Killing Spree (11 page)

Ethan pulled out the bottom trash bag. Nothing. The black, plastic bag was gone—and with it, the evidence of his sexual secret: that torn, half-burnt, dirty magazine.

Someone had taken it.

The sign on the front door of Rudy’s Golden Oldies Café in Billings, Montana, said
OPEN NITELY ’TIL
1
A.M.
! Penny, the waitress on closing shift, glanced at the Coke clock on the wall: 12:58. The last remaining customer, the guy at table six, didn’t look like he was going to budge. Penny had just poured his third coffee refill. He was in his thirties, and handsome in a slick, cocky way. At first, Penny had thought he was cute, but he’d been flirting with her for the last hour and a half, and she’d grown wary of him. From cute to creepy in ninety minutes. Penny had a feeling he was hanging around so he could make a move on her after closing. Or maybe he planned to follow her home.

That was one of the many drawbacks to working the late shift at Rudy’s Golden Oldies Café. The place was trying to pass itself off as a fifties diner with a jukebox and red vinyl upholstery for the booths and bar stools. But the posters of Marilyn Monroe, James Dean, and Elvis were cheesy artists’ renderings from the late eighties, and except for two Buddy Holly recordings, the jukebox featured such fifties favorites as Puff Daddy, Britney Spears, and Eminem. Located about halfway between Montana State University and I-90, Rudy’s was on a rather sketchy block—next to a vacant lot with patches of overgrown grass and trash scattered about. The clientele were mostly highway travelers and people from Deaconess Hospital nearby. Penny didn’t get many fellow students from the university in there.

She was a sophomore, and pretty with blue eyes and straight, shoulder-length black hair. She had a voluptuous figure that turned heads despite her ugly, orange polyester uniform. Penny was used to getting hit on at work. The only time it really bothered her was when the restaurant was ready to close and the aggressive customer wouldn’t leave—like Mr. Slick at table six right now. He still hadn’t pulled out his money to pay the check.

He grinned at Penny as she approached his table by the window. “Sorry, but we’re closing,” she said. “I need you to pay up.”

He reached for his wallet. “You mean it’s all over between us?”

She nodded. “Afraid so.”

“Well, it was fun while it lasted, eh, Penny?”

She just nodded again. Sometimes she hated having to wear the stupid name tag.

“You know what else might be kind of fun?” he continued. “What do you say you and I get together after you finish here? We could go someplace—”

“After I finish here,” Penny interrupted, “my boyfriend is coming to pick me up, and I have to study all night for a philosophy exam in the morning.” It was a total lie: she had neither a boyfriend nor a philosophy test. But the fabrication usually discouraged customers like Mr. Slick.

“Oh, that’s too bad.” He put his money on the table. “Because I thought you and I kind of had a connection here. I mean, it’s a shame we can’t explore the possibilities—”

“Yeah, it’s tragic,” Penny muttered, swiping up his money. “I’ll be back with your change.” She started toward the register counter.

“Huh, keep it,” she heard him grunt. “Put the extra dough toward an operation to remove that bug up your ass.”

He got to his feet, grabbed his coat—an ugly beige, rubbery-looking rain slicker—and stomped out of the diner.

A half hour later, Penny was putting on her own coat. The cook and the bus boy had already left. So it was just her and the old, near-deaf custodian, Fernando. Only a few lights were on—including a pink neon
FINE FOOD
sign in the window. Penny stepped out the door, and waved to Fernando, who locked up after her. She started toward her car, but suddenly stopped dead.

Huddled in his ugly beige raincoat, Mr. Slick leaned against the hood of his old Volkswagen, parked next to her own car. He’d been waiting out there for her all this time. His face was in the shadows, but she could tell he was staring at her. “Penny?” he said, almost a whisper.

“You need to leave me alone,” she announced.

But he took a couple of steps toward her. Penny swiveled around and hurried back toward the restaurant. Through the window, she saw Fernando slip into the restroom. She banged on the glass door, and frantically pulled at the handle. Obviously, Fernando couldn’t hear.

Penny glanced over her shoulder. The man in the rubbery raincoat was approaching. “Penny?” he called softly. “Hey, I just want to talk to you….”

She ran around back to the diner’s service entrance—by the Dumpsters. She tugged at the back door, but that was locked too. She pounded on it, but to no avail.

The man came around the corner, his hands shoved in the pockets of his raincoat. He let out a strange chuckle. “Penny? What’s wrong with you? I just wanted to tell you—”

“Leave me alone!” she screamed. “Get the hell out of here!” She reached for the little canister of Mace in her purse.

“Jesus, you’re crazy!” he shot back. “I just wanted to apologize for earlier—”

“I said, leave me alone!” she yelled.

