Killing Spree (31 page)

Danielle reached for the cell phone in her pocket.

A loud squealing noise from below made her swivel around. It sounded like tires screeching. But she was almost certain she heard someone scream, too. Danielle stared down at the parking deck.

All at once, a red car shot forward and burst through the security chain. A spray of metal links exploded in the air. The ferry workers leapt out of the way. Smoke from the car tires rose up from the deck. The Ford Probe careened off the front of the boat—and dove into the murky sound.

Danielle screamed. But the ferry whistle drowned her out. Chase Scott’s car flailed in the water for a moment. Danielle glimpsed the broken antenna in back. The silvery water started to swallow up the car, and then the boat was on top of it.

A loud alarm went off. It was deafening. Danielle couldn’t imagine hearing anything beyond that blaring horn.

But then, she couldn’t have imagined the sound of the ferry’s propellers grinding up that automobile—and the man inside it.

“We recently discovered in our records here at the college that Mr. Sorenson didn’t complete the semester,” Ruth was saying into the cell phone. She paced around Gillian’s living room. “We’re required by Washington State law to give Todd a full refund for the night course, plus interest. That comes to exactly eighty-six dollars and twenty-two cents. Do you know how we can get in touch with Todd?” Ruth stopped pacing and listened for a moment. “The Whispering Brook Retirement Home? Is he an employee there or a resident, hon? Well, no, this Todd is a few years younger than that. But thanks anyway for your time.”

Ruth clicked off the line, and rolled her eyes. “God, I may blow my brains out. We got the right name, but he’s the wrong age.”

Sitting by her computer with the cordless phone in her hand, Gillian squinted at Ruth. “Is there really a state law on refund policies?”

Ruth shook her head. “God, no, I was just getting bored giving them the same old routine. How many Sorensons have we called so far?”

Gillian consulted the list they’d gathered from Directory Assistance and the Internet. There were fifty-nine Sorensons in the Fort Lewis and Tacoma area.

“We’ve had ten hang-ups, eleven I’ve-Never-Heard-of-Him, nine messages left on answering machines, and one right-name-wrong-age. That’s thirty-one calls so far, with twenty-eight to go.”

The time was 9:40 in the morning. Ethan was still asleep. Gillian had heard his TV going at 3:00
A.M
. when she’d nodded off on the living room sofa with Eustace nearby. Ruth hadn’t had any qualms about sleeping in Gillian’s bedroom after her uninvited guest had been in there. With a couple of shots of Jack Daniel’s, she’d gone to bed at one in the morning, and just minutes later, Gillian had heard her snoring.

They still hadn’t heard from Chase Scott. Gillian had left another message on his answering machine this morning. Ruth had phoned a friend on the Bremerton Police Force to look into Chase’s sudden disappearance.

Either he was dead, or he was playing games with her. Since they couldn’t get ahold of him, Gillian had decided this morning to track down Chase’s classmate, Todd Sorenson.

She remembered Todd’s rambling novel about a teenage “garage band” in the Fort Lewis and Tacoma area. That was all she had to go on. She figured Todd might still have family there, someone who could tell her where he was. So she and Ruth had gathered the list and started making simultaneous calls on her cell and home phones.

So far, thirty-one Sorensons hadn’t been any help at all.

“Do you want another cup of coffee?” Gillian asked.

“Honey, I’d rather drink phlegm,” Ruth said wearily. “You’re a wonderful person, but your coffee is the absolute worst.”

Gillian rolled her eyes. Since leaving the police force, Ruth had become a coffee connoisseur. Gillian, forever on a budget, settled for whatever coffee was the least expensive.

Ruth reached for her coat. “I’m going down the block to the Top Pot Café. I’ll bring back some
good
coffee—and doughnuts. Eustace could use the exercise. You’ll be okay here for fifteen minutes, won’t you?”

Slumping back in her desk chair, Gillian nodded. “Bring back a couple of chocolate doughnuts for Ethan, okay? I’ll pay you back.”

Ruth tied the leash on Eustace, then slipped Gillian’s cell phone in her coat pocket. “I have your cell with me. Call yourself if anything happens.”

