Killing Spree (23 page)

“Oh, Jennifer, the flirt,” Shauna said. “She drove me crazy sometimes. I’m sorry, but I didn’t like her very much. I tried to make friends with her, but she was too busy throwing herself at the guys—especially Chase. Not that he paid any attention to her.”

Gillian decided now wasn’t a good time to tell her about the stabbing. “Yes, I don’t remember Chase ever talking with her much. He was a—an
interesting
guy, wasn’t he?”

“Well, he was an awful snob sometimes. But he could be a lot of fun too. I remember we were both reading your first book,
Killing Legend
, at the same time, and we kept comparing how far along we were on it. At the end of the semester, we exchanged e-mail addresses, and I wrote him a couple of times, but Chase never wrote back, the rat.” She let out a sad little laugh.

“Do you remember Todd?” Gillian asked. “Todd Sorenson?”

“Oh, he was the crazy one, wasn’t he? The very first day of class, when I saw him I thought he was so cute, very James Dean. Then I tried to talk with him, and forget about it! Remember how he yelled at everyone and quit before the end of the semester? I wonder what happened to him. He’s probably in jail for murdering somebody or something. Talk about scary!”

“Well, that was a pretty scary time to be attending classes there,” Gillian remarked.

“I’ll say. I used to go to class with pepper spray, a whistle,
and
a switchblade in my purse.”

“Did you ever discuss the Schoolgirl Murders with Chase?”

“I remember him saying it was too bad you didn’t want to write about the Schoolgirl Murders. He said the killings had all the ingredients for a best-seller.”

“Um, did you ever discuss the murders with Todd?”

“Oh, God, no,” Shauna replied. “He never talked to me. He—” She trailed off.

“What is it?” Gillian asked.

“I just remembered something weird Todd did say. It was one night before class started, and I was chatting with Chase about
Killing Legend.
Out of nowhere, Todd let out this strange laugh. So Chase and I turned to look at him, and he was slouched in his chair like he always was. Todd said he’d read your book, and that you—well, sorry, but he said you weren’t a very good thriller-writer.”

“Really?” Gillian murmured.

“Yes. Chase said to him, ‘Would you care to elaborate?’ Then Todd, he smiled and said, ‘She’s no good, because she doesn’t really know about killing people.’ Isn’t that a strange thing to say?”

Gillian studied Chase’s phone number, scrawled in Ruth’s scratchy handwriting. Then she glanced at her wristwatch: 10:10. If she waited any longer, it would be too late to call him.

She’d been on the phone with Shauna for twenty minutes. They’d promised to keep in touch, and Shauna had said she’d run out and buy
Black Ribbons
, even though she didn’t like reading scary books while pregnant.

That call had been easy, because Shauna wasn’t a suspect.

Not so with Chase. She had to be very careful with him. In fact, she was better off talking with him in person than discussing things over the telephone. She would learn more from him—from his reactions to questions, his facial expressions and body language—if she spoke with him face-to-face. But what could she say to lure him into a meeting? She thought of something, but it was awfully cruel. Still, it was the best incentive to get him to meet with her.

Gillian dialed the number in Bremerton. She started counting the ring tones. After the fourth, the answering machine clicked on.
“Hey, you almost got me,”
Chase’s voice cooed.
“Try, try again or leave me a message. Ciao.”

Beep
.

“Hi, Chase,” Gillian said into the phone. “This is your old creative writing teacher, Gillian McBride, calling at around ten o’clock on Friday night. I was talking with my editor and my agent today, and I thought of you. They’re looking for some new blood, and erotic thrillers are really hot right now. I remembered the book you were writing for class, and told them about you. Anyway, let’s get together and talk. I happen to be free most of the day tomorrow. Give me a call, okay? My number is 206–555–5492. I hope you’re doing well. Talk to you soon. Bye.”

Gillian hung up. It was a horrible ploy, promising him a possible book deal. No aspiring writer could resist an offer like that. If he took the bait, and was remotely nice, she’d put in a word for him with her agent.

She was shaking a little. She realized there was a chance he wasn’t nice at all. He was a suspect, and there was a chance she’d just left a message with the man who was using her books as blueprints for killing people.

