Black Lightning (37 page)

CHAPTER 53

I
t was mid-afternoon when Anne finally returned to her office. She felt utterly worn out, as if she’d had no sleep for at least a week, but she knew that sleeplessness had nothing to do with the exhaustion consuming her. Flopping down into her chair, she sat, head in hands, for almost a full minute, before reaching out to switch her monitor on and erase the sidebar she’d been writing when Mark Blakemoor called. The empty screen seemed to mock her after the story disappeared.

It was not just a single story that had disappeared; it was years out of her life.

She tapped at the keyboard for a few seconds and a directory scrolled down the screen, listing all the articles she had written about Richard Kraven over the years.

Richard Kraven, who was now dead and buried.

Richard Kraven, who, if Mark Blakemoor was right, had not been the man they should have been looking for.

Not been the man they tried.

Not been the man they executed.

She called up one piece after another, reading snatches of what she’d written, starting from the very beginning, when the first mutilated body had been found down in Seward Park.

The next body had turned up below Snoqualmie Falls a month later, and another one had been found near Lake Sammamish within a week. Even then there had been no particular “type” that had seemed to attract the killer, no common trait that might have triggered his urge to kill.

The path that had led to Richard Kraven was tortuous. At the time—even now—there was no direct evidence to link him to any of the murders.

No witnesses.

No bloodstains.

No murder weapon.

Slowly, though, a fuzzy image had emerged.

People reported having seen some of the victims talking to someone.

A man.

And as more and more bodies were discovered, a faint pattern did finally start to appear: most of the victims had spent considerable time in the University District. Some lived there. Some worked there. Some actually went to the university.

Then a sharper picture began to emerge, a picture of a man who had been seen talking with some of the victims.

A man whose Identikit sketch, when it was finally put together, looked a great deal like Richard Kraven.

A few people had mentioned having seen a motor home near some of the places where bodies were found.

Richard Kraven had owned a motor home, which he’d used—

Anne felt her stomach tighten as she remembered, even without reading it, what Richard Kraven had used his motor home for.

Fishing trips!

Sheila Harrar had mentioned it just a few days ago. When her son had left their apartment in Yesler Terrace the day he disappeared, he’d told his mother he was going fishing. Fishing with Richard Kraven!

Was that why she’d had such an angry reaction yesterday when she’d seen that motor home parked on their block?

Because she associated motor homes with Richard Kraven?

And was that why she’d been so negative when Glen had said he was going to take up fishing? Just because it had been Richard Kraven’s hobby?

But that was ridiculous. Thousands of people—hundreds of thousands of people—loved to go fishing. There was even a guy over at the
Times
—was it the book editor?—who had suddenly taken up fly fishing. If that guy could do it, why shouldn’t Glen?

Her thoughts tumbled over each other, and suddenly she remembered that day while he was still in the hospital when Glen had asked Kevin to bring him her file on Richard Kraven.

Why?

Glen had always thought her own fascination with the serial killer was morbid; why had he suddenly become interested in Kraven?

So interested in him that he’d even taken up his hobby?

Easy, Anne
, she told herself.
This is the way people go crazy. No matter what Mark Blakemoor might think, Glen’s only taking up a new hobby, just like the doctor ordered
.

But then a new thought popped into her mind, a thought so ludicrous it made her laugh out loud.

Which of Richard Kraven’s hobbies is Glen taking up? Fly fishing, or killing?
There was a brief lull in the constant racket of the newsroom as everyone within earshot of Anne glanced over at her. The brittle burst of laughter dying on her lips, Anne stared at her computer screen as if she were deeply involved in writing a story.

A moment later the normal hubbub of the room resumed as Anne, oblivious, sat at her desk thinking. Somewhere at the edge of her mind an idea was taking form, but it was so nebulous she couldn’t yet bring it into focus.

There was something she was forgetting—something she’d once known, or heard about.

A rumor?

A theory?

Some piece of information that had to be buried somewhere in her computer files, or in the depths of her own mind.

She knew of only one way to retrieve it—to search through the files of everything she’d ever written about Richard Kraven. And not just the story files, either. All her note files were there as well, from verbatim transcripts of every interview she’d ever conducted about him, right down to the complete transcript of his trial and the appeals that had followed. Thousands of pages neatly organized into directories and subdirectories.

Fighting off the terrible exhaustion that threatened to overwhelm her, she tried to face up to the task of rereading it all. It would take days, possibly weeks, but somewhere in those files she knew she would find something—some tiny fact—that would provide her with the key to who had killed Rory Kraven. For despite everything Mark Blakemoor had shown her, despite everything he had told her, Anne Jeffers was still sure of one thing.

She had not been wrong about Richard Kraven.

He had been a killer. He’d been convicted of being a killer, and he’d been executed for being a killer.

