The Holiday Killer (7 page)

She felt the car dip as Phil and Bill climbed in the cruiser with her, but didn't look up from her hands. The car took off, the somber atmosphere of the crime scene pervading the air of the cruiser, none of them knowing what to say.

The bath did Liz no good. She sat and cried, and when Lisa came to make the official announcement that Jamie's body had been found, she simply sat on the couch, staring at the corner of the room. Phil and Lisa both cast worried looks at her, but they didn't intervene.

From then on, nightmares haunted Liz's dreams to the point where she had no choice but to get out of bed and sit on the couch, awake, but thinking. She could think only of Jamie, strung up over the sewer, an ode to the efforts of a madman who attacked young children.

She'd started drawing—a hobby she hadn't picked up since she left college—but it was her only outlet for the things she'd seen.

But all she drew was Jamie, hung over the sewer, in graphic detail. Every miniscule bruise was filled in, every drop of blood, to the point where looking at the images took some of the pain away, opened her detective mind to what was going on. It distracted her from the events and made her focus on the case, duplicates of every victim's file contained in her memory and her sketchpad.

Phil made the mistake of asking what she was drawing once. When she showed him the detail on Jamie's skinned ribs, he'd gone to throw up and never requested to see them again. A police-funded psychiatrist came to visit a couple of days later, and she refused to look at the pictures directly, instead simply asking Liz about them.

Planning the funeral had been horrible. She hadn't been able to focus on the arrangements, leaving Lisa and Bill to make most of the decisions. Phil added his own input, preferring that Jamie be buried on a Friday, but Liz didn't care one day to another. She took to pacing in front of his bedroom door whenever they asked about funeral arrangements, never quite able to bring herself to open it. She spent the time arguing with herself over whether or not she needed to see the spotless room, or whether to return to the kitchen and face reality.

Eventually, she always returned to the kitchen, leaving the room closed off.

She was going to find the Holiday Killer, and exact vengeance for Jamie's death.

Fuck you,
she thought, pacing in front of the door again while Phil and Rose argued over the color of the flowers in the kitchen.
I'm coming for you. Your days are numbered, so count them again. Watch your back, fucker.

*

The day of his funeral, she stopped in front of Jaime's door, wearing her best black dress, her carefully applied makeup already streaking down her cheeks. She put her hand on the door, sighing. It was time.

Then, taking a deep breath, she turned the door handle, pushed the light wood open, and stepped inside.

The room hadn't been disturbed since he'd been taken, and she stood in the middle of the room, looking around at the carefully arranged toys, the folded clothes, the swept floor. Forensics hadn't found a single piece of evidence in the room. To them, it looked like Jamie had cleaned the place up himself before being taken.

She looked at the bed and the perfectly straight rug, and gently lifted Jamie's second-favorite toy—a bear his father had given him when he was three—to look into its glassy eyes. Tears welling in her own eyes, she threw it across the room and looked at the toys gathered on his bedside table. The space that once held his five-inch plastic robot stood empty, covered in a thin layer of fingerprint dust.

He loved that damn robot.

She grabbed the remaining toys and, with the force of her anger and grief, hurled them across the room to thump into the wall. Screaming her rage, she ripped the sheets off his bed, knocked his clothes off the chair, and generally did everything she could to mess up the room.

Exhausted, she finally collapsed in the middle of the room as Phil, Bill, and Lisa barreled into the room, looking around in horror at the mess she'd created.

Liz opened her eyes from her sobbing to see the bear sitting in front of her knees, watching her. She picked it up and cradled it to her chest, just as she had Jamie when he was a baby, the bear's head over her shoulder. Phil and Lisa rushed forward to help her to her feet, ignoring the smears of makeup that covered her cheeks, and helped her from the room.

After the funeral, Bill and Lisa dropped Liz and Phil off at home. Liz headed straight for their room while Phil headed to the kitchen for a beer, neither of them talking to each other.

It's time.
He's not going to hurt anyone else.

When she got to her room, though, Liz scrambled through her clothes for her gun, but could not find it.

God fucking dammit, they took it! Shit!

She opened the drawer of her desk and dragged out her old pistol, hidden in the secret compartment at the back of the drawer. Phil didn't know about this gun, or it wouldn't still be there. Her father gave it to her before he died, and she'd kept it safe and well oiled since. She retrieved some ammunition and loaded the gun, tucking it into the empty holster thrown over the chair, and settling the holster over her shoulders before she covered it all with a coat. She glanced in the mirror, checking to make sure it didn't look out of place.

Then she grabbed some extra bullets, not knowing if she would have cause to use them tonight, but needing to have them available if she did. She tucked them into a pocket, wrapping a scarf around her neck to ward off the New Year's chill.

She crept through the house, quiet as a mouse, and stopped before she reached the kitchen. She peered around the corner, looking for Phil.

He was asleep, headphones over his ears and an empty bottle of bourbon beside his hand. So she slipped out the front door, taking the keys to his car from the tray as she went.