Gillian watched her leave with the dog. Then she picked up the cordless phone and dialed the next Sorenson on the list. It rang twice before a woman picked up: “Yes, hello?”

“Hi, I’m trying to track down someone named Todd Sorenson. He has a refund coming for a night class he—”

“
Todd
Sorenson?” the woman interrupted. “My God, it’s been a dozen years since I’ve heard that name.”

“Um, are we talking about the same Todd Sorenson?” Gillian asked, sitting up. “He’s in his late twenties, kind of good-looking, and he’s from Fort Lewis—”

“Actually, he’s from Tacoma.”

“So you know him?”

“Oh, yeah. My son, Tom, and Todd were in the same class in high school. Practically every time
T. Sorenson
got in trouble, they called me by mistake. It was always Todd, not my Tommy. And Todd got into trouble a lot.”

“Really? What kind of trouble?”

“Are you a friend of Todd’s?” the woman asked warily.

“No. Actually, I’m trying to track him down for someone. Anything you could tell me about Todd—good or bad—would be helpful. You said he was always getting into trouble. Could you elaborate on that?”

“You got an hour? Drugs, beating up other kids, stealing—he was into all sorts of things, all bad. His father was a captain at Fort Lewis, and they kept giving Todd a break—even after he killed a neighbor’s cat. He tortured the poor thing. I hear the captain whaled the daylights out of him for that little caper.”

“Um, do you—or Tommy—know how I might get in touch with Todd now?”

“I haven’t a clue where he is. His father died about six or seven years ago. And his mom, the poor thing, she moved to Phoenix—or Tucson, someplace in Arizona.”

“Do you remember Mrs. Sorenson’s first name?”

“Sure, it’s Christine.”

Gillian scribbled it down on the listing: “Christine Sorenson—Phoenix—Maybe Tucson?”

“So—um, why exactly are you trying to track down Todd?” the woman asked. “Is he in trouble again? Did he murder somebody or something?”

Gillian put down the pen. “That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

She thanked the woman, and while hanging up the phone, she noticed the Mail icon blinking on her computer screen. Gillian pulled up her mail. The new correspondence showed “No Subject.” Gillian didn’t recognize the sender’s address:
[email protected].

She hesitated, then opened the e-mail:

“Oh, my God,” Gillian whispered.

With shaky hands, she hit the Reply key and typed up a brief note: “Who are you?” She hit the Send key, knowing what would happen. A moment later, she got a message back: “MAILER-DAEMON…Returned Mail: User Unknown.”

“Damn,” Gillian muttered. She pulled the e-mail back up.

A knock on her front door startled her. Then she realized it was probably Ruth. She hurried to the door and opened it.

Jason Hurrell stood on her front porch. He was wearing an aviator jacket over a white oxford shirt and khakis. Gillian almost shut the door in his face, but she froze up.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” he said. “Have you heard from Vicki?”

Gillian shook her head. “No. Why?”

“She gave my cell phone number as an alternate contact to the scheduler with her airline.” He scratched his head. “It’s kind of weird she’d list me for that—so soon. But that’s not why I’m here.”

“Yes?” Gillian stared at him.

“They called me an hour ago. They want Vicki to substitute on a noon flight today.”

“But she’s already subbing for someone—”

“That’s what I told them,” Jason said. “They don’t have any record of it. They didn’t call her yesterday, Gillian. That note she left me on her computer, it doesn’t make sense.”

“The note was on her
computer
?” Gillian repeated, backing away from the door.

Jason nodded. “Yes. Her fish-tank screen saver was the only light on when I came into her apartment yesterday afternoon. I touched the mouse, and up came the note. Why? What’s going on?”

Gillian just shook her head. She was thinking about her book,
Killing Legend
. The ex-movie star hunk on a murder spree had written a suicide note on a victim’s computer before poisoning her.

All at once, Gillian realized why in her note “Vicki” had asked Jason to pass along the news that she’d be away for a couple of days—when Vicki never bothered telling her about short trips before. Vicki didn’t know Ethan had a birthday coming up, and yet it was mentioned in the note.