He was dead, and Anne did not believe in ghosts. Therefore, someone was playing some kind of terrible game.

Coldly, analytically, Anne began to think.

An accomplice.

There had to be an accomplice, no matter what Mark Blakemoor had said about serial killers working alone. After all, Richard Kraven had never been typical.

So there was someone who was still alive. Someone to whom Richard Kraven had confided his secrets.

Someone whom he had taught to mimic his handwriting perfectly.

That much, she knew, was possible.

But who would have been willing to wait until Richard Kraven was executed, and then take up his own grisly work, simply to make the world think Richard Kraven had been innocent?

Could anyone be that devoted to a monster like Richard Kraven?

She couldn’t even imagine it. Yet, there was no other possible answer. And if that person existed, she would find him.

Unless he found her first.

Richard Kraven’s last words rushed back to her.
“That’s my regret, Anne. That I won’t get to watch you die the way you’re going to watch me!”

Was it possible he’d meant something more by those words than she’d thought on the day he was executed? Was it possible he’d already made arrangements for her to die, too?

Abruptly, she realized there was only one way Rory Kraven’s killer could have known it was Rory who killed Joyce Cottrell. He must have been there that night. There, not because he’d been watching Joyce’s house.

He would have been watching hers
.

The icy touch of fear stroked her skin as she imagined someone lurking in the darkness outside her house that night.

Had he been waiting to kill her? Or her family? Had he been preparing to enter their house while they slept?

And where was he now? Right now?

Was he watching her house?

Watching her children?

Her eyes flicked to the clock—it was already a quarter after three! If Heather hadn’t left school yet, she could tell her to find Kevin and stay with him. If both kids were together, they might be safe, but if Kevin was wandering around by himself …

Panic seizing her, she snatched up the telephone to call Heather’s school. Five minutes later, after what seemed an eternity of waiting, the assistant principal came back on the line.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Jeffers,” Sheila Jones said in a tone she reserved for parents whom she thought were needlessly overwrought. “I’ve paged your daughter, but she hasn’t responded. I think she must already have left the school. Is it something I can help you with? Or one of her teachers?”

Anne hesitated. Should she tell Ms. Jones she was afraid someone might be stalking her or her children? But what if she was wrong? What if she was completely wrong about everything? She didn’t know. She didn’t know anything! “I—I’m not sure,” she stammered. “I guess not. I’m sure there’s not really a problem.”

Hanging up, she dialed her own number, cursing softly when the answering machine picked up. She waited it out, then said, “Glen? If you’re there, pick up. It’s me, and I’m worried about the kids. If you’re not there and you get home in the next few minutes, could you take your car and drive over to Kevin’s school? Something else has happened, and I’m—oh, hell, I don’t have time to explain right now. Just do it for me, okay? Thanks, hon. See you later.”

Putting the receiver back on the hook, she sat still for a moment, willing her rising panic away. Where was Glen? Why wasn’t he at home? Had something happened to him?

Stop it! she told herself. Just get hold of yourself. You can either do something constructive, or fall apart. Take your choice
.

She had to find the man who had killed Rory Kraven.

The man who might be stalking her.

Somewhere in her files some clue to him would exist. It had to. To be that close to Richard Kraven, to be that devoted to him, the person who was now perfectly imitating him would surely have been mentioned somewhere, by someone.

Indeed, she herself might very possibly have interviewed him back in the days when she’d systematically sought out practically everyone Richard Kraven ever met.

It struck her, then, that not only was it
possible
she’d spoken to the nameless, faceless man she was now consumed with finding. It was almost impossible that she
hadn’t
talked to him!

Her exhaustion evaporating, she brought up the index that listed all the interviews she’d conducted over the years, but her momentary excitement faded as she gazed at its statistics.

There were 1,326 files in five subdirectories.

Even those would take days to review.

But she could break them down. No need to go through the interviews with friends and families of the victims.

Only the ones with Richard Kraven’s associates were important now. Her fingers tapped on the keys, bringing up a new subdirectory.

The 1,326 files had been culled down to only 127.

Pulling up the first file, Anne set to work.

She would find it. Sooner or later, she would find it.

But until she did, how many more people would die?

And who would they be?

CHAPTER 54

A
dim point of light, so faint as to be barely visible at all, slowly began to penetrate the darkness that had closed around Glen Jeffers’s mind. Feeling as if he were emerging from a deep sleep, Glen focused on the light, willing it to brighten and wash away the blackness that surrounded him.

Now he could hear a faint sound as well—a high-pitched keening.

The inky black fog in his mind slowly faded into gray, and the point of light spread.

The sound grew clearer.

A drill. A dentist’s drill?

Glen struggled to remember what had happened. He’d been at home. In the kitchen, reading the paper. The phone! That was it—the phone had rung.

Gordy Farber. It had been Gordy, calling to find out how he was doing. They’d talked for a moment, and then something had interrupted him.

