The River Runs Dry (16 page)

“Maybe I should head over there, get some answers. This is my case, my responsibility...”

“Jack, you need some sleep. When was the last time you rested?”

“I don't need to rest, Bill, I need to find this killer. I'm going to Kanton. I need answers...”

“NO JACK,” shouted the chief, his voice carrying heavily from wall to wall.

Jack turned back to him and stared into his eyes. They were burning as his were, his rage restrained.

“You're going to do as you're ordered detective. You cannot operate unless you're fully rested. Goddamn it Jack, you look like you haven't slept in days. Now this is an order: go home, sleep, relax, watch a fucking film, just do something that will reset your batteries. Then come back tomorrow and find this son of a bitch.”

“But sir...”

“I'll liaise with the police in Kanton and find out what happened. Frankly, I don't think we're going to learn anything new.”

Jack was silenced, his will beginning to break.
Maybe he's right. Maybe I do need to rest, switch off for a day.

He knew, though, that that would be a lot easier said than done.

Chapter 18

Several days passed by as the news of the night of the storm began to settle in. For everyone, not just those directly affected by it, it was torture to hear about, torture to read about, torture to know about.

A boy killed by his sister because of fear. Fear that this hidden terror would strike, that he'd appear at your door in the middle of the night, his hand clasping a knife, his eyes as dark as the devil's.

He was everywhere now, his presence invading people dreams, their waking thoughts, causing them to act irrationally. Half the town now had weapons by their beds, largely on the advice of the police in the media, advice that Jack himself had given to Jessie in LA.

He felt partially responsible for the boy's death. He'd help pen the warning, he'd told Jessie to get a gun, something she may well have passed onto her friend, her best friend, Darcia. That advice had led to death, and it all came from Jack's lips.

His rational side knew that the advice was sound, that it was the right thing to do to protect yourself when such a threat was in town. But the other side of him, the side dominated by emotion and grief and guilt, kept eating away, creeping into his head more and more.

It was his fault. His fault the girl had a gun by her side. His fault that this killer was still on the loose. He should have caught him by now. He should have been able to outsmart him, but he couldn't.

And now fear continued to consume the town, a fear that had manifested itself as death, and all the while the real killer was in another town, finishing off a job he started. He was relentless, smart, and willing to take risks. The game, Jack knew, had been raised. This wasn't just any killer. This man was playing them all for fools.

The truth of the incident at the hospital came out.

There had been a cop on duty every night since the girl had been admitted to hospital, and that night was no different. It turned out the cop in question had developed a sudden and serious illness, causing him to vomit violently. When he got back from the toilet, he'd looked through the glass to see Leanne Graves frothing at the mouth, her body slumped and still.

When examined, traces of ipecac were found in his blood, a syrup that induces vomiting. He recalled a blond doctor had given him a cup of coffee, not long before the episode, which he mistakenly took and drank without a second thought. After all, he was in the middle of a long vigil outside the patient's room and needed to stay awake.

It was an honest mistake, but one that led to the girl's death. The CCTV inside the hospital proved as much, showing this blond doctor passing the guard the poisoned drink, before waiting nearby for him to rush to the toilet, the nearest of which happened to be a fair way down the corridor.

Outside the hospital his cloak was found, with the used syringe in the pocket. The killer made no move to hide it, no move to conceal the murder weapon. No, he already knew they were of no worth to the police. He'd walked in, killed the girl, and walked out, without leaving to much as a trace, without giving the cops anything new to work with.

On one night, he'd managed to kill twice. One through stealth and cunning, the other through sheer fear of his presence.

But what interested Jack the most was his willingness to risk discovery to kill Leanne Graves. There were numerous variables that could have led to his capture, many things that could have gone wrong. Yet he did it anyway.

It proved, even more than he already knew, that once he had a target, he would not finish until the job was done. Once he'd made his mind up to kill someone, that was it. They'd die, one way or another, or he'd get caught. There was no middle ground.

…

Jessie felt numb.

Her best friend was drifting, and there was nothing she could do.

She'd killed her own brother. Her own brother! How could anyone ever get over that. It was hard enough for Jessie, knowing the family as she did. She'd known Tim since he was a toddler, ever since she was a young girl herself. He'd been like a little brother to her too, just as Jessie was like her sister.

But she had no energy to devote to her own grief. Grief over Taylor, grief over Tim. Now her mind was set on her friend, how awful she must feel, how empty the world must appear around her. No words could help now, there was nothing that could drag her from the pit that was closing in, the top getting further and further away as she tried to climb out.

Yet she wasn't trying to climb out, not yet. Jessie didn't know if she ever would. She was consumed by guilt, a guilt that was heavier than anything Jessie had ever felt. She'd moped for years after the death of her mom, and now all she could think of was how self indulgent she'd been.

That grief was hers, and hers alone to bear. Now everyone was grieving, the town was crying. People were saying the storm was like the accumulation of the town's tears, puddles of pain lying everywhere. It took days for them to dry, the rain continuing to fall in patches as the tail end of the storm kept on coming for several days.

It was as though the drought was brought to an end by the suffering of the people, as if God had said, “they're suffering enough, let's give them this.”

But Jessie didn't believe any of that. It was all bullshit. No, there was no God looking down on this place. He'd been usurped. The devil held dominion over this town now.

But life had to go on.

Soon, Darcia would be able to move on. Maybe she'd never feel normal again, but she'd learn to deal with what had happened. No one blamed her for it, not a single person in town. Her parents, as bereaved and brokenhearted as they must have been, never said a word against her. On the contrary, if there were question marks in the press, it was relating to their absence, the fact that they'd left their children alone at such a time.