“Oh, screw you,” he muttered, waving her away.

Catching her breath, Penny watched him retreat toward his VW. She heard him gun the motor. With apprehension, she came around toward the front of the diner. Something in the vacant lot next door caught her eye. There, amid the patches of overgrown grass and debris, she spotted a car with its headlights off. In the darkness, she couldn’t quite see what was going on. It looked like a man was pulling something out of the backseat of his car.

Mr. Slick gunned his engine again, then switched on the lights of his VW. As he peeled out of the lot, his headlights swept across the abandoned lot. The lone figure ducked back into his car. But he’d left something on the ground. It looked like a dead, skinned animal. Penny wasn’t sure. It happened so fast, she didn’t get a good look at the driver—or the make of his car. He drove away with his headlights off.

The customer in his VW sped away in the opposite direction.

Penny knocked on the restaurant’s front door again. Fernando still hadn’t emerged from the restroom. Penny took out her cell phone. She was about to call the police, but hesitated. What would she tell them?
I saw someone dump something in this vacant lot, but I don’t know what it is
. She’d already overreacted with Mr. Slick. She didn’t want to make a fool out of herself with the police too.

Climbing into her car, Penny pulled out of Rudy’s lot, then drove half a block to what was once a driveway—at least there was a break in the curb. Turning into the deserted lot, she rode over the gravel, debris, and clumps of tall grass until she saw a fleshy, white thing lying on the ground. Penny slammed on the brakes.

She took out the cell phone again, and edged closer to the cadaver. It was dead, she knew that much. She dialed 911.

Her headlights illuminated the half-naked corpse. “Oh, my God,” Penny murmured.

“Police Emergency,”
the operator answered.

Penny didn’t say anything.

“Police emergency. Is anyone there?”

Penny still couldn’t respond. She was staring at a dead man—with his eyes open, and the bottom half of his face torn off. All his fingers were missing. And in his chest, there was a bloody, gaping hole where his heart used to be.

“Hi, you’ve reached The Merchants. No one can come to the phone right now. If you’d like to leave a message for Tom, Stephanie, Ted, Amanda, or Craig, please—”

“Hello?” A voice came on the line to interrupt the recording.

“Hello, Steph?” Gillian sat in her writing nook with a cup of coffee on the desk. She’d sent Ethan off to school an hour before. She was surprised Stephanie Merchant had picked up. She’d been trying to get ahold of Craig’s mother all week.

“Stephanie, it’s Gill McBride. How are you?”

“Oh, hello, Gill. I’m fine, thanks, just—busy.”

“Well, I’m glad we finally connected,” Gillian said with a little laugh.

“Um, yes, I’ve been meaning to call you back. It’s been crazy here lately.”

“Oh, then now is probably a lousy time to ask if Ethan could spend a couple of hours at your place tonight.” Gillian had to teach her writing class, and she didn’t want to leave Ethan home alone.

“I’m sorry, Gillian,” Stephanie said. “I’d like to help you out, but I can’t. In fact, I’m afraid I can’t help with that party next week either.”

Gillian had been trying to organize a small surprise party for Ethan’s birthday. She’d discussed it with Stephanie last month, and Craig’s mother had been all gung ho to pitch in. Gillian had already booked the bowling alley and restaurant. All she needed was Craig’s help with the guest list. She didn’t understand Stephanie’s abrupt turnabout here.

“What happened?” she asked.

“As I said, I’m extremely busy. I just can’t spare the time right now.”

“Oh. Well, then maybe I can meet with Craig. All I need are the names and phone numbers of a few of Craig’s and Ethan’s friends—”

“Craig can’t attend the party, Gillian. He has another commitment. I’m sorry—”

“What are you talking about? You’ve known about this for a month, Stephanie.”

There was silence on the other end of the line.

“Did Craig and Ethan have a fight or something?” Gillian asked.

“Maybe you should talk to your own son,” Stephanie replied coolly. “I’m sorry, Gill, but I—I really need to dash. Good luck with the party. I’m sure it will be very nice.”

“Stephanie—”

“Good-bye.”

Gillian heard a click on the other end of the line. “What the hell?” she said to no one. She hung up the phone.

Stephanie Merchant was one of those married girlfriends who’d gone from close to distantly cordial once Barry had disappeared. But at least her fondness for Ethan hadn’t seemed to diminish. Gillian didn’t know what had warranted this sudden cold-shoulder treatment.

And what was she supposed to
talk to her own son
about?

She hated the idea of leaving Ethan home alone tonight when these hoods were lurking around the duplex.

