Shadowkiller (38 page)

And then there were three . . .

No. Don't think about that.

Just find out where the notebook was hidden, and how much Sandra Lutz knows about what's written in it
.

Down they go, descending another steep flight to the second floor.

Here, the hallway is much wider than the one above, with high ceilings, crown moldings, and broad windowed nooks on either end. A dark green floral runner stretches along the hardwood floor and the wallpapered walls are studded with elaborate sconces that were, like most light fixtures throughout the house, converted from gas to electricity after the turn of the last century.

“The same thing was probably done in my house,” Sandra comments as they walk along the hall, “but I'd love to go back to gaslights. Of course, the inspector who looked at it before I got the mortgage approval nearly had a heart attack when I mentioned that. He said the place is a firetrap as it is. Old wiring, you know—the whole thing needs to be upgraded. It's the same in this house, I'm sure.”

“I'm sure.”

The mid-segment of the hall opens up with an elaborately carved wooden railing along one side. This is the balcony of the grand staircase—that's what Sandra likes to call it, anyway—that leads down to the entrance hall. Or foyer, pronounced
foy-yay
by Sandra.

Realtors, apparently, like to embellish.

The master bedroom at the far end of the hallway isn't large by today's standards. And it isn't a suite by any stretch of the imagination, lacking a private bath, dressing room, or walk-in closet.

But that, of course, is what Sandra Lutz calls it as she opens the door for the second time today:
the master suite.

The room does look bigger and brighter than it did years ago, when it was filled with a suite of dark, heavy furniture and long draperies shielding the windows. Now bright summer sunlight floods the room, dappled by the leafy branches of a towering maple in the front yard.

“Here.” Sandra walks over to the far end of the room and indicates decorative paneling on the lower wall adjacent to the bay window. “This is what I was talking about. See how this wainscot doesn't match the rest of the house? Everywhere else, it's more formal, with raised panels, curved moldings, beaded scrolls. But this is a recessed panel—Mission style, not Victorian. Much more modern. The wood is thinner.”

She's right. It is.

“And this”—she knocks on the maroon brocade wallpaper above it, exactly the same pattern but noticeably less faded than it is elsewhere in the room—“isn't plaster like the other walls in the house. It's drywall. Did you know that?”

“No.”

There wasn't even wainscoting on that end of the room twenty years ago. Obviously, someone—Father?—rebuilt the wall and added the wainscoting, then repapered it, undoubtedly using one of the matching rolls stored years ago on a shelf in the dirt-floored basement.

“There's a spot along here . . .” Sandra reaches toward the panels, running her fingertips along the molding of the one in the middle. She presses down, and it swings open. “There. There it is. See?”

Dust particles from the gaping dark hole behind the panel dance like glitter into sunbeams falling through the bay windows.

“Like I said, it's about two feet deep. I wish I had a flashlight so that I could show you, but . . . see the floor in there? It's refinished, exactly like this.”

She points to the hardwoods beneath their feet. “In the rest of the house, the hidden compartments have rough, unfinished wood. So obviously, this cubby space was added in recent years—it must have been while your family owned the house, because as I said, the room was two feet longer when it was listed by the previous owner.”

“When you opened the panel, was there . . . was this all that was inside?”

“The notebook?” Sandra nods. “That was it. It was just sitting on the floor in there, wrapped in the rosary. I gave it to you just the way I found it. I figured it might be some kind of diary or maybe a prayer journal . . . ?”

The question hangs like the dust particles in the air between them and then falls away unanswered.

Predictably, Sandra waits only a few seconds before filling the awkward pause. “I just love old houses. So much character. So many secrets.”

Sandra, you have no idea. Absolutely no idea.

“Is there anything else you wanted to ask about this or . . . anything?”

“No. Thank you for showing me.”

“You're welcome. Should I . . . ?” She gestures at the wainscot panel.

“Please.”

Sandra pushes the panel back into place, and the hidden compartment is obscured—but not forgotten, by any means.

