Wish You Were Dead (21 page)

My breath grew short and my heart banged in my chest. Who was he and what was he doing there? It could have been a gardener or one of the workmen Mom sometimes hired to do chores around the house. But he wasn’t carrying a rake or any tools. The shadow’s arm rose and a hand pressed against the glass as if he were trying to peer in, but the vapor was on the inside and he couldn’t wipe it away. I stayed in the hot tub, frozen with fear. If I kept perfectly still, maybe he wouldn’t see me.

The man began to walk along the sliding doors. The vapor fogging the windows didn’t extend very far. Soon he’d reach clear glass and be able to see in. I looked at the terry-cloth robe on the pool chair. Did I have time to get out of the hot tub and put it on?

No. He reached a pane of clear glass and peered in at the pool, his head slowly turning in the direction of the hot tub. Even before his eyes met mine, I thought I recognized him. The wavy hair and the chipped tooth. He was the person of interest. The one in the sketch Reilly had given the police. Only his face was covered by a short beard and his hair was longer than in the sketch, and uncombed.

I still hadn’t moved when our eyes met. For a second he actually looked startled to see me. Then his hand went to the sliding door’s handle, but it was locked from the inside. He moved to the next door and tried that, but it was also locked. He looked up and our eyes met again. He gestured with his hand for me to come and open the door from the inside.

I was frozen with fear, my stomach knotting, my chest so tight I could hardly breathe. All I could think about was getting back into the house to call for help. I looked again at the robe on the chair. His eyes followed mine and he blinked as if he knew what I was thinking. He moved down to the next sliding door and tried it. And then the next.

I was almost sure all the sliding doors were locked. Once we closed them for the winter, we never went through them. But he didn’t know that. He moved farther away along the outside of the breezeway, down to the next sliding door. What would he do once he realized all the doors were locked? I didn’t know, but I did know that I couldn’t stay in the hot tub any longer. But if I got out, he would see me. Naked.

He reached the last sliding door and tried it, but like the others, it wouldn’t open. Terrified, I watched as he looked around, up, and down, as if trying to find a way to get in.
He’s not going to stop
, I thought.
He’s going to keep trying until he gets in. He knows he can’t just go away because I’ve seen him and he knows I’ll call the police. He killed Lucy. He may have killed Adam and Courtney, as well. He’s not going to just change his mind and go away
.

I got out of the hot tub, covering myself with my hands as best as I could, and quickly pulled on the robe. He saw me and
started back along the windows. But now I wouldn’t look at him. Keeping him in the corner of my eye, I hurried along the side of the pool, toward the breezeway.

He stopped by a sliding door as if he thought I was going to open it for him. I couldn’t imagine why he would think that, and I didn’t care. When I didn’t stop to let him in, he scowled and began to jog alongside me on the other side of the glass.

“Let me in!” he yelled. “I have to talk to you.”

I started to run toward the breezeway. I had to get into the house. There was a panic button by the front door. I would trip it, then lock myself in a bathroom.

“You have to listen to me!” he yelled, still moving alongside me.

What I had to do was get to a phone and call the police. I started toward the house. Outside, the man raced ahead, trying the sliding doors that lined the breezeway. “I have to talk to you!”

Forget the panic button
, I thought.
Just get to the phone. Call the police. Then lock yourself in a bathroom
.

“Wait!” He thumped his hand against the glass.

I kept going. Up ahead, near where the breezeway met the house, someone had left a wheelbarrow and a shovel outside. The man stopped and picked up the shovel. I kept running.

Crash!
Glass shattered behind me.

Get to the phone
, I told myself as I ran.
You have to get to the phone
.

I went through the door at the end of the breezeway and into the exercise room, past the treadmill and stationary bike. From behind me came grunting and the clatter of broken glass falling to the floor.

He’d gotten in.

The next room was the kitchen.

Get to the phone. Dial 911
.

