Killing Kate: A Novel (Riley Spartz Book 4) (31 page)

“Doubtful,” I answered. “But I told them if they give our video to any other media, there’ll be another homicide to investigate.”

“So we need to wait.” As I nodded in agreement, she changed the subject from death to dogs.

“The puppy thing isn’t working out, Riley.”

“What do you mean?”

“I think it’s time for Max to go home.”

“He doesn’t have a home, Noreen. I was hoping you’d decide to keep him.”

She shook her head, claiming to have dogs aplenty. “You’ll have to drive him back to your parents’ farm.” She held out a spare house key and told me I should pick him up now and take tomorrow off.

This show of consideration was quite unlike my boss.

Then I realized what must have happened. “Garnett called you, didn’t he?”

Her face gave it all away. “If you don’t head down there, he’s going to call them and tell them you’re in danger. What do you think will happen then?”

No good. My parents would show up in downtown Minneapolis to protect me. They would take turns standing watch while I slept. My dad might even bring along the old shotgun he used to hunt pheasants.

I agreed to leave town for a day until things settled down. After all, it wasn’t like I could count on my guardian angel.

I texted Garnett. OFF TO FARM. YOU WIN.

After twenty minutes of sniffing the interior of my car, Max curled up in a ball of fur and fell asleep in the backseat. I hit cruise control and played with the radio reception as we got farther from the Twin Cities.

I hadn’t called my parents about my visit. I decided to surprise them. Otherwise they might ask too many questions. Max would be my excuse.

Halfway to the Black Angel, Dolezal had to rely on memory to locate the Spartz family farm because he didn’t want to ask directions. He took a few wrong turns, but luckily their name was posted on the mailbox.

He didn’t pull into the yard because he didn’t want them to know they had company . . . yet. Instead, he found a private dirt road that ran through the land and connected to the main road via a pasture. He hid his car between a grove of trees and field of corn, then made his way on foot toward the homestead. He listened for the sound of a dog, but heard nothing.

A barn loft, decorated with a wooden quilt painting, offered good sight lines around the property. So he hid inside, moving straw bails to an open window to watch for signs of activity amid the silos, sheds, and grain bins. He heard some pigeons in the rafters, and was starting to think this farm might be a good place to temporarily hide out.

After he finished.

Just as the sky was turning dark, large yard lights came on that cast mysterious shadows. He would wait several hours, maybe even nap first. He was in no hurry.

Then he heard voices. Two figures left the house, slowly making their way toward an outbuilding. A garage, he realized as they drove away in a pickup truck.

They would be back. And they had left the garage door open. He wondered about the house. Sometimes people in the country didn’t lock their doors. He contemplated exploring, but decided to wait.

About ten minutes later, as his eyelids felt comfortably shut, a vehicle turned back into the yard. He shook himself alert, but instead of the truck, a sedan stopped near their front door. A woman climbed out and a small, barking dog followed.

It was Riley Spartz.

The Black Angel must have sent her. A sign. He put on plastic gloves.

Mom and Dad weren’t home. No church service tonight, so they’d probably headed to town for a supper of tacos or fried chicken at the American Legion. I must have just missed them on the road.

Had it still been daylight, I’d have taken Ed’s gun out behind the barn to practice. The yard lights shone deep enough for some visibility, but not enough for shooting.

Max wanted to explore and do his dog business, so I tailed
behind him as he nosed along the ground. He seemed to be following some kind of trail toward the barn. Likely a raccoon or possum. Because my parents were retired, they rented out the farm fields and had no livestock.

The puppy barked, running faster.

“I’m coming, Max.”

The dog smelled him. Another sign. Dolezal believed in signs. The puppy would make her suspicious in a matter of minutes. And he realized it would be best to move now, before the truck returned and two more sets of eyes arrived.

The pup looked up and began growling at Dolezal’s window, ten feet above the ground.

“Did you find him? Did you, Max? Go get him.” The reporter stood just below his hideout, humoring the pooch.

