Killer Within (8 page)

Chapter
Eighteen

I ASSURED DAISY SHE WAS
probably misremembering, and she reluctantly dropped the whole thing. Marji. The woman from Richmond. When we got that card in the mail, Victor said he didn’t know a Marji. Either he’s lying or he didn’t remember.

Whichever it is, I’m going to find out. Mom did nothing but lie to me. I’m not going to get caught up in that with Victor. When the time is right, I’ll ask him.

I put that aside for now and focus on the mystery key. I scan it and spend an hour researching what it might go to. But I get nothing. Then I do some searches combining Marji’s name and my mom’s and then Marji and Richmond. But likely Marji’s short for something, and I don’t know her last name, so
I basically get nowhere on that as well. Also I type
blue BMW
with partial plate A1B, and nothing comes back. Not that I thought it would. Maybe I should go into law enforcement, or computers, like Reggie. It’d sure make things easier on my end.

As I go to sleep, my thoughts switch to this “big break” the news reported, and I wonder if Catalina’s task-force father has shared this information with Victor. Then I begin to think of Catalina and how I might be able to use her to my advantage.

The next morning I go downstairs to see Victor frying bacon, slow and on low heat like Mom used to do. His expression seems distant, and I imagine he’s remembering her too.

“You don’t have to do that just because Mom did,” I softly tell him.

He glances up, and although he’s masking it, I see the sorrow deep in his eyes. “It’s important to keep ritual going.”

No, it’s not,
I want to say, but nod my head. I double-check the living room to make sure we’re alone and then tell him about Daisy’s memory and more importantly Marji. “We got a condolence card from a Marji.” I’m careful not to accuse him of lying. “Could they be one and the same?”

He doesn’t look at me and instead just stares at the bacon, and I get the impression he’s trying to figure out how much to tell me. “Yes. I’m sorry I wasn’t honest with the facts. She’s a longtime friend of your mom’s. I . . .” He glances over at me.
“Let’s just put it this way. I respected your mom’s relationship with her because they were childhood friends. But I didn’t care for her. I didn’t want her around the house or you kids.”

Whoa. Okay.

“Let’s just leave it there,” he tells me. “All right?”

I nod, he goes back to the bacon, and my brain whirls with what he just said. Mom had a childhood friend, Marji, who lives in Richmond, and Victor didn’t like her. I want to ask him why but know he won’t say any more.

“Mind helping?” he asks. “Mix the pancake batter for me?”

“Sure.” I go about getting out the bowl, ingredients, and whisk, and my brain tracks back to those two pictures he gave me. One had a dark-haired woman in it. I bet that’s Marji. But if he didn’t like her, why give me that picture? I know he wants to drop the subject, but I ask anyway.

He lets out a patient breath. “Yes, the third person is Marji. I wanted you to have pictures of your real father and mom. That’s all. I honestly didn’t think the subject of Marji would ever come up in this household. Other than that condolence card, we haven’t heard from her in years.”

“Okay.” I accept it and drop the subject. I can tell he’s getting irritated. He would get even more irritated if he found out Marji sent me a card as well.

A few quiet minutes go by filled only by the sizzling of bacon and the soft voices of the news filtering in from the
living room. I scoot in beside Victor, pour pancake mix on the flat griddle, and watch it slowly bubble. He slides the cooked bacon out and lays new pieces down.

“Your army friend with the daughter,” I start. “Catalina?”

“Yeah?”

“Where does she go to school?”

“Homeschooled. Why?”

I’d preplanned my response and answer easily, “She and I hit it off a little, and I thought I might see if she wants to hang out.”

And I thought I might use her for information.

This surprises Victor in a hooray-my-daughter’s-normal way. “Wow, um, okay.”

I hate that I’ve made him happy with a lie.

“I’ll give you their number, and you can take things from there.”

“Thanks.” That’s all we say about Catalina and my upcoming planned snooping of her dad.

After breakfast I dial her number. “This is Lane, we met the other day.”

“Yeah, hey,” she responds, as if she’d been expecting my call.

I find this oddly comforting. “Thought we might hang out sometime.” I like to get right to the point.

“Okay. My place or yours?”

Sounds more like a proposition. “Yours.”

“Today?”

I like this girl. “Yes.”

“One o’clock. My address is . . .”

I jot it down, say bye, and sit for a second puzzling her. Seems as if she likes to get right to the point as well.

At one I ring her doorbell.

She swings the door open. “So,” she says and plants her hand on her hip, “what’s your story?”

I look at her skinny jeans, tight tee, and Pumas and almost laugh. I’m skinny. She’s skinny. I’m tall. She’s tall. I have red hair. She has curly black hair. I’m fair. She’s olive.