I got into the kitchen, grabbed the phone, and turned the keypad to face me. I could hear footsteps and heavy breathing coming closer. I jabbed my finger down. 9 … 1 …

The phone was ripped from my hand, and clattered to the floor. I felt his hands close tight around my arms, and looked up into his face. It was dirty, the beard untrimmed, his hair wild. He smelled of sour sweat. “You have to listen—”

I could hardly breathe from fear. My heart was speeding, my whole body shaking. My stomach felt like a rubber band twisted a thousand times. I knew what I was supposed to do.
Kick him
, I thought.
Do it!

But I’d never kicked anybody on purpose. I’d never even hit anyone. I knew it was okay. There was nothing wrong with it. It was exactly what I was supposed to do. What my parents would want me to do.

“Listen to me!” he demanded.

I shook my head and tried to twist out of his grasp, but it was no use. He was squeezing my arm so tight it hurt.

“Stop fighting!” he said.

Kick him
, I thought.
Do it!

“Listen!”

I stopped struggling. I was terrified, and dizzy. My head felt light. Everything began to spin. The floor was racing up toward me.

When my eyes opened, I was lying on my back. The lights in the kitchen ceiling were off. Something cold and wet was on my
forehead. I could hear crunching. I propped myself up on one elbow. The man was sitting on the floor beside me, eating a bowl of granola. A little white ribbon of milk trickled down his beard.

“You okay?” he asked, chewing.

I slid the wet dishtowel off my forehead and sat up. My robe was pulled down past my knees, as if he had arranged it to cover as much as possible. With one hand I pinched the collar tight around my neck. Somehow I knew he hadn’t touched me. Still, even with the robe on, I could feel my nakedness beneath. I looked around. Where was the phone?

“Don’t worry,” he said, and swallowed. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Was he saying that to get me to drop my guard? If he didn’t want to hurt me, why had he broken in? I wished I had more clothes on and wasn’t trembling so much. After swallowing to moisten my throat, I asked, “What are you doing here? What do you want with me?”

Instead of answering, he shoved another spoonful of granola into his mouth and chewed. “You can’t believe how hungry I am,” he said, his cheeks bulging.

You shouldn’t talk with your mouth full
, I thought nervously.

He swallowed. “The cops are looking for me. Your friend Tyler is looking for me. They all think I killed Megan.”

“Megan Woodworth?”

He nodded. “Tyler told you?”

“No, someone e-mailed me a newspaper article,” I said. I’d also once read an article about a woman who’d been kidnapped and had spent hours talking calmly to the kidnapper until he let
her go. But was that kidnapper a granola-eating serial killer?

He nodded and shoveled another spoonful between his lips. “Megan was my girlfriend.”

“Why is Tyler looking for you?” I asked.

He stopped chewing. “He didn’t tell you?”

I shook my head.

“Megan’s his sister.”

“But his last name is Starling and I thought her last name was Woodworth.”

“Starling?” He stared up at the kitchen ceiling as if thinking. “Oh, I get it. Clarice Starling.”

“Who?”

“The Jodie Foster character in
Silence of the Lambs,”
he said. “Tyler’s convinced himself that I’m a serial killer.”

“You’re not?”

He leveled his gaze at me and smiled slightly. “Do I strike you as a serial killer?”

He didn’t. He sounded like a reasonable, intelligent, hungry, dirty, smelly person. Was it possible that he was some kind of psychopath? One of those people you read about who acts perfectly normal and then goes out and kills people? And all the neighbors say he was such a nice, quiet man who wouldn’t hurt a fly?

“Do you have a name?” I asked.

“Ethan Landers.”

“And you’re on the run?”

He smirked. “Whatever gave you that idea?”

I realized I could add “sense of humor” to his description. No, he didn’t seem like a psychopath at all.

“Why don’t you just go to the police and tell them the truth?” I asked.

“You mean, go to them and say, ‘Hey, guys, despite the evidence you have against me, I’m really innocent’? Now there’s a novel idea. Wonder if it’s ever been tried before?” The words seethed with ironic bitterness. “I was set up to make it look like I killed Megan. You can’t believe something like that could actually happen in real life, and then it does and it’s just uncomprehendable. And maybe the police don’t have all the evidence against me that they’d like to have, but they have enough to charge me and make me stand trial. And then I either have to hire an experienced lawyer, which costs a fortune and there’s no way I can afford it, or I have to put my fate in the hands of some overworked, inexperienced public defender. Think about it. Your entire life in the hands of some guy or girl who just got out of law school six months ago, has way more cases than he can possibly handle, probably little or no experience with murder cases, and he’s supposed to defend you for a killing you didn’t even commit? It’s like something out of Kafka. Would you take that chance?”