Does the fact that the Realtor speculated whether the notebook is a diary or prayer journal mean she really didn't remove the rosary beads and read it when she found it?

Or is she trying to cover up the fact that she did?

Either way . . .

I can't take any chances. Sorry, Sandra. You know where I live . . . now it's my turn to find out where you live
.

That shouldn't be hard.

An online search of recent real estate transactions on Wayside Avenue should be sufficient.

How ironic that Sandra Lutz had brought up Sacred Sisters' proximity to her new house before the contents of the notebook had been revealed. In that moment, the mention of Sacred Sisters had elicited nothing more than a vaguely unpleasant memory of an imposing neighborhood landmark.

Now, however . . .

Now that I know what happened there . . .

The mere thought of the old school brings a shudder, clenched fists, and a resolve for vengeance. That Sandra Lutz lives nearby seems to make her, by some twisted logic, an accessory to a crime that must not go unpunished any longer.

They descend the so-called grand staircase to the first floor.

“Shall we go out the front door or the back?”

“Front.”

It's closer, and the need to get out of this old house, with its dark, unsettling secrets and lies, is growing more urgent.

“I thought you might like to take a last look around before—”

“No, thank you.”

“All right, front door it is. I never really use it at my own house,” Sandra confides as she turns a key sticking out of the double-cylinder deadbolt and opens one of the glass-windowed double doors. “I have a detached garage and the back door is closer to it, so that's how I come and go.”

Oh, for God's sake, who cares?

“You know, your mother just had these locks installed about a year ago. She was afraid to be alone at night after your father passed away.”

Mother? Afraid to be alone?

Mother, afraid of anything at all—other than the wrath of God or Satan?

I don't think so.

“What makes you assume that?”

“Not an assumption,” Sandra says defensively, stepping out onto the stoop and holding the door open. “Bob Witkowski told me that's what she said.”

“
Who?
”

“Bob Witkowski. You know Al Witkowski, the mover? He lives right around the corner now, on Redbud Street, in an apartment above the dry cleaner's. His wife just left him. Anyway, Bob is his brother. He's a locksmith. I had him install these same double-cylinder deadbolts in my house when I first moved in, because I have windows in my front door, too. You can't be too careful when you're a woman living alone—I'm sure your mother knew that.”

“Yes.” The wheels are turning, turning, turning . . .

Stomach churning, churning, churning at the memory of Mother.

Mother, who constantly quoted the Ten Commandments, then broke the eighth with a lie so mighty that surely she'd lived out the rest of her days terrified by the prospect of burning in hell for all eternity.

“A lock like this is ideal for an old house with original glass-paned doors, because the only way to open it, even from the inside, is with a key,” Sandra is saying as she closes the door behind them and inserts the same key into the outside lock. “No one can just break the window on the door and reach inside to open it. Some people leave the key right in the lock so they can get out quickly in an emergency, but that defeats the purpose, don't you think? I keep my own keys right up above my doors, sitting on the little ledges of molding. It would only take me an extra second to grab the key and get out if there was a fire.”

“Mmm hmm.”

“Of course, now that it's summer, I keep my windows open anyway, so I guess that fancy lock doesn't do much for me, does it? I really should at least fix the broken screen in the mudroom. Anyone could push through it and hop in.”

It's practically an invitation.

Stupid, stupid woman.

Sandra gives a little chuckle. “Good thing this is still such a safe neighborhood, right?”

“Absolutely.”

Yes, and thanks to Sandra's incessant babble, a plan has taken shape.

A plan that, if one were inclined to fret about breaking the Ten Commandments—
which I most certainly am not—
blatantly violates the fifth.

Thou Shalt Not Kill.

Oh, but I shall.

It won't be the first time.

And it definitely won't be the last.

If you missed

Wendy Corsi Staub's

first two books in this thrilling series,

take a look at

NIGHTWATCHER

and

SLEEPWALKER

On sale now!