On the nineteen-inch TV screen, there was a helicopter explosion, followed by a buffed shirtless man brandishing a gun and kicking down a door, then a buxom blonde in a hot tub, removing her bikini top, followed by a truck explosion….

A sultry woman’s voice purred over the coming attractions, which promised plenty of sex and violence:
“Fuel-injected action is coming up next with Travis Rock, Shane Archer, and their bod squad of sexy sirens, Amber, Tarrin, and Latoya, taking on the bad guys in
Tahitian Dynamite!
Erotic pleasure and plenty of high-octane adventure are coming your way with Cinemax After Dark. Next!”

Ethan was in heaven. His mom had gotten a bigger-screen TV with some royalty money about a year ago, and they’d moved the old television set into his bedroom. When the cable people hooked it up, his mother requested the parental-control option. The cable company screwed it up and put the controls—which his mom didn’t know how to operate anyway—on the living room TV instead. His mom had never caught on to the mistake. So Ethan was always on the lookout for free Cinemax, Showtime, and HBO offers, so he could catch R-rated movies. Some of the ones on Cinemax After Dark were pretty close to X-rated. Craig always came over to spend the night when it was a free Cinemax weekend.

Sitting on the floor with a pillow between his back and the foot of the bed, Ethan watched the television set, and tried not to think about Craig. He didn’t want to get depressed. Who needed him anyway? He was better off alone. Without his friend around, he didn’t have to feign disinterest during those rare moments amid the bimbo-boob-and-beaver-fest when some hunky guy got naked and showed his butt. And hell, that was half the reason he watched this crap.

In the darkened window to the right of the TV, he saw rain pelting at the glass. He was snug in his bedroom, bathed in the flickering light from the TV. He knew his mother was in her writing nook, researching stuff on the Internet. He’d seen her a few minutes ago when he’d gotten a pack of Red Vines out of the kitchen cabinet. The remote was at his side; he could always switch channels if he heard her coming.

He tuned down the volume as the Viewer Advisory came on:
“This film has not been rated. It contains graphic violence, adult language, nudity, and strong sexual content. Adult Discretion Advised.”

“I’m going straight to hell,” Ethan murmured, eyes glued to the screen. He munched on a Red Vine.

The titles to the movie were coming up when he saw something move outside his window. He stared at the window for a moment. Some bushes beside the house rustled. Maybe that was what had caught his eye. He kept staring—at his own reflection in the darkened, rain-beaded glass. He saw a skinny kid, sitting on the floor, looking stupid and scared. He imagined someone out there at the ravine’s edge, staring at the exact same image right now.

Ethan squirmed a little, and wondered if someone saw that too. A chill raced through him. “Quit creeping yourself out,” he muttered. He didn’t notice anything outside. His mom’s paranoia was contagious.

He reached for a Red Vine, and shifted his focus to the movie. The villain, an evil maharajah in bad brown makeup, wore a turban with his tie and white dinner jacket. He sat on his throne in the reception hall of his castle. An arms dealer, an Italian-looking dude with sunglasses, was having his sumo-wrestler henchman demonstrate different newfangled weapons for him.

Ethan saw something out of the corner of his eye again. He turned toward the window in time to see a man dart past the bushes. “Oh, shit,” he murmured. He felt the hairs stand on the back of his neck. With a shaky hand, he fumbled for the remote and switched off the television. His room turned dark.

At least the guy outside couldn’t see him now. Getting to his feet, Ethan felt his way to his nightstand. Blindly, he groped for the baseball bat he kept at his bedside. He almost knocked over his lamp.

“Mom?” he called out softly. Ethan could hardly breathe. His fingertips finally brushed against the bat, and then he grabbed hold of it. He didn’t hear anything except the rain outside. He made his way toward the window. He could see the backyard more clearly now. The trees and bushes swayed in the heavy rain. Beyond the yard, the ravine was engulfed in blackness. Then he saw something emerge from the shadows—a man in a white T-shirt.

Ethan gasped. “Oh, Jesus…”

The man paused at the edge of the gully. He was tall, and he swayed a bit, like the trees behind him. He seemed to be staring back at Ethan.

“Mom?” Ethan called, louder this time. “Mom?”

