Forty-Four Box Set, Books 1-10 (44) (148 page)

With the pizza in my stomach doing backflips, I pushed the Jeep into gear and hit the gas a little too hard, sending the tires spinning on the ice. I backed off and forced myself to go slow. After half a block, I checked the rearview. He was still there in the same spot. At least that much. He didn’t fly through the air after me like in a horror movie. At least not yet.

A hot squirt of bile shot up the back of my throat as I turned the corner. Even as I gripped the wheel, my hands began to shake. Violently. Uncontrollably.

Was it all a coincidence? He just happened to be standing out there? My mind screamed no. And if not, how did he find me and how long had he been following me? And how much did he know about me?

I pulled over and sat, thinking. And then I did something crazy.

I turned around and drove back.

***

I had been looking for this man for almost a week without any luck. And now here he was. And what was I doing? Running away. It might have been the smart move, but running wasn’t going to help me get any closer to catching this killer.

On the way back, my mind strained to come up with a plan. Maybe I could turn the tables back around and watch him. Follow him. Find out where he lives. What then? Maybe I could grab a piece of mail and get his name. But first things first.

I cut over on some back streets and came out the other side on Galveston. I told myself I had the upper hand now. With the headlights in his eyes, he wouldn’t see me coming. I slowly drove back toward 10 Barrel.

But my bold plan turned to smoke.

By the time I got back to the corner, he was gone.

I parked anyway, the adrenaline going around in circles inside me. The heater was finally beginning to blow out some warm air when I stepped outside. I turned off the ringer on my phone and jammed it into my pocket and then unhooked the small container of mace from my key ring. I slid the keys into the other pocket. I kept my finger on the small trigger of the canister, holding it out in front of me, ready to shoot the first shadow I saw.

I walked over to the spot on the sidewalk where I had last seen the man, looking up and down, paying particular attention to dark corners and alleys. I scanned the closed gas station down the street for any movement, and then the tavern a little farther down, but there was nothing.

Had I just imagined the whole thing? Had he even been here in the first place?

A cruel wind blew into me, slashing at my face like jagged glass, reminding me that there was a reason no one was out.

I let out a breath into the night and moved back toward the Jeep.

And that’s when I saw them.

Fresh footprints in the snow.

Leading down the street, disappearing into the darkness.

CHAPTER 32

The snow was pristine except for the footprints clustered on the corner and leading back into a residential stretch. They had to be his. He had been here, just like I thought, and only a few minutes earlier. He couldn’t have gone far.

I walked cautiously, the mace still clutched tightly in my numb fingers as I followed the trail.

I turned down a street lined with tiny houses. Each step shattered the quiet, and I was sure the crunching could be heard well down the block. My only hope was that the sound of my footsteps was being drowned out by the killer’s own.

Most of the cars parked along the street were covered in snow, looking like igloos. Anyone in their right mind, even a killer, wouldn’t be out here for long. He had to be close by, possibly already home, if that’s where he was going. I was hoping to catch a break and simply follow the tracks to his house and get an address. And that could lead to a name.

Thinking about it now, there were occasions this last week when I had sensed that someone was watching me. I had felt his eyes on me. Once at the market and another time as I was heading to the college bookstore. But I had let my guard down. I was too busy to stop and pay attention. I was thinking about tuition and recipes and internships and a thousand other things and had ignored what was happening around the edges.

I had learned long ago that what happens around the edges is sometimes the most important thing. Apparently, the lesson hadn’t stuck. I remembered what Charlie Modine had said to me about the day his wife died. About the things we think are important. We all have them. He had his abs. I had my hollandaise.

I crossed to the other side of the road, turned the corner, and froze. Standing in the middle of the street, just a few houses down, was a man. He just stood there, his back toward me, not moving.

Waiting.

I dropped down, taking cover behind one of the snowy cars, and held my breath.

Did I even have a plan? Running now seemed like a good idea again. I could probably make it back to 10 Barrel before he caught up to me. Probably.

I decided to wait, see if something better came to mind, the seconds crawling by. What was he doing? I didn’t hear anything.

And then it came.

The crunch of his boots breaking through the icy snow.

But as I fingered the mace, I realized that the sound was getting fainter.

I waited until I couldn’t hear him anymore and stood up. I could barely make him out at the end of the street. My head said go back, get out of here, but my legs started moving toward him again.

***

We were on Harmon now, the street that skirted the Deschutes River and I could see the water on my right, frozen like a skating rink under the moonlight. I plowed on at a trot, moving past a playground and a white field. Somewhere under all that snow lay a baseball diamond. One day the boys of summer would reclaim it, but that day felt a million miles away.

As I closed in, I saw him turn and move toward the river, walking through the small park and onto the footbridge that crossed the Deschutes. I slowed my pace, waiting for him to cross, but he stopped and turned to face the water, staring out at the river and the lights of the city.

I hid behind a large tree and peeked out. I could see him clearly in the moonlight, made even brighter by the reflection coming off the ice below. I had been right, it was the same man from the church. I put him in his 40s with deep-set lines in his forehead and cheeks. He was dressed the same as before, the leather jacket unzipped over a T-shirt. He had to be freezing.

But maybe something else ran in his veins. Something that kept him from feeling the cold. Or compassion. The thing that made him a killer.

I wondered what was going through his head as he stared out, and then suddenly he turned and started coming back, toward me.

I slid around as he approached, using the tree for cover. I slowly circled the trunk and looked for him near the park benches illuminated by the light of a dull lamp. He wasn’t there.

And then I heard the breathing coming from behind me.

Inches from my ear.

CHAPTER 33

I spun around and stared into those black eyes, then staggered backwards, almost losing my balance.

He came closer and for a brief, terrible moment his eyes became my world. I held out the mace with my shaking hand and pointed it in the general direction of his face.