Gillian was thinking about the phony note from her agent, those hang-ups from Dianne’s home phone, and the fake e-mails to Ruth from “Hester.” The copycat was once again letting her know—through someone else—that he’d killed again.

Jason took a step into the apartment. “Gillian, are you all right?”

Gillian retreated to the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and pulled out the filtered-water pitcher. Her hands trembled and water sluiced over the glass as she poured. A little puddle formed on the countertop. Gillian didn’t really notice. She took a few gulps from the glass.

“Would you please tell me what’s going on?” Jason asked.

Gillian shook her head over and over again. “Vicki didn’t write that note.”

“Then who did?”

She took another swallow of water, then stepped closer to her desk. Gillian nodded at the e-mail on her computer screen. “The same person who just sent me that.”

Jason squinted at the screen for a few moments. “Is this for real?”

“I think so,” Gillian replied.

He glanced up at the photos above her desk, and seemed to focus on one of her and Barry in front of the Pike Street Market sign. He looked at the computer screen again. “May I have a glass of water too, please?” he murmured.

She retrieved a tumbler from the cupboard, and poured some water into it. Her hands were still shaking. She gave him the glass of water.

“Vicki hinted that your husband was in trouble with the cops—and some mob types. Is that what this is about?”

“Yes, there are some people who want my husband dead,” Gillian heard herself say. She was searching his eyes. “But this is something else.”

“What is it?”

“Someone’s been copying the murders from my books,” she answered carefully. “He’s killing people I know. I—I’m pretty sure he’s already murdered Vicki. And it looks like he’s going after my husband next….”

Gillian told him everything, and with each detail she divulged there was a nagging dread that confiding in Jason Hurrell was the wrong thing. She knew in her gut that he wasn’t being completely open and honest with her. He was hiding something. She hated herself for letting down her guard with him. But she couldn’t help it.

Jason listened intently, and every once in a while he blinked and shook his head. When she finished, he looked at the e-mail on her computer again. “Listen, I think I can help,” he said. “But it means I’ll be gone until tonight—at least. I don’t know you well enough to tell you what to do, Gillian. But could you and Ethan stick close to home—and keep your friend, Ruth, nearby? If you do go out—well, better give me your cell phone number. Is it okay to use this pad to write on?”

Gillian nodded and told him her cell phone number.

Bent over her desk, he scribbled it on the notepad, then tore off the top sheet. “I’ll call you and explain as soon as I get anything.” He zipped up his jacket and headed for the door.

Gillian trailed after him, but he got to the door first and let himself out. From the front porch, Gillian watched him hop into his rental car and drive away.

“Was that Jason? I thought I heard his voice.”

Gillian swiveled around.

Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Ethan stood in the living room in his pajama bottoms and T-shirt.

Gillian stepped inside. “Yes, he’s coming back tonight,” she said numbly.

She suddenly remembered the e-mail on her computer. She didn’t want Ethan seeing it, and brushed past him on her way to her study nook. “Um, Ruth’s getting you some doughnuts,” she said, pressing the key to close the e-mail display. The note forecasting Barry’s death was wiped off the screen.

Gillian caught her breath, then looked up at the family photos on the wall of her study nook. The framed snapshot of her and Barry at the Pike Street Market was gone.

Ruth started up the stairwell to Vicki’s apartment. She sipped her extra-large-coffee-to-go from the Top Pot Café. Gillian was behind her, amazed at how blasé Ruth seemed while checking a potential murder site. Of course, the police had briefly looked through the apartment last night, and found nothing. But they’d merely been checking to make sure the apartment was empty. At the time, they’d had no reason to suspect someone had been murdered there.

She and Ruth had left Ethan downstairs with his chocolate doughnuts and Eustace. Ruth’s dog would bark if anyone got near the duplex.

“Try not to touch anything,” Ruth said, stepping from the stairwell into the living room.

The drapes were shut, but a dim light filtered through the windows. Hanging on the wall above Vicki’s mauve sofa were several framed Matisse prints. A bouquet of flowers, obviously from Jason, sat in a vase on the coffee table. The room looked undisturbed, almost pristine.