He hurried toward the door. Stumbling over his pillow on the floor, he fell against the wall. But he didn’t trip, and he didn’t let go of the bat either. He felt around for the doorknob. As his hand fanned at the air, he glanced back toward the window. He saw the man outside, getting closer. He was approaching the house.

He found the knob and flung open the door. “Mom?” he called, racing down the short hallway.

“What is it?” his mother said, stepping out of her writer’s nook. “Ethan—”

“Somebody’s in the backyard,” he said, the words rushing out of him. He tried to get a breath. “A tall guy. He’s coming toward the house….”

Wide-eyed, his mother stared at him for a moment. “Where? Where did you see him?”

“Out by the ravine.” Ethan clung to the baseball bat. “I—I don’t think he’s one of those guys looking for Dad. He’s wearing a T-shirt and jeans, and he looks kind of crazy….”

“All right, calm down,” his mother whispered. But a look of panic swept over her face. She headed for the kitchen sink and pulled a carving knife from the drain rack. Just then, they heard a noise on the front porch. Boards creaked. Footsteps.

His mother grabbed his arm and pulled him back behind her. Then she switched off the kitchen light. Ethan peeked over her shoulder toward the front window. The curtains were open. A shadow started to pass over the porch. Then they saw him.

His mother bolted toward her little office and snatched up the cordless phone.

Ethan edged closer to the kitchen door. He didn’t recognize the man, who was soaked with rain. The T-shirt clung to his broad shoulders and muscular chest. Ethan could see he was breathing heavily. His dark hair was in wet ringlets and he had a strange snarl on his face. But he wasn’t holding a gun or knife or anything. He stopped in front of the window and stared at them.

Then he smiled.

His mother still had the phone in one hand and the knife in the other. She seemed to freeze for a moment.

The man tapped on the glass and waved.

“What the hell?” his mother muttered.

“You must be Gillian and Ethan!” he called at them, his voice muffled by the glass. “I’m Jason…Vicki’s friend!” He pointed up. “I’m friends with Vicki upstairs!”

“Vicki’s friend,” his mother repeated, almost under her breath. She set the knife down on the kitchen counter. “Oh, Lord…”

“I hope I didn’t scare you!” he called.

Ethan came around the corner from the kitchen. He kept the baseball bat hidden behind him. His mother moved to the front door, and unlocked it. But she left the security chain fastened. She opened the door as far as the chain lock allowed.

“Hi, sorry if I gave you a fright,” Ethan heard the man say. “I’m Jason Hurrell, Vicki’s friend.”

Ethan stepped up behind his mother and peeked through the gap in the door. The man was very handsome, with a friendly smile. He shivered and rubbed his brawny arms. “Vicki thought she saw someone in the yard. She sent me out to investigate,” he explained. “Are you folks okay? Did you notice anything unusual outside?”

“Just you,” his mother said warily.

He laughed. “Sorry. Anyway, I’m glad you’re all right. Vicki was concerned. She said you’ve been having some prowlers—people hanging around outside the house.”

“We’re okay,” Ethan piped up. “Thanks a lot for checking. It’s very nice of you.”

“No problem,” he said, smiling at Ethan. The water dripping down his face caught in his thick eyelashes. The man looked at Gillian and shrugged. “I guess you can expect people hanging around outside your house when you’re a famous author, huh?”

“Not really,” Ethan heard his mother say. Her tone was flat and cold. And this handsome guy was being so nice.

“Listen, if you need to call and double-check with Vicki about me, I totally understand, Mrs. Tanner. I got in very late last night. I think you folks were in bed. Anyway, it’s nice to meet you, and I’m sorry I disturbed you.” He started to reach out to shake hands, but seemed to think better of it, and his hand dropped down to his side. He cleared his throat. “Well, good night.”

His mother just nodded.

“Nice meeting you!” Ethan called. “Thanks for—”

His mother shut the door before Ethan finished. He watched Jason Hurrell slink across the porch. “God, Mom, did you have to be so rude to him?”

She double-locked the door. “What are you talking about?”

Ethan paused to listen to him go upstairs to Vicki’s apartment. He frowned at his mother. “You practically slammed the door in his face. The way you acted—God, I’m so embarrassed. You didn’t even let me say good-bye to him.”