Then she turned toward the house, whistling for him. “Come along, boy.”

Dolezal jumped, knocking her to the ground. He could have kept tightening his grip, thus ending the mission there. But the Black Angel wouldn’t have approved. She preferred blood to bruises. And he had promised her a visit from them both.

T
his death endeavor was his riskiest. But it stood to be the most rewarding. Karl Dolezal kept his eyes on the road and his mind on his cargo.

Whether the reporter was awake or not would make no difference for hours. Until he opened the trunk, she was his. Once they arrived, she would belong to the Black Angel.

A sacrifice at her feet would make him historic.

He thought Riley Spartz’s car more likely to be reported stolen than his grandmother’s. So he loaded the reporter, unconscious, into her backseat and drove down the private farm road to switch vehicles.

The puppy raced after them, barking, but couldn’t keep up.

Pawing through her purse while he drove, Dolezal discovered the gun. A loaded revolver. Nice. He put the firearm in the glove compartment to examine later. In her wallet, he found two twenties, and pocketed the cash.

He threw her purse and cell phone out the car window into a ditch and continued driving south.

T
he last thing I remembered was barking. So much for my presumption of seeing life two seconds faster than everyone else.

Until I recognized road noise, I didn’t even realize I was trapped inside a car trunk. Not a crack of light shone through the night. My neck ached, my ankle hurt, and coarse twine fastened my hands behind my back.

A blanket seemed wrapped around my body. I shifted my legs and rocked back and forth to loosen the cover. I tried locating something with a sharp edge, like a tire iron. But any tools must have been stored in the space under the floor mat along with the spare. I was probably lying on top of prime gizmos, but didn’t have enough room or dexterity to pry the compartment open.

My purse and cell phone were missing. No Saint Saturday-Night Special.

The vehicle was moving fast; no point in kicking against the sides or yelling for help. That would only tell my captor I was alert. Best he think me dazed and helpless.

Our speed increased. Most likely we were traveling on a freeway. No idea what direction, or how far, but I decided to stay quiet until the car stopped.

I had no doubt Karl Dolezal was behind the wheel. I wondered
why he hadn’t just beaten me to death instead of slamming the trunk shut. Clearly he wanted to take me somewhere. But why not simply kill me first? He could draw an angel around my body any time.

He might be using the blanket to avoid traces of my DNA in his vehicle. That made me determined to leave something of myself behind in case searchers found the car and needed proof it had carried me to my death. While that strategy might not save my life, it could doom his.

I scratched my wrist until I felt wetness. Blood, I hoped. Sticky. Pushing the blanket aside, I rubbed my arm against the carpet. Then I spit on the floor of the trunk. Again and again. Until I felt thirsty.

To take my mind off lying in my own saliva and blood, I started tearing off my fingernails and shoving them in corners of the trunk to be discovered during a forensics search. I knocked against an edge of metal along the back. It wasn’t razor-sharp, but felt honed enough that it might cut through my binding.

Rolling on my side, I held my wrists up against it and rubbed back and forth. My position was awkward, and I had to pause to rest, but already I could feel the fastening loosen.

I had no idea how much time had passed. The tire hum was making me drowsy. I tried to stay awake by sawing through my ties and thinking of Nick. Briefly, I fingered my engagement ring.

And because I could think of no one else to turn to, I prayed to my guardian angel.
“Ever this day be at my side, to light and guard, to rule and guide.”

H
is gas gauge was low.

Dolezal would have rather waited to fill up the tank after his mission, but didn’t think he’d make it to their destination. He pulled into a service station and parked at the pump farthest from the cash register. Then he remembered not to use credit cards because his movements could be tracked. Dolezal also couldn’t risk playing pump pirate and driving off without paying because gas stations always videotape license plates.

He had plenty of cash, thus the bill was no problem. Riley Spartz didn’t seem to be awake, so he decided it was safe to leave her for a few minutes. His disappointment would be to open the car trunk and find her dead.

Dolezal walked inside the convenience store, and handed two twenties to the clerk. The young woman took the money, fingered the bills and then looked at him without making eye contact.

