Killing Spree (34 page)

“No, and please, don’t do my laundry,” Gillian said, glancing in her rearview mirror.

“It’s no sweat. Listen, I connected with Todd’s mother in Tucson. I just got off the horn with her about an hour ago. Don’t drive off the road when you hear this….”

“I’m listening,” Gillian said.

“Todd died from a drug overdose eight months ago. He was living in Los Angeles. No foul play as far as they know. You don’t have anyone dying of a drug overdose in any of your books, do you?”

“No, I—I don’t,” Gillian answered numbly.

“Then I don’t think our copycat had anything to do with it.”

“Where does this leave us—suspect-wise?” Gillian said. “Do you really think it’s Jason?”

“Well, he’s in the lead by default.”

“In the lead over whom?” Gillian asked. “Who else is there?”

“There’s…” Ruth trailed off.

“There’s who? Go ahead, say it.”

“You know who I’m thinking about,” Ruth whispered. “You’ve considered the possibility too, I know you have.”

Gillian sighed. “It’s not Barry.”

“I’m not going to say anything else—except you’ve always been in denial when it comes to him, hon. And now you’re on your way to go see him. I keep thinking you’re walking into a trap—or
driving
to one. Just be careful and make sure no one’s following you. Okay?”

“Okay,” she said. “But it’s not Barry. And don’t do my laundry—please.”

“Call me in an hour with an update,” Ruth said. “And don’t call again while you’re driving my car. I can’t stand cell phone drivers. My car, my rules. Bye, hon.” She hung up.

Gillian clicked off the line, then stashed the phone back in her purse. She checked her rearview mirror again—looking for any familiar cars. She’d been checking routinely ever since she’d left the house this morning. She was pretty certain no one was following her.

One thing she was more certain about was Barry’s innocence. He was capable of a lot of things, but he could never murder anyone.

Still, she understood why Ruth might have suspected him. Barry certainly fit the bill. The copycat killer had to be charming; otherwise he couldn’t have gotten close to his victims. And he obviously knew Gillian very well. But it wasn’t Barry, damn it.

No, the killer was connected to that class or the school, and Barry had visited the school only once. This person knew the place inside out. He was the Schoolgirl Killer. He’d left the saddle shoes for her yesterday. It was his way of telling her, “
Yes, I’m the one who killed before
.” And maybe he’d done it for her.

“What will the famous and beautiful mystery author do for me?”

She remembered his coy little grin when he’d asked her that question, and she shuddered.

Why hadn’t she thought of him before? She’d been focusing on that one particular class. But he was at the college; he’d been there when those three women were murdered, his three “schoolgirls.”

“How come you’ve never written a mystery based on that?
The Schoolgirl Murders,
it would make a good one
.”

He knew the students in her class—and in every class. He knew when people were coming and going there, because that information was always at his fingertips.

Gillian clutched the steering wheel tightly. “Oh, my God,” she muttered to herself. It all made sense.

Rick in Administration had always been coming on to her. She’d even gotten a little snippy with him for flirting so much the other night. She’d apologized a minute later.

She remembered Rick smiling at her and saying,
“That’s okay. I’ll see you make it up to me.”

“Hon, you better hold onto him, or he’ll run right outside.”

Ethan grabbed Eustace by the collar, then opened the door for Ruth. She was carrying a laundry basket full of damp and dirty towels. “You sure I can’t carry that for you?” he asked.

“I’m fine. Just hold onto His Nibs.”

“Where do you want me to hold him?”

“By the collar, honey,” Ruth said, waddling out the door. “You’re doing fine.”

She carried the towels, which smelled appropriately enough like wet dog, down the porch steps. As she turned the corner, the light went on above the cellar door. Ethan had given her the keys. At the bottom of the narrow cement steps to the basement, Ruth paused and balanced the laundry basket against her hip while she fished the keys out of her pocket. She unlocked the door. She’d been in the dungeonlike little cellar for the first time just last night—when the cops had gone over the place. It was pretty damn creepy, and she didn’t creep out easily. There were no windows at all. It was just an unfinished wood and cement hole with enough room for a furnace, hot-water heater, some gardening tools, and the washer and dryer. The ceiling was only a few inches above her head, and she felt inclined to duck while in there. Hoisting the laundry basket to the washer, Ruth had to step aside to avoid the glaring bare lightbulb that dangled from a cord in the ceiling. She loaded the damp towels into the washer, but suddenly stopped.

Eustace let out a few yelps upstairs.

She listened for a moment, waiting for him to quiet down. But he kept barking.

Someone was coming toward the house.

Ruth put down a towel and moved toward the door. She brushed against the hanging lightbulb, and it swung from side to side. The cramped little room seemed to spin as shadows raced around the unfinished walls. Just as she reached the door, Ruth froze.

Someone stood at the bottom of the cement stairs, blocking her only exit. His back was to the sun. She couldn’t see his face.

Before Ruth could move again, he slammed the door shut.

Ruth rattled the knob and pushed. But the door didn’t budge. Past Eustace’s relentless barking, she heard an object scraping against the cement. He’d propped a shovel or something against the door, she could tell. There was no way she could get out.

“Ethan?” she heard him call in a soft, singsong voice. “Ethan? Can you come out and play?”

Eustace was going berserk, running back and forth from the living room window to the front door. He wouldn’t stop barking.

Ethan could hear a pounding below. For a moment, he thought the washing machine had malfunctioned. Then he realized it was Ruth downstairs, banging on the cellar door. He saw a shadow pass across the living room drapes. Someone was on the porch.