She also hated the idea that he’d have a crummy fourteenth birthday. Without Craig attending, no one else would show up. Ethan’s last two birthdays—along with their Christmases—had been so lousy. They just weren’t the same without Barry. On each special occasion, they couldn’t help hoping he might somehow return. And each time, it was a horrible disappointment.

Ethan’s birthday two years ago had been the turning point. Only a week before, Barry had woken her up in the middle of the night, sobbing about how he’d failed her. She should have been paying attention to these early warning signs.

They had 6:30 dinner reservations at the Space Needle restaurant. It was going to be just the family and Craig. But at 6:50, Barry still hadn’t come home from work. Gillian couldn’t get ahold of him. By 7:15, she ordered pizza, made up some excuse to the boys about Barry, then had Ethan open his presents. The call from the police station came at 8:20, just after Ethan had blown out the candles on his cake.

“My truck got hijacked,” Barry explained. Gillian had switched to the bedroom connection. She could hear Ethan and Craig playing a video game on TV in the living room. The game was one of his birthday presents, and it had all sorts of bells, whistles, and buzzers.

“I was hauling a load of cigarettes,” Barry continued. “These guys worked me over too. The cops took me to the hospital. I’ve got a few stitches in my left eyebrow.”

“Oh, my God, Barry—”

“I’m all right, honey. Honest. I’ll probably be here at the police station for at least another hour. I have to fill out a ton of paperwork.”

“How did it happen?” she asked.

“Tell you later. How’s Ethan?”

“He’s fine. But honey—”

“They’re telling me to wrap it up. See you in an hour. Hug Ethan for me, okay?”

Barry came home about an hour after Stephanie Merchant had picked up Craig. For Ethan, he spun this
Indiana Jones
–like account of the hijacking, stressing how he’d gotten a few good punches in. “I guess the lesson here is,” he said with a grin on his swollen, battered face, “when a couple of guys with guns try to steal your car or truck, don’t put up a fight!”

Barry laughed at his own remark, but Ethan barely cracked a smile. He sat at the kitchen table surrounded by birthday cake, the empty pizza box, and dirty plates. As he listened to his father, he had this pained, wondering look on his young face. Gillian knew how he felt. It hurt to look at Barry, and his version of what had happened seemed like a shoddy fabrication.

After Ethan went to bed, Gillian poured Barry and herself a drink. She threw on a sweater, and asked to talk to him on the front porch. It was the furthest they could go from Ethan’s bedroom without leaving the duplex.

She set her drink on the porch railing. “So what
really
happened?” she asked.

Barry shrugged. “Basically, it’s just what I told Ethan—without the frosting. I wasn’t trying to be a hero. I lipped off to one of these guys and he let me have it.” Barry sipped his bourbon on the rocks, then held the glass on his swollen cheek. “They ambushed me near the base in Tukwila, timed it perfectly. No one was around. This old Cadillac suddenly came out of nowhere and pulled in front of me. I slammed on the brakes. These two thugs—Neanderthals—got out of the back. They were pointing these sawed-off shotguns at me—”

Eyes narrowed at him, Gillian slowly shook her head.

“What?” he asked. “What is it, honey?”

“You’re lying to me,” she said.

His mouth open, Barry stared back at her.

Gillian was thinking about the time he was “mugged” in Chicago, and their hasty move to Seattle. She was thinking of the money he’d lost, and how they’d never been able to put away any savings. She was thinking of that little man in Northgate Mall’s parking lot, and Barry sobbing in the middle of the night last week, saying he’d failed her.

“Tell me the truth, Barry. I can’t listen to your lies anymore. I’ve done that for too many years—”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about—”

“Yes, you do,” she said, clutching the sweater around her shoulders. “What kind of trouble are you in?”

He rubbed his forehead. “They gave me a painkiller at the hospital. I think it’s wearing off. God, I feel like crap.” He turned toward the door. “I need an aspirin.”

Gillian stepped in front of the door. “It can wait. Now answer me.”

Barry swallowed the rest of his drink, then looked down at his feet.

“What have you been keeping from me?” she asked, a tremor in her voice. “Please, Barry. Do you know how hard it is for me to ask this? Something’s been wrong for years—I’ve known that much. I’ve tried to ignore it. But we can’t pretend anymore. Even Ethan can see you’re lying.”

Barry looked at her. Tears filled his eyes. “I’m an addict, honey,” he whispered. He wrung his hands nervously. “I—I gamble. It’s a sickness. I’ve always hoped I could stop before you ever found out. But I got into a hole. I owed these guys. So—I arranged to let them hijack the truck. They beat me up to make it look real. Only—because I was so late with my payments, they didn’t pull their punches. I’m still into them for fifty grand.”

