible Decapitator, darkness
is
my heritage. If I had expected to receive understanding from anybody, it would have been my mother.

Now I know that’s not the case. She thinks I’m unbalanced right along with everyone else, if they knew my innermost thoughts.

Aside from all that, I craved to get out, to hunt somebody. I itched for it. I longed for it. I wanted, no
needed
, to bring someone down and have adrenaline swelling my veins again.

On Thursday night I purposefully stay up until Victor comes home. He’s yet to say a word to me since Mom ransacked my bedroom.

Having one parent pissed at me is one thing, but two? Too much. I formed a life around not caring what others think. The truth is, my parents’ opinions of me matter, even if they both agree I’m sick.

Victor tosses his keys onto the hallway table and raises his red, tired eyes to mine. “Hey, what are you still doing up?”

“Waiting on you.”

“Oh?”

“Are we . . . Are we okay?”

He scrunches his brows. “What are you talking about?”

I let a significant amount of time pass as I wait for him to realize what I’m referring to.

Finally he shakes his head. “Lane, baby, I’m so tired. Can we do this in the morning?”

“Sure.”

With a nod and a stifled yawn, he shuffles upstairs. I watch him go, completely puzzled. For all intents and purposes, he seems as if he doesn’t even know what Mom found in my room. She said she would be handing everything over to the FBI. Maybe she changed her mind. Or perhaps she did hand everything over, and Victor just isn’t ready to deal with me personally on the issue. And if she did hand everything over, surely someone official will be questioning me. Unless the FBI is leaving that up to my Mom and stepdad to handle.

• • •

The next morning in first-period library I pull up my e-mail. In my inbox are several from Belinda. I consider deleting them unopened, then notice they have pictures attached.

Curiosity wins out and I click on the first one. It’s a picture of her and Zach, grinning with their cheeks smooshed together.

The second one shows them kissing, tongues and all.

The third one shows them having sex, her on top.

The fourth one shows her giving him a hand job.

I don’t bother opening the others. I can only imagine.

The last e-mail has no attachment and so I bring it up. It says simply:
Glad to have him back and
inside
me.

What a disgusting girl.

I do something out of character and forward them all to Zach with my message:
Thought you’d like to see what your
ex
is passing along.

As I mentioned before, I don’t do drama. It’s not my thing. But I like Zach and, bottom line, Belinda’s not treating him right.

After school it doesn’t surprise me when he finds me in the parking lot. “Can we talk?”

I toss Daisy my keys, and she rolls her eyes.

“Hurry, would you?” she whines.

I turn to Zach, ignoring my idiotic sister. “What’s up?” I know what’s up, of course.

He leads me a few steps away and keeps his voice low. “Those pictures were taken over a year ago. I had no clue she had a camera set up in her room. We were both drunk, as I’ve mentioned we always were.”

I nod. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“You don’t have to explain.” Really, what does he want me to say?

He shakes his head. “I’m totally embarrassed that you saw those. I’m mortified. It’s just like her to do that too. I hope you know I didn’t have any cameras when we . . . ya know.”

“Had sex?” Why do people find that act a challenge to admit or say in everyday conversation? Especially between two people who have participated in said act.

“God, Lane, yeah, had sex.” Zach looks around.

“And yet you’re visiting her in rehab,” I point out.

“She’s not in rehab anymore. She gave up.”

Figures.

“Despite what you think—”

“I don’t think anything,” I interrupt.

“Despite what you think, I didn’t get back together with her. I was just trying to be a good friend. You have no idea how hard it is to go through rehab.”

“You’re right, I don’t.” I glance back at the Jeep to see Daisy impatiently waving me on.

“I’m sorry you got hurt in all this,” he quietly says.

“I didn’t get hurt.”

“Yes,” he knowingly acknowledges, “you did.”

No, I didn’t.

He rakes his fingers through his dark hair, which, I notice, is starting to curl a bit. “See ya around, Lane.” With that he turns and heads off across student parking.

I watch him go. Okay, he’s right. I did get hurt—a little. I lost a friend I’d barely gotten to know. I lost a guy I realized I was starting to genuinely like.

Daisy honks the horn, and I resist the urge to flip her off. I climb in and drive off, glad she’s got the music cranked. I don’t feel like listening to her bullshit.