She rolled silently down the driveway and started the car on the road, careful not to cause too much noise. Shifting into gear, she drove off into the coming night, choosing a random direction to drive in, and hoping she would find the bastard.

That night, Liz patrolled the streets, her gun at her hip. Around 1 in the morning, a brand new Lexus slipped into traffic next to her and she glanced at it, instantly curious. What business would a rich guy have at this time of morning, this close to the docklands?

A small, barely obvious line of darkness was dripping from the back door, down the white paint. The light of a streetlight lit it up momentarily, the bright red of fresh blood attracting her attention. She sped up casually, and glanced in the window at the driver.

Mark Windsor.

Adrenaline coursing through her blood, she followed the car, fingering her gun. Could this be the lead she needed, the detail she didn't have before? He was using rich cars to move the kids, not a van or something that would stand out.

She followed him a block over, and realized he was heading to the docklands, barely a block from the station, and near to where Jamie was found. With so few cars on the road, she was forced to race ahead of him and park the car, then wait for him.

As she parked, she spotted movement in one of the fallen-down warehouses. There was definitely someone in there.

Liz climbed from the car, her gun at the ready, watching the place where she'd seen the movement. The person she'd seen had slipped around the back of the building, but there was no way to tell if anyone else was still in there. The Holiday Killer worked with someone else, the evidence said. And she was certain that he was heading here now. She needed to know if his accomplices were here as well.

She crept closer to the building, glancing through the tumbledown walls at the small shape hidden under an upturned table. She approached slowly, pulling a flashlight from her pocket and using it to aim her gun.

"Hello?" she whispered, stepping up to the body on the ground. She toed it gently and it rolled, giving her a view of the face.

Her eyes had been stripped from her body, an incision opened up under her chin, though what it was for, Liz couldn't tell.

What she could tell, though, was that the girl was clearly dead.

Liz pulled out her phone, called in a quiet rendezvous with dispatch, and stepped back, looking around. This was Tiffany Heart, the eleventh victim of the Holiday Killer, and the third girl to be taken by the madman. The scanner in her car had called in her kidnapping less than an hour ago.

Suddenly the anger that Liz had been suppressing in the week since Jamie's murder bubbled to the surface. Rage colored her feelings, convincing her that she could murder the killer if she found him. Guilt edged up her throat, but she swallowed it down, forcing herself to forget that she could have caught the killer sooner, that she could have stopped this useless murder.

And Jamie's.

But I will stop him now. He will kill no one else.

Her hands shaking from a mix of nerves, excitement, and dread, she pocketed the flashlight, her eyes adjusting to the darkness, and stepped forward carefully, feeling around with her toes.

"This is Special Detective Donhowi of the Matryville Central Police Department. You are surrounded. Lay your weapons down and you will not be harmed."

A can rattled toward her right and she aimed at it, trying to see what caused the noise. She squinted in the dark, but nothing moved. Nothing shifted, or breathed. She was alone.

She stepped sideways, keeping her eyes open, searching. She knew he was here, she knew he was watching. And she knew he knew it.

Ahead of her, a shape suddenly threw open a door and vanished into the snow, his boots slapping on the concrete outside.

"Halt, police!"

The man ran, fleeing between two of the large metal warehouses toward the river. Liz chased after him, gun up, mindful of tricks, and spotted him before he ran around a corner.

She wasn't meant to be part of this case, to keep following it now that she was suspended, and now she knew why Bill and the others tried so hard to deter her from hunting him down.

The thirst for revenge ached in the back of her neck, and she wanted—needed—the man's blood to spill across the ground. She aimed the gun at him and fired, but the bullet missed, ricocheting off the metal wall of the neighboring warehouse and making him duck.

The night lit up as police sirens cut through the air, the lights illuminating the man's face as he looked back over his shoulder. It was Mark, she saw, and he ran faster, but Liz was faster still, gaining ground on the man as she chased him over dumpsters and through narrow gaps. It was clear the man she was chasing knew the area well, and could work his way through anything as long as he was still running.

But Liz was faster, pumped up on adrenaline and thoughts of pain and guilt to drive her feet onward.

Liz ignored the cops swarming the area and raced after the killer, their cries of "Halt!" ignored as she ran.

"Liz?" she heard Lisa cry out in surprise as she jumped a car's hood and vanished down another alley after the man. "What are you doing here? Liz!"

Liz ignored her partner, taking aim at the man's fleeing back. She lost sight of him for a second, but kept going, having faith in his desire to flee. He wouldn't let himself be cornered in an alley with cops at both ends; he'd keep running.

Sure enough, he reappeared from behind a dumpster a few seconds later. Revenge colored her eyes, making her focus dwindle down to one thing: The man was getting away. She was winded and getting tired, though, and slowed her steps, taking aim at the fleeing figure's back.

"This is your last chance! Surrender or I will fire!"

He'd done it now. Mark had been caught red-handed. No longer would his bullshit lawyers be able to argue his way out of jail. This time, it was just him and the electric chair, waiting for his ass to land in it.