He didn’t like that look. But he also didn’t want to be remembered, so he took his receipt and left without saying much beyond “thanks.” Glancing back from the car, the clerk seemed to be holding money up to the light. And that made him nervous.

He made sure he drove off slowly. But a couple miles later, flashing lights came up behind him. The officer gave a short burst of siren, indicating he should pull over.

Dolezal wasn’t speeding. He thought about hitting the accelerator but didn’t have much hope that Nanna’s old Taurus could outrun the cop’s Ford Crown Vic in a chase. He hoped he was being stopped because small-town cops like ticketing out-of-state drivers instead of their neighbors.

He pulled over, and the officer parked behind him on the side of the road. The cop sat in his squad for a minute, probably checking Dolezal’s plates to make sure the vehicle wasn’t stolen.

Dolezal opened the glove compartment and went for the gun. If the officer asked him to step outside the vehicle, he would fire. He watched in his mirror as the uniform approached, carrying a flashlight which he shined in Dolezal’s face.

“Driver’s license, please.”

“Excuse me, Officer, I do not believe I was exceeding the speed limit.”

“You weren’t. Now may I see your license?”

He handed over the plastic, confident it would pass muster—both visually and through any computer crime check. Dolezal had made sure the identity he’d lifted came from a client with a clean criminal record.

“What probable cause do you have to pull me over?” He thought a little lawyer jargon might speed things up.

“Counterfeiting,” the officer said.

Dolezal couldn’t believe the accusation. “What?”

“You paid for that gas with two counterfeit bills.”

“This is some misunderstanding,” Dolezal said. “If they were fake, I had no idea.” Then he realized the twenties were the money he took from Riley Spartz’s wallet. Damn her.

“Wait here for a moment.” The cop headed back to his squad car to run the driver’s license.

Dolezal still thought he might slip out of this mix-up by offering to pay for the gas. Until he heard a woman screaming for help.

Riley Spartz was awake.

•    •    •

The car had slowed, then halted. Smelling gas, I realized we must be filling up at a pump. I was tempted to call out then, but knew I would only get one chance. I had to be sure a rescuer was within earshot. I heard nothing, so I stayed quiet.

A few minutes later, we started moving again and I knew my opportunity was lost. I resumed trying to cut through my binds. I felt some give and knew I was close.

Then I heard an unusual noise, and we stopped again. The sound might have been a siren blast. I listened carefully and thought I heard footsteps. Then voices. Definitely more than one. That’s when I knew the time had come to scream for my life.

Dolezal could see that the patrol officer was not prepared for the scream. While the cop glanced around, fumbling for his weapon, Dolezal stuck his head and arm out the car window and fired.

The cop fell down, injured but not dead.

Then Dolezal, in his Angel of Death mode, tossed the gun on the passenger seat, started the engine, and floored reverse, backing over the officer.

Dolezal climbed out of the car to retrieve his driver’s license. The officer still seemed to be breathing, but was in no position to call for assistance. He had apparently dropped the driver’s license. His assailant spread his hands across the cold ground, crawling on his knees, searching for the lost plastic or at least the flashlight.

He knew he didn’t have much time. Another officer would soon be dispatched to check on this one. And his vehicle license plate had already been radioed to police headquarters. But nobody knew his final destination. He would take back roads to Iowa City.

And then he found the license, and got back on his feet.

The reporter was still shrieking; he banged his fist on the trunk to silence her.

W
hen Dolezal reached the Iowa City town limits, he was ready to execute his plan. And the TV reporter, Riley Spartz, would be the only victim he slew in the open. With the others, he’d always taken care to act behind fences or walls.

The time was just after midnight, so he wasn’t worried about witnesses. He knew he was trespassing, but he especially enjoyed driving through the cemetery in the dark.

He parked next to his dear Black Angel, shutting off the engine and lights before meditating a moment. Then he reached for the candle stick because he appreciated the personal contact and wanted to get used to the grip.