An Excerpt from

NIGHTWATCHER

 

September 10, 2001

Quantico, Virginia

6:35
P.M.

C
ase closed.

Vic Shattuck clicks the mouse, and the Southside Strangler file—the one that forced him to spend the better part of August in the rainy Midwest, tracking a serial killer—disappears from the screen.

If only it were that easy to make it all go away in real life.

“If you let it, this stuff will eat you up inside like cancer,” Vic's FBI colleague Dave Gudlaug told him early in his career, and he was right.

Now Dave, who a few years ago reached the bureau's mandatory retirement age, spends his time traveling with his wife. He claims he doesn't miss the work.

“Believe me, you'll be ready to put it all behind you, too, when the time comes,” he promised Vic.

Maybe, but with his own retirement seven years away, Vic is in no hurry to move on. Sure, it might be nice to spend uninterrupted days and nights with Kitty, but somehow, he suspects that he'll never be truly free of the cases he's handled—not even those that are solved. For now, as a profiler with the Behavioral Science Unit, he can at least do his part to rid the world of violent offenders.

“You're still here, Shattuck?”

He looks up to see Special Agent Annabelle Wyatt. With her long legs, almond-shaped dark eyes, and flawless ebony skin, she looks like a supermodel—and acts like one of the guys.

Not in a let's-hang-out-and-have-a-few-laughs way; in a let's-cut-the-bullshit-and-get-down-to-business way.

She briskly hands Vic a folder. “Take a look at this and let me know what you think.”

“Now?”

She clears her throat. “It's not urgent, but . . .”

Yeah, right. With Annabelle, everything is urgent.

“Unless you were leaving . . .” She pauses, obviously waiting for him to tell her that he'll take care of it before he goes.

“I was.”

Without even glancing at the file, Vic puts it on top of his in-box. The day's been long enough and he's more than ready to head home.

Kitty is out at her book club tonight, but that's okay with him. She called earlier to say she was leaving a macaroni and cheese casserole in the oven. The homemade kind, with melted cheddar and buttery breadcrumb topping.

Better yet, both his favorite hometown teams—the New York Yankees and the New York Giants—are playing tonight. Vic can hardly wait to hit the couch with a fork in one hand and the TV remote control in the other.

“All right, then.” Annabelle turns to leave, then turns back. “Oh, I heard about Chicago. Nice work. You got him.”

“You mean
her
.”

Annabelle shrugs. “How about
it
?”

“
It
. Yeah, that works.”

Over the course of Vic's career, he hasn't seen many true cases of MPD—multiple personality disorder—but this was one of them.

The elusive Southside Strangler turned out to be a woman named Edie . . . who happened to live inside a suburban single dad named Calvin Granger.

Last June, Granger had helplessly watched his young daughter drown in a fierce Lake Michigan undertow. Unable to swim, he was incapable of saving her.

Weeks later, mired in frustration and anguish and the brunt of his grieving ex-wife's fury, he picked up a hooker. That was not unusual behavior for him. What happened after that
was
.

The woman's nude, mutilated body was found just after dawn in Washington Park, electrical cable wrapped around her neck. A few days later, another corpse turned up in the park. And then a third.

Streetwalking and violent crime go hand in hand; the Southside's slain hookers were, sadly, business as usual for the jaded cops assigned to that particular case.

For urban reporters, as well. Chicago was in the midst of a series of flash floods this summer; the historic weather eclipsed the coverage of the Southside Strangler in the local press. That, in retrospect, was probably a very good thing. The media spotlight tends to feed a killer's ego—and his bloodlust.

Only when the Strangler claimed a fourth victim—an upper-middle-class mother of three living a respectable lifestyle—did the case become front-page news. That was when the cops called in the FBI.

For Vic, every lost life carries equal weight. His heart went out to the distraught parents he met in Chicago, parents who lost their daughters twice: first to drugs and the streets, and ultimately to the monster who murdered them.

The monster, like most killers, had once been a victim himself.