“One more step and I’ll shoot,” I said, moving away again.

He had stopped, but he was still too close.

“I mean it,” I said. “Back off.”

“It’s cold out here. You should be home in front of the fire, talking to the actor. Or studying. You shouldn’t be out in this weather.”

My head began to throb and I suddenly felt sick, the vomit hot and ready to erupt.

“You need to walk away from this, Abigail. This doesn’t concern you.”

“I think it does.”

I wasn’t sure why I said it, it wasn’t badass enough to put on a tombstone, but it might have been enough to get me killed just the same.

Even though I was now holding the mace in both hands, the shaking got worse. I could feel myself losing my grip. I thought about just emptying the pepper spray into his face at that moment and running and calling the police.

He brought his hand up to his chin revealing the strange tattoo. I stared at it again as I had done in the church, this time trying to burn it into my memory.

“Consider this your final warning,” he said. “Leave it alone.”

I knew he wasn’t bluffing. And my stomach did, too.

The vomit came a second later. I took a step back and bent over, splattering the snow and my shoes.

His shadow came closer.

I shot up, squeezing down hard on the little trigger and letting him have it pointblank. But nothing happened. I tried again, but it was no good. It was jammed. I finally realized the safety was still on. But by then it was too late. On the third try my frozen fingers fumbled the small canister and I watched it slide down the river bank and onto the ice.

There was nothing left to do but run. So I did.

I ran as hard as I could down the street, skidding around the corner before going all out again. I didn’t think about falling, I didn’t think about what I would do later. I focused on putting one foot in front of the other and doing it as fast as I could. I never looked back, even when I thought I heard heavy footsteps behind me. I kept going, somehow finding just enough traction on my vomit-soaked shoes to stay on my feet.

I jumped in the Jeep and took off.

At a traffic light a mile away, I finally caught my breath just as another intense wave of nausea hit. I opened the door and colored the snow like it was Lady Gaga, my head pounding in rhythm with my crazy heart.

CHAPTER 34

“Damn it, Abby Craig!” David said as he came out of my bedroom carrying an air pump. “All I could find in there was three soccer balls and this! I guess we could bash him over the head with it, but a baseball bat would have been better.”

“There’s one in the closet.”

“No, there’s not,” he said, his voice high and squeaky. “Let’s just dial 911 and be done with it!”

David was clearly freaking out. I couldn’t really blame him, but now I was wishing I hadn’t said anything. The second I told him about talking to the man in the park and what he had said to me, David’s energy went into overdrive, speeding around him in deep grays like thunderheads. The clincher, of course, was when I mentioned the part about how the killer knew he was an actor.

“Did you look behind the boxes like I said?”

He gave me a manic shrug.

“All right, you keep an eye outside and I’ll go get the bat.”

He moved to the front window while I ran into my room. I found it tucked in a corner of my closet.

“I told you it was in there,” I said, handing him the bat.

“What do you expect, Abby Craig? I haven’t been in a closet in years!”

He took it anyway and held it, hands wide apart like someone who didn’t know the first thing about baseball. I realized the bat served no purpose. The way he was shaking, it wasn’t even doubling as a security blanket. His energy was jumping around like popcorn on fire.

“We’re going to be fine tonight. I promise.”

“Then why have you been glued to this window since you came home?”

“I’m just being careful,” I said. “I won’t lie. It shook me up. But the more I think about it the more I realize he was sending a message. A scary message, but that was all. He wanted to make sure I back off.”

David sighed extra loud and rolled his eyes to the ceiling.

“Yeah, like that’s gonna happen.”

But I was backing off. Backing off from the truth. I didn’t want David to know just how scared I was. I closed the curtains and checked once more on the house alarm, making sure it was activated for all the doors and windows.

“We’re gonna be fine,” I repeated. “Sit down and talk to me. Can I get you a drink?”

“Oh, how the tables have turned! Now it’s you getting
me
a drink.”

But he nodded and sat at the edge of the sofa with the bat slung over his shoulder while I fetched the bottle of vodka from the freezer and two shot glasses. I poured one for David and then one for me even though my esophagus was still on fire. I took a sip and made a face.

“I can see your tell, Abby Craig,” he said, throwing his back in one quick gulp. “You’re scared witless. You never drink shots.”

I held up my hands.

“Maybe so, but I was also out in that cold. I don’t think I’ll thaw out until June.”

He got up and took the fleece blanket off the sofa and wrapped it around my shoulders.

“Thanks,” I said.

“I still think that you have to call the police.”

I filled up his glass again, hoping that the remaining half bottle would be enough to calm him down.

“Well, that’s been my plan from the beginning, but I need to be able to give them some proof to get them interested in all this. Hey, I just remembered. I wanted to sketch that tattoo before I forget what it looks like.”

I got up and grabbed some paper and a black Sharpie from the kitchen drawer and for the next few minutes did my best to capture the writing on the killer’s hand. It wasn’t perfect, but it was a fairly good rendition of the tattoo. David stood over my shoulder staring at it.

“Have you seen anything like this before?”

He picked up the sheet, turning it upside down and sideways.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t think so, not off the top of my head. Maybe it’s a prison tat, some sort of Brotherhood of the White Man’s Burden. I haven’t seen anything like this at the parlors I go to.”

I gave him a once over, staring at his pale, inkless arms.

“Parlors?”

“Well, duh, not for me,” he said. “Are you kidding? I wouldn’t let a needle touch this beautiful skin. I have to keep it virginal.”

He laughed.

“No, I go to the parlors with my friends to give them advice. You know, like what design would go good with their personality, what colors clash with their skin tone and hair. And then there’s the fun part. Deciding where they should put it, although they
never
listen to me for that tip.”