Good riddance, you fucker,
she thought, taking aim.

"Liz, fall back! We've got him!"

Someone inadvertently slammed into her, knocking her off-balance, but she righted herself and locked onto the fleeing man, her gun raised as she took off after him again. More police followed her, but she couldn't be sure who they were trying to accost anymore—her or the fleeing killer.

She lifted the gun, sighting as she ran, and slowing when she thought she had a shot, only to speed up again when she lost it.

Goddamn coward!
she called mentally, sighting on his back again, and letting off a shot. It hit the wall behind him, causing him to duck and change direction.
Happy to target kids, but unwilling to face an adult.

He barreled out of the alley, toward the pubs and clubs where hundreds without children celebrated the dawning of a new year.

Her lead on the police behind her was substantial, and she had enough time to stop running, aim, and squeeze the trigger before someone slammed into her from behind, knocking her into the snow.

"Get off me!"

"Liz, you absolute fool! Do you have any idea what you've done?" Lisa's voice cried from on top of her as she wrestled the gun from Liz's hand. "You shot an unarmed suspect in the back, while he was running away!"

"Let me go, Lisa. I have to see!" She rolled in the snow, managing to dislodge her partner.

Ahead of her, the police were gathered around the body of the killer, some of them with their radios out, calling it in to dispatch.

Lisa escorted her up to the cops, who stepped out of their way.

Satisfaction warmed her belly she looked upon what her bullets had done. They'd torn through his skull, splattering his brains and bones over the alley wall in front of him. She walked slowly to his side, looking at every detail.

"Good riddance to him," she said, spitting in the direction of the body. "Child-killer."

Lisa tried to wrestle her away, to restrain her from where Mark lay in the New Year's snow, but she was having none of it. She struggled, kicking snow over the body and forcing two more officers to drag her away before she completely destroyed any evidence they needed.

"And what evidence do you have, Liz? You can't prove it was him who killed Jamie!"

"Then why is he out here at this time of night, huh?" she yelled, gesturing at the man on the ground. "Run blood work on his shirt. It's his blood, and the blood from the child lying inside that warehouse. It will match her body, Lisa. I wasn't fast enough to stop him killing her, but I'll be damned if he's going to kill anyone else."

"And what the hell were you doing out here?" the other detective asked, wrestling Liz toward one of the cop cars. "It's 4:30 in the morning! If you've been keeping intel from the task force—"

"I was patrolling the streets, like I've been doing since Easter, trying to find the goddamn murderer!" Liz yelled, flailing her arms around and turning on her partner. "I can't sleep, Lisa. I can't even close my eyes without seeing him! What was I meant to do, sit in my kitchen and drink coffee until the rest of the world woke up?"

Lisa sighed, pushing Liz into the car. "I don't think you understand how bad this looks, Liz. You're out here at an ungodly hour of the morning, shooting at random people, claiming to have found a child lying dead in a building… They might lock you up for taking that shot, Liz."

"They won't," Liz said with confidence. "Look, I'll show you. Trust me."

Lisa sighed and let Liz lead her toward one of the first buildings lined up along the docklands. Through one of the tumbledown walls, Liz could see the body of Tiffany Heart, wrapped in a sack and hidden under a table.

"Do you believe me now, Lisa?"

Lisa sighed, leaning down to look at the four-year-old's body without touching it. "Murderer or not, Liz, he had a right to a fair trial—"

"Mark Windsor has a reputation in this city, not only as a child trafficker, but for sexual assault on kids. For fuck's sake, we held him as a suspect in the Holiday Killer case, and the only reason we let him go was because the DA was being paid off! Parents will be giving me medals for killing him, and good riddance to the fucker!"

"What if he's just the transport? What if he's a hostage doing the man's work? What if he's being blackmailed? You can't just kill someone and expect to be hailed a hero, Liz."

"Guess what, I just did! And to Hell with the bastard's black soul." She turned on her heel and walked away, from Lisa, the police, and the bodies. She ignored Bill as she walked past him, knocking one of the junior officers out of the way as he tried to stop her.

"Stop! You're under arrest for the murder of—"

"Call me in the morning, Bill," she said, climbing into her car and ignoring the junior cop yelling at her, his face red. "Then I might listen to you. For now, I have to see my son."

*

Six years later

"Which is how I came to sit in this office the first time," Liz said, leaning back in her chair and watching the psychiatrist. "As you would know, considering how many times you've read my notes during our talks the last few days."

Dr. Donahue blushed a little, shuffling the papers on his armchair and clearing his throat. "I just find it amazing that you managed to catch the Holiday Killer by sheer, dumb luck. How did you know to try the Docklands?"

"I didn't. As I told you, a courtroom full of judgmental pricks, and a rather long line of people wanting to buy an autobiography of me, it was luck that I saw him in the car, and then luck that he moved when he did, or I wouldn't have seen him, and he would have killed many more children before he ran out of places to hang them."