It was a textbook case: Granger had been severely abused—essentially tortured—as a child. The MPD was, in essence, a coping mechanism. As an adult, he suffered occasional, inexplicable episodes of amnesia, particularly during times of overwhelming stress.

He genuinely seemed to have no memory of anything “he” had said or done while Edie or one of the other, nonviolent alters—alternative personalities—were in control of him.

“By the way,” Annabelle cuts into Vic's thoughts, “I hear birthday wishes are in order.”

Surprised, he tells her, “Actually, it was last month—while I was in Chicago.”

“Ah, so your party was belated, then.”

His party. This past Saturday night, Kitty surprised him by assembling over two dozen guests—family, friends, colleagues—at his favorite restaurant near Dupont Circle.

Feeling a little guilty that Annabelle wasn't invited, he informs her, “I wouldn't call it a
party
. It was more like . . . it was just dinner, really. My wife planned it.”

But then, even if Vic himself had been in charge of the guest list, Supervisory Special Agent Wyatt would not have been on it.

Some of his colleagues are also personal friends. She isn't one of them.

It's not that he has anything against no-nonsense women. Hell, he married one.

And he respects Annabelle just as much as—or maybe even more than—just about anyone else here. He just doesn't necessarily
like
her much—and he suspects the feeling is mutual.

“I hear that it was an enjoyable evening,” she tells him with a crisp nod, and he wonders if she's wistful. She doesn't sound it—or look it. But for the first time, it occurs to Vic that her apparent social isolation might not always be by choice.

He shifts his weight in his chair. “It's my wife's thing, really. Kitty's big on celebrations. She'll go all out for any occasion. Years ago, she threw a party when she potty trained the twins.”

As soon as the words are out of his mouth, he wants to take them back—and not just because mere seconds ago he was insisting that Saturday night was
not
a party. Annabelle isn't the kind of person with whom you discuss children, much less potty training them. She doesn't have a family, but if she did, Vic is certain she'd keep the details—particularly the bathroom details—to herself.

Well, too bad. I'm a family man.

After Annabelle bids him a stiff good night and disappears down the corridor, Vic shifts his gaze to the framed photos on his desk. One is of him and Kitty on their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary last year; the other, more recent, shows Vic with all four of the kids at the high school graduation last June of his twin daughters.

The girls left for college a few weeks ago. He and Kitty are empty-nesters now—well, Kitty pretty much rules the roost, as she likes to say, since Vic is gone so often.

“So which is it—a nest or a roost?” he asked her the other day, to which she dryly replied, “Neither. It's a coop, and you've been trying to fly it for years, but you just keep right on finding your way back, don't you.”

She was teasing, of course. No one supports Vic's career as wholeheartedly as Kitty does, no matter how many nights it's taken him away from home over the years. It was her idea in the first place that he put aside his planned career as a psychiatrist in favor of the FBI.

All because of a series of murders that terrorized New York thirty years ago, and captivated a young local college psych major.

“Back when I first met him, Vic was obsessed with unsolved murders,” Kitty announced on Saturday night when she stood up to toast him at his birthday dinner, “and since then, he's done an incredible job solving hundreds of them.”

True—with one notable exception.

Years ago, the New York killings stopped abruptly. Vic would like to think it's because the person who committed them is no longer on this earth.

If by chance he is, then he's almost certainly been sidelined by illness or incarceration for some unrelated crime.

After all, while there are exceptions to every rule, most serial killers don't just stop. Everything Vic has learned over the years about their habits indicates that once something triggers a person to cross the fine line that divides disturbed human beings from cunning predators, he's compelled to keep feeding his dark fantasies until, God willing, something—or someone—stops him.

In a perfect world, Vic is that someone.

But then, a perfect world wouldn't be full of disturbed people who are, at any given moment, teetering on the brink of reality.

Typically, all it takes is a single life stressor to push one over the edge. It can be any devastating event, really—a car accident, job loss, bankruptcy, a terminal diagnosis, a child's drowning . . .