The doorbell.

Someone had come to the door, and he’d gone to answer it, and …

The blackness had closed around him.

The sound grew louder, and the light spread further. It was brightening more quickly now.

You’re awake
. The voice wasn’t loud, but although the keening sound was growing steadily more insistent as the blackness continued to fade, Glen could hear the words perfectly. It was almost as if they emanated from somewhere within his own head.
It was I who woke
you
, the voice went on.
Just as it was I who put you to sleep
.

Why?
The question formed soundlessly in Glen’s mind, but even before he could form it into an audible word, the voice answered it.

I needed our body
.

Our body.
The words stripped away the last of the fog that had gathered around Glen’s mind.
Our body.
What the hell was going on? With the question still half formed in his mind, pieces of the puzzle began to fall into place.

The hours he had lost.

The broken shaver about which he’d made up a story—a story that had then turned out to be at least partly true.

The things that had appeared in the house—objects that he assumed he’d bought, even though he had no memory of doing so: the fishing rod Kevin found, the new shaver he himself found. The fishing fly that could have been made of a feather from Hector and some fur from Kumquat.

Kumquat!

Now he remembered the dream. But it had only been a dream! It hadn’t been real—it couldn’t have been.

Once again the words the voice had spoken echoed in his head:
Our body
.

Not
our
body, Glen thought desperately. It’s
my
body. There wasn’t anyone else—couldn’t be anyone else. Whatever was happening had to be in his own mind. That was it—he was still waking up, and his mind was playing tricks on him! But now more memories were coming back to him. Making love to Anne the day he’d come home from the hospital. Something had happened that afternoon. He’d felt … what? Something odd, almost like another presence inside him.

Waking up in the hospital to find all of Anne’s files on Richard Kraven piled on the table beside his bed.

The blackouts …

Now he remembered something he’d watched on television—a woman who’d claimed to have eighteen different personalities living inside her. Multiple personality syndrome. The woman had first begun to worry because she was having blackouts. And then she heard about things she’d done. Things she couldn’t remember. Things she knew she never would have done—

The keening sound was louder than ever, and now that he could hear it clearly, Glen knew it wasn’t a drill at all.

It was a saw.

He could see the blade now. It was right in front of him. He could see his hand holding the blue-green plastic handle of a Makita saw. And beyond the saw was something else.

The upper part of a woman’s torso. A heavy woman, whose large, pendulous breasts drooped toward either side, pulling away from each other under no more impetus than their own weight.

Between the woman’s breasts, running from a few inches above her navel all the way up to the base of her throat, there was a cut.

A clean, fresh incision, perfectly straight.

The woman’s chest expanded as she drew a deep breath of air into her lungs.

The keening whine subsided as the saw stopped.

Glen watched in disbelief as his hand put the saw down and picked up a knife. A sharp X-Acto knife, like the one Kevin had used when he was working on the model ship.

The one he’d used when he was tying the fishing fly
.

Glen watched numbly as his hands moved as if under their own volition. The knife traced a line across the woman’s torso, intersecting the existing incision at its base. As the knife slid easily through the woman’s skin, a line of red appeared in its wake, a line that thickened, then began to lose its shape as the blood welled from the cut and covered her body.

Transfixed, Glen gazed helplessly at what he was doing.

His hands moved again, and a third incision appeared, this one nearly spanning the space between her shoulders.

No!
Glen thought.
This can’t be happening!
But even as his mind formulated the thought, dark, mocking laughter echoed in his head. Trying to stifle the taunting sound, Glen willed himself not to move his hands again, struggled to halt their inexorable motion. But now he felt something else—a terrible paralysis, robbing him of will, erasing his power over his own body. As he watched helplessly, his fingers went to work, deftly laying back the folds of skin as easily as they might have opened a pair of double doors.

Beneath the skin, clearly visible now, was the woman’s sternum.

Even as his hands reached for it, Glen’s mind grasped the purpose of the Makita. His fingers squeezed the switch and instantly his ears were filled with the keening whine of the whirling blade.

As the blade, no more than a silvery blur now, moved closer to the woman’s sternum, Glen struggled to wrest control of his body from the force that seemed to have seized it. Powerless, he saw the blade descend. Then the teeth dug into the mass of bone and cartilage that formed the ventral support of the woman’s rib cage.

Glen tried to scream out against the carnage he was witnessing, but his voice would obey him no more than his fingers and hands.
No
, he whimpered silently to himself.
Oh, God, no. Don’t let this happen
.

But even as he made his plea, the spinning blade dug deeper and his hand inexorably laid the woman’s torso open, splitting her sternum, ripping through the pleural membrane.

As his eyes focused on the mass of tissue that were the woman’s lungs, the darkness closed in on Glen once more.

This time he welcomed it.