But they were unfounded criticisms, and no one paid them any notice. Life couldn't stop, and a holiday, planned for months, shouldn't be canceled through fear. Darcia was a grown woman, 23 years old, and was perfectly capable of taking care of her 17 year old brother for a week. No blame could be attached to the parents, particularly in such times difficult times.

Jessie visited her often, as often as she could. She knew she needed all the support she could get. It was hard enough losing a brother you loved, but feeling responsible for it, Jessie couldn't even imagine how that must feel. No one could, no one but Darcia. To see such a smiley girl, someone so gregarious and upbeat, swallowed up in fear and grief and guilt was tragic.

But it was only one of several tragedies that the people of Burgess had suffered in recent weeks. The murder of Leanne Graves in her hospital bed shook the town further still. If she wasn't safe in a hospital with a guard on duty outside, who was?

There was talk in the town among many families of moving away, leaving and starting a new life somewhere else. But it wasn't as easy as that. Kids were in school, parents had their jobs, their homes. For many, Burgess was becoming a prison, somewhere you couldn't escape from, somewhere where you lived in fear.

Girls even started dying their hair. It had become well known now that this killer had a particular appetite for brunettes, those with blue eyes. The press, and even the police, had made this evidently clear. They did it to ensure that these girls were prepared for the worst, that they'd take the threat seriously.

So suddenly the ratio of brunettes to blondes in the town changed dramatically. Some of them even started wearing contact lenses to change the color of their eyes. But still, no one knew when the Butcher would strike again,
if
he'd strike again.

Somehow, it was the not knowing that was the worst of all.

Chapter 19

Jack's office was becoming ever more cluttered as the weeks went by. The walls were covered in notes and pictures and maps; his desk was filled with files and documents and transcripts.

It had been more than a week now since the deaths of Tim Robinson and Leanne Graves on the same night, and Jack had spent just about every waking hour he had meticulously going through all of the evidence he'd gathered.

It all went round and round in his head like a carousel, his mind working to find a solution, find a link between everything. He knew the killer had a hybrid accent, suggesting he'd lived in Burgess and perhaps moved south when he was still young, young enough for the change to leave an impression.

He might have started south and then moved into town, but no. That wasn't it. It was Burgess that held the special meaning for him, Burgess where he was hunting. He'd lived here before, he'd suffered here before, and now he was making the people suffer like he had.

Jack had spent the last couple of days trawling through old residency documents, searching for families that might have moved with a young son, or sons that had been sent away. He went to schools in the area and spoke to teachers who'd been there for decades, asking of any boy who might have left at a young age, who might have seemed troubled or shown signs of having difficulties at home, away from the classroom.

No answers came, nothing that could help him.

It wasn't until he was speaking with Bill that something clicked, a ghost of the town's past long since swept to the back of its collective consciousness.

Jack was discussing his theory with him, filling him in on the killer's look, on his accent, on the theory that he'd had a troubled upbringing, particularly relating to his mother. That's why he was targeting brunettes with blue eyes, young and slim and attractive. It was his mother he was killing over and over again.

As Jack spoke, Bill's mind turned to the past, digging up a story that had disgusted the town nearly two decades ago. He spoke, and Jack listened, his pulse racing faster with every word.

“It was back in 1994,” Bill said. “That was another warm summer, a bit like this one, though not quite as bad. I was a regular cop back then, and I was called to a neighborhood on the outskirts of town. Blackwater, do you know the place?”

Jack nodded. “I know of it, but haven't been there yet.”

“It's a decent place now, the big building companies came in and developed it all about 15 years ago. But back then in '94 it was pretty horrible. The houses weren't houses but shacks, and half that neighborhood were living in the dirt, scratching around for money. The town had a higher crime rate back then, mainly petty theft and assault, that sort of thing. They always came from Blackwater, whenever they were caught. It was just that sort of place, you know, before the redevelopment.”

Jack sat in silence, watching as Bill recounted the story, wondering exactly where it was leading. He did have a ponderous way about him sometimes, a symptom of living the quiet life out here for a little too long.

“So, when I was called out to Blackwater,” he continued, his eyes narrowing, “I thought I knew what I was getting myself into. Another case of domestic violence or some row between neighbors or something.”

“So what was it?” asked Jack, his interest growing.

“Murder. Well, if you can call a 9 year old killing someone murder.”

Jack's eyes narrowed quickly. “A 9 year old?”

“A 9 year old boy, yes. He killed his mother and stabbed another woman who was in the house with him.”

“Jesus, and the father?”

“There was no father,” Bill said. “It was just him and his mother. I found the boy sitting up by a wall in this run down kitchen, a bloodied knife in his hand. He'd stabbed his mother in the neck and face, and the other woman in the stomach.”

Jack was shaking his head in mild disbelief. “How did a 9 year old manage that? Why did he do it?”

“Well this is where your theory fits in Jack. The boy said that his mother touched him, hurt him, abused him. He had bruises and cuts all over him....”

Jack's mind quickly turned back to Leanne's description of the killer.
Cuts and burns on his forearms
. That's what she'd told him.

“On his forearms?” Jack asked quickly, his pulse racing. “Cuts and burns and scars?”

Bill nodded. “Everywhere, Jack, everywhere.”

“Leanne Graves told me the killer had cuts and burns on his forearms Bill! A boy, abused by his mother and friend. That's why he kills in pairs! That's why he uses a knife,” he said, his mind racing, “because he killed his mother with a knife when he was a boy. What happened to the woman, the other woman?”

Jack was talking quickly now, Bill struggling to keep up.

“Um, she survived, tried to press charges, and then left town soon after. I don't know where,” he said, seeing the next question on the tip of Jack's tongue.

“And the boy. What happened to him?”

“Well, he was too young to press charges or do anything with. He saw a psychologist for a little while who recommended he be sent to live with family....”

“In the south?” Jack cut in.

The memory washed over Bill's head. “Yes.”