Numbly, she gazed at him. “Who are these people?”

“Creditors, shylocks,” he muttered, eyes downcast. “And I’m in real trouble, honey. Something went wrong, something really bad.” He started to cry.

She wanted to reach out and comfort him, but she was afraid of what he hadn’t told her yet. So Gillian stood immobile, her hands in fists as she clutched at her sweater. “What is it?” she asked.

“The guys who took the cigarette truck, they ran over a homeless man, killed him. There were witnesses. Now the police are leaning on me. They don’t know I arranged it all, but I can tell they suspect something. If it comes out, I’ll go to jail—if these thugs don’t kill me first.”

Gillian shrugged helplessly. “Well, maybe—maybe the police would go easy on you if you just told them everything.”

“You mean, make a deal with them?” Barry asked. Frowning, he shook his head. “Honey, these guys will cut my throat before I get one word out to the police. I’m a dead man either way.”

The next evening, two police detectives came by the house and talked to Barry for an hour. Apparently, there were some holes in his account of the hijacking, facts that didn’t gel with the accounts of the truck dispatchers. They also had questions about certain “associates” of his—and his activities in the past few weeks.

The following morning, Barry disappeared. He left Gillian a note, begging her forgiveness and telling her to forget about him.

But how could she forget that she was married to a hunted man when these hoods were still harassing her and Ethan? Not only did Barry Tanner owe them money; he could also implicate them in a truck hijacking, a hit-and-run, manslaughter, and a number of other crimes. They wanted him dead, and the police wanted him in jail. Gillian figured the only reason she and Ethan hadn’t been unceremoniously “whacked” was because Barry might be lured back to them. Live bait always worked best to catch a fish.

Gillian leaned back in her desk chair, and sipped her coffee. It was cold. She thought about Ethan’s birthday party, and figured the only people attending would be a couple of hoods, waiting for Barry to show up. She wondered why Stephanie and Craig Merchant had bailed out on her. It didn’t make sense.

Gillian stood up and started across the kitchen to refill her coffee cup. She heard someone on the porch steps. Turning toward the living room, she saw a shadow move on the other side of the window curtains. She started to set down the coffee cup on her desk, and just then, the door bell rang. The cup tipped over. Coffee spilled across the desk and dripped down onto the linoleum floor.

“Shit,” Gillian muttered. Glancing back at the mess, she headed toward the front window. She moved the curtain aside on one end and peeked out at the porch.

It was her upstairs neighbor, Vicki, a perky blonde in her early forties. She was a flight attendant. Barry used to call her The Centerfold, because she had a terrific body that she showed off in tight-fitting clothes. Vicki admitted she rarely set foot outside her unit upstairs without first “putting my face on,” and the result was a perpetual fake-prettiness. But Gillian liked her—in small doses, which worked out fine, because she was away so often. She’d been gone all last week. Now she was back.

Vicki rang the bell again.

Gillian hurried to the door and opened it. “Well, hi, Vicki—”

“Do you believe in love at first sight?”

Gillian shrugged. “Only when I need it to work for the plot of one of my books.”

Vicki leaned against the door frame. She had a trench coat over her flight attendant’s uniform, and a small tote-suitcase at her side. She smiled dreamily. “I met the most gorgeous man this morning. You won’t believe how, Gill. I called home to get my messages last night, and there was one from this guy who says I don’t know him, but he was on my Seattle-to-Minneapolis flight last week. He says he took one look at me and he was smitten. He actually used that word,
smitten.
He has a friend with the airline, and that’s how he got my phone number. And he says, please don’t be mad, but could he meet me? So—okay, I’m thinking—total stalker here. But I figure, what the hell, he has my number already, I might as well call him back and find out who this jerk is who gave him my phone number. So I called him. Gill, we talked on the phone for
two hours
!”

Gillian glanced back toward the mess she’d left in the kitchen. “Um, that’s terrific….”

“Oh, but wait, there’s more,” Vicki said. “He’s a charter airline pilot out of Montana, and he says, ‘Let’s meet for breakfast when you get into Sea-Tac tomorrow. I can fly in.’ Gill, he’s six-two, brown hair, blue eyes, a total hunk. We
made out
for an hour in the parking lot stairwell at Sea-Tac. I feel like I’m in high school again. It was so hot, I mean it. Am I still flushed?”

“A little,” Gillian said. “Listen, Vicki, I—”

“I know what you’re going to say,” her neighbor interrupted. “I hardly know the guy. But c’mon, if he was a serial killer, he could have strangled me in the stairwell when no one was around. Right? Anyway, he’s coming over late tonight. We’re going to pick up where we left off.”