Past all Eustace’s barking, and that hammering downstairs, he heard Ruth screaming:
“Ethan, call 911! Ethan? Ethan?”

He ran into his bedroom and grabbed the baseball bat from his bedside. His heart was racing. The way Ruth was screaming scared him more than anything else. She’d always seemed so tough and unflappable.
This is it
, he thought. Someone was here to kill them.

Listen to her…get to a phone…call the police…

Clutching the bat, he hurried out of the bedroom. Eustace scurried into his path, and Ethan tripped over him. The dog let out a yelp as Ethan slammed against the wall and knocked over a picture. The glass in the frame shattered. The baseball bat flew out of his hands and Ethan hit the floor—hard. But he barely felt it. In a daze, he watched the bat roll to one side of the couch.

Blinking, he glanced over toward the front door. He hadn’t locked it, because he’d thought Ruth would be back from the basement in a minute.

He could still hear her screaming at him to call the police. He started to get to his feet, but then he saw the door open. Ethan froze.

Barking furiously, Eustace charged the intruder. The man darted to one side and kicked the dog in its ribs. Eustace gave out a shrill bark and recoiled. The man kicked him again—this time, out the door.

Ethan could tell he’d hurt the dog. The man was wearing the same boots he’d had on two days ago when he’d kicked the crap out of Tate Barringer.

Joe stepped in and slammed the door before Eustace could lunge at him again. “Hey, dude,” he said, with a lopsided grin. “We didn’t finish telling secrets yesterday. You owe me one.”

“What are you talking about?” Ethan asked, out of breath.

“Ethan? Ethan!”
Ruth cried out. She continued to bang on the cellar door.

Eustace couldn’t have been too hurt, because he was still barking—and scratching at the front door. Together, Ruth and Eustace were making so much noise, nearly everyone on the block could have heard them.

Joe stomped on the floor with his boot. “Hey, you, down in the basement!” he yelled. “If you don’t shut the fuck up, I’m going to hurt this kid! I mean it!”

Ethan started to get to his feet. “What do you want?”

Joe came toward him. “Tell her to shut up,” he growled.

“What—”

Joe hauled back, then slapped him across the face with such force, it sent him crashing to the floor again. For a moment, Ethan couldn’t see anything. His ears were ringing, yet he could still hear the banging downstairs and Eustace yelping. Joe was screaming at him to shut up his dog.

Ethan’s head was throbbing. Dazed, he tried to focus on Joe, who hovered over him with his fist clenched. “Want another?”

“Ruth!” Ethan called. He was surprised his mouth was still working. It felt like his jaw had been unhinged. “Ruth…please…stop! Tell, Eustace to be quiet! Please!”

All at once, the pounded ceased. “
Eustace, shut up!
” she shouted from the cellar. The dog let out one more bark, then fell silent. “
Good boy
,” Ruth called more softly.

Joe stood over him. “Where’s your old lady?”

Ethan was still trying to get his breath. The left side of his face seemed to be burning up. “She—she’s out. She won’t be back until later.”

“Where’s Al?” he asked.

“Who?”

“Al. He’s one of my buddies. He’s been watching your place for over a week—waiting for your daddy to make a return engagement. Al’s been missing since Friday night. He checked in saying he was here, casing the place. This afternoon, they found his car off Rainer Avenue—all picked apart. Where the fuck is he, kid? Did somebody whack him? Did Daddy come back and decide to be a hero?”

Ethan started to shake his head, but it hurt. “No. I—I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Who’s the bitch downstairs?” Joe asked.

“She’s a friend of my mom’s.”

Joe grinned. “Think maybe if I worked her over, she’d tell me something?”

“Tell you what? She—she doesn’t know anything either. Please…” He squirmed away, dragging himself across the floor until his shoulders were against the wall. He glanced down at his shirt and saw blood. Then he touched his mouth. He hadn’t realized his lip was bleeding until now. “Listen, if this—this—
Al
guy was watching the house, none of us saw him. I swear. Friday night we went out to eat. Nothing happened when we came home. We didn’t see anyone. We—”

Ethan stopped himself. He remembered seeing Jason Hurrell come up from the ravine late that night. He’d said Vickie had seen someone in the yard.

“What?” Joe pressed.

Ethan faked a coughing fit. “Nothing,” he said. “We didn’t see anyone. And even if we did, do you really think my mom or I could have killed your friend?”

“That’s why I was asking if your daddy came back, smartass.”

“I told you—”

The telephone rang, and Ethan immediately shut up.

Joe looked over toward the phone in the study nook. Ethan quickly glanced around for the baseball bat. It was by the sofa—behind Joe. Ethan couldn’t hope to reach it.

The answering machine clicked on. The beep sounded.
“Hi, one of you must be on the phone,”
his mother said.
“You’ll be happy to know, Ruth, I’m not calling from the car. I’m on foot—in the parking lot of the casino. I’m about to talk with this woman who knows Barry….”

Joe let out a surprised laugh.

“I’ll give you another shout when I’m finished here. In fact—Ruth, I need you to check something out for me, a new lead. So call me when you get this. Okay? Wish me luck. Love you guys.”

There was a click, and then the answering machine let out a beep.

Joe grinned at Ethan. “So—Mama’s at a casino, following a new lead? She’s talking to Daddy’s lady friend?” Joe leaned in toward him. “Something’s going on, something about your old man and where he’s hiding. Why aren’t you sharing this with your good buddy?” His hand came up to Ethan’s neck. He pushed him against the wall. “You still owe me a secret, Ethan.”