She’s like the dark mirror image of me.

I glance past her into the house—it appears empty—and then I bring my gaze back to hers. “My story?” I ask.

“No one’s home.” She answers my look. “You’re either here (a) for my hot older brother, (b) to see what it’s like to be with a lesbian, or (c) you want my dad to get you out of a ticket. So which is it?”

This girl’s going to see right through my bullshit, and so I proceed. “One, the hot older brother is more my sister’s thing; two, I’m not a lesbian but that’s cool if you are; and three, I don’t have any tickets.
But
I am here because of your dad.”

This causes her dark brows to lift. “What can my detective father do for you?”

I improvise on the spot. “He’s on the Masked Savior local task force. I registered on the site. Then I took my registration down. Basically, I want to make sure my ass isn’t going to get busted.
And
I heard there’s a ‘big break’ in the case and, frankly, I’m probing what that is.”

Catalina’s mouth curves into a huge grin. “Lane, my tall, skinny new friend, we’re going to be good pals.” She motions me inside her house. “You’ve just met the moderator of Masked Savior dot com.”

My heart skips an excited beat. Well, holy damn, this chick may very well know the true identity of j_d_l.

“Although I don’t know what that ‘big break’ is,” she continues, “I’m more than willing to snoop and find out.”

I’m more than willing to help her snoop. Catalina, my curious new alliance.

“So what do you think of the site?” she asks.

I shrug. “Some people seem kind of stupid. Others seem like they’re really into the vigilante thing.”

She rolls her eyes. “Did you see that one guy that posted a brownie recipe?”

No, I didn’t, but I fake a laugh as I follow her up to her room. “I know. How stupid. Since you’re the moderator, you probably have everyone’s real names.”
Like j_d_l.
“You should make that brownie recipe and send it to the guy,” I stupidly joke.

She laughs but doesn’t confirm one way or another if she
has the real identities of people. I don’t press it any further. I’ll differ my tactic next time I’m with her.

She walks down a wood-planked hall and through an open door into her bedroom. I give it a quick glance. Purple walls. Black comforter. Silver metal desk. Messy. Disorganized. Not my kind of room.

Catalina plops down across her bed, leaving me to decide where to sit. I grab a wad of clothes off her desk chair, lay them aside, and take a seat.

“What are your thoughts on this Aisha person? Do you think she’s the real Masked Savior or not?” she asks.

I shrug. “Well, another victim hasn’t popped up since she’s been in jail, so despite what the task force says, she may very well be.”

Excitement glints across her eyes. “I thought the same thing. But then that guy got beat up on the trail. . . . What was his name?”

Bucky.

She waves that question off. “You don’t think that’s connected somehow?”

“Nah, not really the style.”

She leans forward. “Know what I think? I think there’s more than one person involved with all this.”

“Really?”

She narrows her eyes. “Taser. Zip ties. Baseball bat. Turning
some people in to the cops, and others not. It’s almost like there’s the real vigilante, and then there’s someone else who
thinks
they are a vigilante.”

Catalina
is
a smart one.

She grins. “It’s all very mysterious.”

“Yes. It is.” Why didn’t I think to connect with Catalina sooner?

Chapter
Nineteen

THE NEXT NIGHT I PARK
myself in front of my laptop and scroll through “my” site. One username catches my attention, and I pause.

[KyleScienceGuy] Getting bored. When’s the next M.S. victim?

Kyle, as in the guy from school. Kyle, who I have known forever. He’s an active member on “my” site. I don’t like this at all.

I continue moving through the pages of posts but don’t see any more from j_d_l. Now that I know Catalina is the administrator, I study several of the usernames. None seem like her, though.

My phone rings and I check the display. Catalina. “Hey.”

“Hey,” she says. “I did some snooping. I don’t know exactly why, but the cops are positive Aisha has nothing to do with the
Masked Savior. They do, however, have solid evidence that the Masked Savior is . . .”

I take a breath and hold it.

“. . . a female. And young.”

My brain spins about a million miles out of control. “But
Aisha
is female and young.”

“I know, but for whatever reason they know for sure she’s not involved. You ready for the best part?”

A tingle runs through my body. “I’m ready.”

“Remember how we were talking that we think there’s a real vigilante and then someone else who is copycatting?”

Copycatting
. She’s using my word. “Yes.”

“This is super secret. . . .”

“I won’t say anything,” I assure her.

“The cops think the same thing.
But
they’re not officially releasing that. That’s majorly under wraps.”

“So the cops think there are two, and they think female and young. Do they believe the real Savior and the copycat are
both
female and young?”