“Let you say good-bye?”
she repeated, incredulous. “A minute ago you were ready to bash his brains in with your baseball bat.”

“That’s before I knew he was Vicki’s friend. I can’t believe you didn’t even try to be friendly.”

With a sigh, his mother brushed past him on her way into the kitchen. She switched on the light and put the knife back in the draining rack. “Well, I’m sorry,” she said, shrugging. “I was just being cautious. Did you expect me to open the door and invite him in for coffee just because he’s good-looking and acting friendly?”

Ethan scowled at her. “What do you mean? I didn’t say he was
good-looking
. I didn’t say anything like that! I hardly even noticed what he looked like. He’s Vicki’s friend. I just thought we should be nice to him. That’s all. God!”

“Ethan, I didn’t mean it like that—”

“What are you trying to say, Mom? Huh?”

He didn’t wait to hear her answer. He swiveled around and stomped toward his room, baseball bat in tow. She’d practically called him a queer. She was almost as bad as Tate Barringer.

“No wonder Dad has never bothered to come back to you,” he hissed.

Then Ethan ducked into his bedroom and slammed the door.

She heard a scream.

Gillian sat up in bed. She stared at the ceiling. It sounded like he was killing her up there. But no, Vicki and her stud of a boyfriend were just having a good time. Vicki the Vocalizer, Barry used to call her. There was a time when she and Barry used to lay in bed and listen—and giggle. “What can I do to you to make you moan like that?” Barry would whisper in her ear. Then his hand would glide up her thigh. Vicki’s arias had instigated many a romantic interlude one floor down.

But at the moment, Gillian just felt lonely and bitter. The man who was bringing Vicki to the gates of ecstasy was indeed very handsome and sexy and charming. She couldn’t help being cautious around him. Sixteen years ago, she’d fallen for a handsome, sexy, charming guy, and married the son of a bitch. And look where that had gotten her.

Had she really been rude to Jason Hurrell? When had she become so bitter? Some Adonis showed up at her front door, shivering in a wet T-shirt that showed off his gorgeous physique. He was friendly and sweet, and he kept smiling at her. All the while, she’d just snarled at him.

Well, why shouldn’t she snarl? He wasn’t interested in her. What was Jason Hurrell doing right now? No second-guessing, she could
hear
what he was doing.

“Damn it,” Gillian muttered, throwing back the sheets. She glanced at the nightstand clock: 1:23
A.M.
Putting on her robe, she wandered down the hallway. As she passed Ethan’s door, she didn’t see any light along the crack at the threshold. She’d tried to talk to him earlier. She’d given him a few minutes to cool off after he’d blown up at her. Then she’d tapped on his door. She’d seen his light was still on.

“Honey, I’m sorry,” she’d called softly. “I’ll apologize to Vicki’s friend in the morning. Okay? Can I come in?”

“Mom, I’m trying to sleep,” he’d replied. She’d heard the strain in his voice. “Could you please leave me alone?”

“All right. We’ll talk in the morning, okay, honey?”

“G’night,” he’d grumbled.

Well, at least one of them had been able to sleep.

She padded into the living room and stopped to stare out the front window. Was her copycat out there? Perhaps he’d seen Jason Hurrell on the front porch earlier tonight, and now he was keeping his distance.

She’d told Lieutenant Voorhees that he was a planner. No doubt, he’d already chosen his next victim—probably in Seattle. And he’d already selected a murder scene to emulate from one of her books. He was just waiting to make his move, so much like the Schoolgirl Killer.

Gillian remembered the
MISSING
posters that went up around the campus that week after Thanksgiving. On the bulletin that hung by the second floor vending machines, someone had scribbled
“#3?”
beside the woman’s grainy photo. There was room for doubt this time. Valentina Tran was a petite, fifty-one-year-old, Vietnamese grandmother. She drove herself to an English as a Second Language course at the college three nights a week. According to her daughter, Valentina started carrying a canister of Mace in her purse after the Kelly Zinnemann murder. She’d left her North Seattle home for the campus on Monday evening, but never showed up for class. Her abandoned car was discovered, parked along a residential street half a mile from the college, on Tuesday morning. There had been no sign of a struggle.