Stressors like those can create considerable challenges for a mentally healthy person. But when fate inflicts that kind of pressure on someone who's already dangerously unbalanced . . . well, that's how killers are born.

Though Vic has encountered more than one homicidal maniac whose spree began with a wife's infidelity, the triggering crisis doesn't necessarily have to hit close to home. Even a natural disaster can be prime breeding ground.

A few years ago in Los Angeles, a seemingly ordinary man—a fine, upstanding Boy Scout leader—went off the deep end after the Northridge earthquake leveled his apartment building. Voices in his head told him to kill three strangers in the aftermath, telling him they each, in turn, were responsible for the destruction of his home.

Seemingly
ordinary. Ah, you just never know. That's what makes murderers—particularly serial murderers—so hard to catch. They aren't always troubled loners; sometimes they're hiding in plain sight: regular people, married with children, holding steady jobs . . .

And sometimes, they're suffering from a mental disorder that plenty of people—including some in the mental health profession—don't believe actually exists.

Before Vic left Chicago, as he was conducting a jailhouse interview with Calvin Granger, Edie took over Calvin's body.

The transition occurred without warning, right before Vic's incredulous eyes. Everything about the man changed—not just his demeanor, but his physical appearance and his voice. A doctor was called in, and attested that even biological characteristics like heart rate and vision had been altered. Calvin could see twenty-twenty. Edie was terribly nearsighted. Stunning.

It wasn't that Calvin
believed
he was an entirely different person, a woman named Edie—he
was
Edie. Calvin had disappeared into some netherworld, and when he returned, he had no inkling of what had just happened, or even that time had gone by.

The experience would have convinced even a die-hard skeptic, and it chilled Vic to the bone.

Case closed, yes—but this one is going to give him nightmares for a long time to come.

Vic tidies his desk and finds himself thinking fondly of the old days at the bureau—and a colleague who was Annabelle Wyatt's polar opposite.

John O'Neill became an agent around the same time Vic did. Their career paths, however, took them in different directions: Vic settled in with the BSU, while O'Neill went from Quantico to Chicago and back, then on to New York, where he eventually became chief of the counterterrorism unit. Unfortunately, his career with the bureau ended abruptly a few weeks ago amid a cloud of controversy following the theft—on his watch—of a briefcase containing sensitive documents.

When it happened, Vic was away. Feeling the sudden urge to reconnect, he searches through his desk for his friend's new phone number, finds it, dials it. A secretary and then an assistant field the call, and finally, John comes on the line.

“Hey, O'Neill,” Vic says, “I just got back from Chicago and I've been thinking about you.”

“Shattuck! How the hell are you? Happy birthday. Sorry I couldn't make it Saturday night.”

“Yeah, well . . . I'm sure you have a good excuse.”

“Valerie dragged me to another wedding. You know how that goes.”

“Yeah, yeah . . . how's the new job?”

“Cushy,” quips O'Neill, now chief of security at the World Trade Center in New York City. “How's the big 5–0?”

“Not cushy. You'll find out soon enough, won't you?”

“February. Don't remind me.”

Vic shakes his head, well aware that turning fifty, after everything O'Neill has dealt with in recent months, will be a mere blip.

They chat for a few minutes, catching up, before O'Neill says, “Listen, I've got to get going. Someone's waiting for me.”

“Business or pleasure?”

“My business is always a pleasure, Vic. Don't you know that by now?”

“Where are you off to tonight?”

“I'm having drinks with Bob Tucker at Windows on the World to talk about security for this place, and it's a Monday night, so . . .”

“Elaine's.” Vic is well aware of his friend's long-standing tradition.

“Right. How about you?”

“It's a Monday night, so—”

“Football.”

“Yeah. I've got a date with the couch and remote. Giants are opening their season—and the Yankees are playing the Red Sox, too. Clemens is pitching. Looks like I'll be channel surfing.”