“No,” she says. “They think one is female and one is male.”

How would the cops know this? My copycat aside,
I’m
always so careful. The way I dress is masculine. When I speak I disguise my voice. My movements are certainly not feminine.

Unless the people I’ve targeted or the evidence I do leave
somehow points the investigators to female and young. Or maybe they think the real Masked Savior is male and the copycat is female.

“You said you were sort of on the fence about Aisha. What do you think now?” I ask.

“I’ve officially changed my mind. I think they’re right about her being innocent. I think the real Masked Savior is out there, and I think the copycat is live and active on the website.”

Me too. Hearing Catalina voice my thoughts validates my hypothesis. Either way, the cops really do have a big break. Proving I now more than ever need to stay low in my search for j_d_l, who I know followed me and who I now
highly
suspect is also my copycat.

“Oh, and I have a question,” she says. “I looked for your registration on the site but didn’t find it.”

“I registered under a fake name.” I also took it down.

She laughs. “Oh, Lane. I like you more and more each time we talk.”

Truth is, I feel the same way.

Kyle comes up to me the next day after school. “I heard you and Catalina know each other.”

“Yes. How do you know her?”

“I tutor her in physics.”

They know each other. They’ve talked about me. Kyle’s on “my” site. Catalina’s the site administrator. They’re both Masked Savior fans, and they both now think I am too.

“She mentioned you guys talked about the Masked Savior,” he says.

“We did.” How well do they know each other? Did she tell him about her snooping and the information she uncovered?

“So . . . you want to go get dinner or something later?” he asks.

I fight the overwhelming urge to hit him upside the head.
Really? Now we’re soul mates or something because we all have talked about the Savior?
But this isn’t polite conversation and so I reply instead, “Busy. Work. See ya later.”

He nods, all cool, even though he’s not. “See you later, then.”

I meet Daisy at my Jeep, and we head over to the elementary campus to pick up Justin. The kiss-and-ride line is longer than usual, and we take our spot to wait. Daisy gives her customary impatient breath and pulls out her phone to check messages.

True, most people hate waiting, but it’s never bothered me. I see waiting as an opportunity to think. To look around. To observe others when they don’t know someone’s watching.

Like the guy behind me picking his nose.

Or the woman across the street chewing gum.

“Look at that.” Daisy nods over to the right where a pack of elementary boys are coming down the sidewalk dressed as the Masked Savior.

Inwardly I sigh. Without meaning to, I really have developed a fan club. This all desperately needs to go away.

“I am so sick of this superhero thing,” Daisy says.

With this I totally agree. Frankly, I never understood the concept of Superman or Spiderman. Perhaps people have some need to hand their problems over to a larger-than-life character.

I, however, am not one of those people. I prefer to handle my own shit.

Justin finally emerges. He hops in the back and we head home.

Gramps has made us a snack, and while Justin and Daisy dig in, I head up to my room. Five minutes later Gramps knocks, and I glance up to see him hovering in my doorway.

I give him a fake smile. “Hi, Gramps.”

He doesn’t smile back. “Your stepdad says you’ve been gone a lot at night.”

Gramps always refers to his son as my stepdad when everyone else I know calls him Victor or my dad. “Yes.”

“Where do you go?”

“The coffee house to study.”

“Which coffee house?”

My inner alarm goes off. “Down the road.”

“Hmm.”

I decide not to say anything else and wait for whatever he wants.

“I don’t know what you do at night, but I don’t think you go study. You’ve got your stepdad fooled. I think you’re up to no good.”

I get really still. He didn’t follow me last night, did he? “Why do you think I’m up to no good?”

He doesn’t answer and instead looks around my room. “I’m a retired principal, and I raised five kids. I’m not stupid.”

No, I never said he was stupid. But he’s definitely annoying.

Gramps brings his eyes back to mine. “Why do you have journals about serial killers in your closet?”

Anger sparks in me. He’s seen my collection of news clippings, personal research, notes. “Why did you go in my closet?”

“Answer me.”

“Mom and Dad both work with serial killers. I started researching them too. What’s the big deal?”

“Does your stepdad know?”

Mom had accidentally found the box months ago. Her concern surrounding it is laughable now. “Mom knew and I’m pretty sure she told him.” Though I doubt she did. “I’ll show him tonight if you want me to.” There, maybe that’ll throw Gramps off. “I’m not hiding anything.”

Gramps rolls his eyes over to the closet. He doesn’t say anything else, just turns and is gone.

I swallow my suddenly dry throat and immediately get up. I grab my box from the top shelf of the closet, slide open my underwear drawer, and tuck it among all the cotton undies. It’s the only place I can think that somebody won’t go prying again.