• • •

That night after dinner I get an encrypted e-mail from an unknown sender. I click around, try to figure out how to open it, and come up with nothing. About thirty minutes later my cell buzzes from a number I don’t recognize.
pw: jg41ost.
I go back to the encrypted message, type in the password, and up pops a video.

It’s dark and I lean in to make it out. A light flicks on and I see a blond woman, gagged, naked, and strapped to a table. There is no sound, and I watch as she stares off to the right, shaking, yanking against her holds.

A person steps into view, but his image has been doctored and is blurred. He pulls out a long knife, more like a sword, and its edge glints in the light.

I ignore him for a second and zero in on the woman’s face. She’s the latest Decapitator’s victim. This is an old video. He’s sent me the kill room.

With the graininess of the film, I can’t place the room, but I’m sure it’s not 4 Buchold Place. However, something about it
does
seem familiar. . . .

I turn my attention back to him. He circles the table to the top and braces his hand on her forehead. While she violently thrashes, he puts the knife to her neck and with long—slow—thorough—slices—takes her head right off.

It plunks to the floor, and I inhale sharply.

He moves to her hands next, taking them both off with a single chop, and then does the same to her feet.

He lays the knife on her torso and disappears from view. While he’s out of view, I study the blood pumping from her body. There’s so much. And it’s creating a pool beneath the table.

Seconds later he comes back with a small white cooler and packs her hands and feet on ice. This is the same cooler he’ll be sending to the police, I’m sure. I watch his every movement. Something seems different about him. He seems heavier than before and a bit taller. I try to back the video up, but it won’t allow me to. Perhaps the camera has moved a bit and distorted his image even more. Perhaps
he’s
distorted his image even more in an attempt to throw me further off.

I put that thought aside and watch as he slices her right arm off, then her left, but both arms stay strapped to the table.

He takes her legs off at the hip with the same slow, thorough slices he used on her head. Like the arms, the legs stay strapped to the table.

While he methodically cleans and resharpens the knife, I focus on the cut lines and the blood continuing to drain from the woman’s body.

It’s all very organized and methodical. And despite the amount of blood, it comes across as clean.

He pulls out a hose and begins washing everything down. Where is it going—a drain of some sort? It has to be, because the previously pooled blood and accumulating water disappear as he rinses.

Eventually he’ll wrap the pieces in airtight plastic for preservation. I stare at the screen, waiting to see how he goes about this.

Then suddenly everything goes black. I lean in.

Yellow type appears on the screen:

IF YOU WATCHED THIS

AND FELT ONLY FASCINATION . . .

IF YOU WANTED MORE . . .

THEN YOU’RE READY.

P.S. I HAVE A PRESENT FOR YOU.

The video goes away and I feverishly click, trying to bring it back up, but it won’t relaunch.

The video is all I can think about the rest of the weekend. I
had
watched it with complete fascination, emotionally detached, almost from an impartial medical viewpoint.

I did experience distress for the woman—a person who has been dead now several weeks. Perhaps if I’d known the individual on that table I would’ve felt different.

Then you’re ready
, the yellow type had said. Ready for what—to be a killer?

P.S. I have a present for you.
Another video, pictures, more mail? And when will this present come—today, tomorrow, a week from now?

Because of you and your sick curiosity, another person is probably going to die.

My mom’s words echo through my brain. She’s right. I am sick. Because I
am
interested to see what my present is. Only a sick person would be interested in a present from a serial killer. I realize that. But I
am
full of nothing but disdain for this man, present or not. He’s twisted and malicious and deserves nothing less than death.

I’ll give Mom the video link tonight, even though it probably won’t launch again, and let her pass it along to the FBI team.

“What’s wrong with you?” Daisy scowls from the passenger side of my Jeep. “You’re even more quiet than usual.”

I shake my head—“Just thinking”—and round the corner onto our campus.

Police cars have swarmed the place, and we’re being directed to continue on.

Daisy sits forward. “What the—?”

Several blocks down we see students’ cars parked alongside the road, and we pull over.

Daisy jumps out. “Gunman? Bomb? What is it?”

Crying, one of her cheerleading friends hugs her. “There was a cooler with hands and feet in it.”

So the Decapitator decided to deliver the hands and feet to my school. Some present.

Daisy starts crying too.

My cell buzzes. There’s a picture attached, and I pull it up to see the cooler propped open, with a pair of hands on display and red-painted toenails on both feet.

LIKE YOUR PRESENT?