I shook my head. He sounded as rational and logical as anyone I knew.

“Yeah, well, neither would I,” he said. “Running from the law is probably the stupidest thing I’ve ever done, but at least I feel like my fate is in my hands. At least this way I have a chance to prove I’m innocent and show them what’s really going on.”

“And what is really going on?”

He told me.

*  *  *

Ethan was the one whose footsteps I’d heard in the boatyard, where he’d been hiding in the dry-docked boats ever since he’d arrived in Soundview. It was he who’d left the notes and slashed my tires. He’d done it to make sure I didn’t go to Courtney’s the night she’d had that get-together. He was worried that something bad might happen to me.

“Why me?”

“I’d heard about you. You sounded like my best chance at finding someone I could trust. I need someone on the inside. Someone who knows everyone and can tell me what’s going on.”

It all sounded logical and plausible. Why do we believe one stranger and not another? I wondered. What made me think I was smart enough to tell the difference between honesty and a well-disguised lie? Could I take that chance?

He seemed to know what I was thinking. “Give me ten minutes on your computer, okay? Let me show you what I know. Then you can decide for yourself what to do.”

To let him use my computer would mean letting him into my bedroom, and I didn’t want to do that. “You can use my mom’s.” I pointed at the laptop in her office beside the kitchen.

Ethan sat down. I stood behind him. Now that he’d been inside for a while and had warmed up, the sour scent of his body odor was even stronger.

“Have you heard about any break-ins at veterinary clinics around here?” he asked as he searched for sites.

“The police have been asking veterinarians about halothane. And it was mentioned in the newspaper story I read.”

“That’s what she uses to knock out her victims. Any news
about people finding animals with their eyes gouged out?”

The thought was revolting. But not as horrible as the realization that followed. “Oh my God!”

Ethan looked quizzically over his shoulder at me. I had to sit down. My stomach turned inside out and I crossed my arms and doubled over.
Lucy! Oh, no! Oh, God! How awful! How unbearably horrible!

“You okay?” Ethan asked.

“There’s this person who sends me anonymous messages,” I said. “I don’t know if it’s a guy or a girl. The last message I got asked if I could believe what they did to my friend’s eyes. The one they found near school. I didn’t know what that meant.”

Ethan nodded grimly. “I’m sorry.”

My eyes teared up and I squeezed them shut.
Will it ever stop?
I wondered.
Or will each day bring some new, more horrible news?

“I don’t know if you want to read this.” He pointed at the computer screen. I stood up and looked. It was an article from the
Shawnee Mission Gazette-Recorder
about a break-in at a veterinary clinic. Then he showed me another story that appeared a few weeks later about some feral cats found by the side of the road with their eyes gouged out and traces of halothane in their systems.

“Wait,” I said. “The newspaper article I read about Megan’s friend Molly said something about a mutilation, too.”

Ethan nodded knowingly. “If you go back and search for instances of break-ins in veterinary clinics, and you match them to stories about finding animals with their eyes gouged out, you’ll find matches in Florida, the state of Washington, southern California, and Kansas, where I’m from.”

“What about Megan?” I asked.

Ethan shrugged and said sadly, “Who knows? They’ve never found her.”

“Oh, God, this is awful,” I said.

Ethan started a new search, talking to me as he typed. “Have you ever heard of Nemesis?”

“It’s a word.”

“It’s also the Greek goddess of revenge,” Ethan said. “She’s got some kind of connection to it. After Molly disappeared, Megan told me she’d gotten a couple of really strange e-mails from someone calling themselves Nemesis.”

Results began to appear in the screen—comments on blogs, but nothing that appeared recognizable.

“Try
Lucy Cunningham
and
Nemesis,”
I said.