Killer Instinct (11 page)

Chapter
Twenty-Five

THAT NIGHT I GO TO
sleep listening to Dr. Jim’s hypnosis track. I rarely dream and cannot recall ever having a nightmare, but an intense one occurs.

Blood.

Screams.

Stabbing.

I wake in a cold sweat.

“Lane?” Victor’s standing over me. “You okay?” He leans down and feels my damp forehead. “You’re burning up.”

Disoriented, I sit up in bed and glance at my alarm clock. I overslept by an hour. I’ve never done that before.

“You’re staying home,” he decides. “I’ll drop Justin and Daisy off and tell the school you’re excused for the day.”

I swallow and nod.

He rakes his concerned gaze over my sweaty hair and T-shirt stuck to my body. “Honey, do you need to go to the doctor?”

I shake my head, regaining some equilibrium. “I don’t think so.”

He gently pulls me out of bed. “I want you to get a shower, and I’m going to change your sheets. If you’re not feeling better by noon, call me. Promise?”

I nod, shuffle off toward the bathroom, and take a very long cool bath. I’ve always been a shower taker. In fact, the last time I took a bath I think I was probably six or something.

When I return, he’s changed my bed and left me buttered toast and orange juice on my desk. Slowly I sit down.

Blood. Screams. Stabbing.

What the hell did I remember?

An hour later I’m wandering around our house racking my brain back through the years and at the same time trying to forget whatever it is I remembered. At this point I’m not sure I
want
to remember.

Just as I’m thinking of going to school, I get a text from Zach.
U OK?

YES. HOME “SICK.”

LOL. U DON’T SOUND “SICK.”

BORED,
I type.

WANT SOME COMPANY?

I pause, considering. . . . If anything, it’ll take my mind off my nightmare.
YES
, I punch back.

BE THERE IN 30.

Sure enough, thirty minutes later Zach rings my doorbell.

I open the door. “You make a habit out of skipping school?”

He steps over the threshold. “When the company’s worth it.”

I close the door. “We’re alone.”

“Exactly what I want to hear.” Zach yanks me in for a thorough kiss. It’s absolutely what I need. “You taste like butter.”

“I had toast.” And that’s the last talking we do as we head straight up to my room.

My shirt goes first. Then my bra.

His shirt. Then his jeans.

My yoga pants. Then both our underwear.

This is messy
. It’s all I can think of as we have sex. But I roll with it. I do it. I get it over with and get in the shower as soon as I can.

When I get out, Zach’s made sandwiches and is sitting on my rumpled bed in his underwear. I smile a little. “You didn’t have to do that.”

He shrugs. “Least I could do.”

I slip on a T-shirt and clean undies and sit across from him.

He reaches for a sandwich. “Why didn’t you tell me you were a virgin?”

“Why? Is it important?”

Zach shakes his head with a slight laugh—“Guess it’s not”—and shoves a huge bite in his mouth.

I grab a PB&J and take a bite.

He chews and swallows, all the while studying me. “It’ll be better the next time.”

There’s not going to be a next time. As far as I’m concerned, I’ve officially checked it off the list. However, I will do another orgasm in the library. Now
that
I enjoyed.

“You’re . . . you’re aggressive in bed.”

No, what I do in bed, I discover, is forget about everything else.
Blood. Screams. Stabbing.

I take a look at his thoughtful expression. “Did I scare you?” I like Zach. I don’t want to scare him.

He winks. “Good scare.”

That makes me smile.

“With Belinda I was always drunk. This is the first sober sex I’ve had in a long time.” He reaches out and touches my knee. “Lane . . .”

If this is the point where we emotionally connect, I’d rather have sex again.

Zach puts his sandwich aside, climbs off the bed, and gets dressed. “I won’t bore you with mushy talk. Don’t worry.”

I do love how he can read my mind.

He zips up his jeans. “We’ll take it slower next time. More romantic.”

I’m not sure how to tell him there’s probably not going to be a next time.

Zach gives me a sweet kiss. “Later.”

After he leaves, I lie back on my bed and close my eyes. I fantasize how that would’ve played out with Dr. Issa and get more excited from that than I did with Zach.

After my fantasy plays out, I call Reggie.

“Aren’t you supposed to be in class?” she answers.

“I’m home sick, having sex.”

Reggie coughs. “I’m sorry, did you say sex?
And?
”

“Eh.”

Reggie laughs at that.

• • •

“I’m in love with West,” Daisy announces that night at dinner.

“You sure get in love a lot,” Justin points out, and Daisy shoots him a look.

I adore my little brother.

He turns those innocent hazel eyes on me. “How come you’re never in love?”

Good question.

“Love?” Daisy snorts. “Lane doesn’t feel
anything
.”

“Daisy.” Mom reprimands her.

My sister’s right. I don’t feel anything.

Well, that’s not really true. Justin’s smile tickles my insides. Dr. Issa’s massages them. And when I stalk a perp, it’s euphoric.

I do crave that charge that percolates through my cells.

“I saw Zach talking to that girl,” Daisy informs me. “What’s her name? Belinda?”

Daisy knows full well what her name is.

She cuts into her salmon. “They seemed real friendly.”

“Well good for Zach and Belinda.” Does Daisy think this really troubles me?

“Girls.” It’s Victor’s turn to reprimand.

I don’t bother pointing out I haven’t done anything. He already knows it anyway. Parents are obligated to be impartial with warnings like “girls” or “boys.” I realize this.

He stands. “I’m on a red-eye. See you all in a few days.”

“Dad?” Justin stops him.

“Yeah?”

“What all states have you been to?”

He thinks about that a second. “Oregon, Arizona, Tennessee, Minnesota, Maine, Wyoming . . .” He continues listing states. “Why do you ask?”

“Social studies project. Suppose you can help me with it when you get back?”

He musses Justin’s hair. “Sure.”

As he goes to get his suitcase, I rewind what he’s just said. Oregon, Arizona, Tennessee, Minnesota, Maine, Wyoming . . .

With kisses to everyone, he heads toward the door. “Lane, you had some mail today. I put it all on your desk. Looked like college stuff.”

“Thanks.” Or maybe the Decapitator has contacted me again.

After Victor leaves, Mom heads to her office, Daisy goes upstairs, and me and Justin clean up. Oregon, Arizona, Tennessee . . . I wonder if Victor was involved with investigating the other decapitations. For whatever reason, it hadn’t occurred to me that he might have been. I mean, I know he and Mom work for the same division, but Mom’s always the one bringing home serial-killer work, not Victor. Actually, I can’t recall Victor ever bringing home any work. And the times I’ve asked him about his work, he always says the same thing: “Sweetheart, you know much of what I do is top secret. I’m sorry.”

He may very well know just as much about the Decapitator as my mom. Maybe more if he’s been investigating all along.

“
SpongeBob
’s on,” Justin informs me and parks it in front of the TV. I don’t know why he likes that show. I’ve watched it a few times, and it’s kind of stupid. But whatever amuses my little brother, I guess.

I head to my room where the stack of mail waits and start opening it. Mostly college-app junk just like Victor thought. Fact is, I’ve got my sights on UVA. I could care less about all the other ones. I haven’t been accepted yet, but I have absolutely no reason to doubt I will be. Victor’s an alumnus, and my scores more than exceed qualifying levels.

A large white envelope is at the bottom of the stack. The return address is:

Poole and Trippe, Attorneys at Law

Washington, DC

Inside is a bunch of paperwork. I shovel through it, trying to make sense. There’s a death certificate for Seth Leaf, my real father, dated one week ago. Wait a minute.
One week ago?
And a deed to 4 Buchold Place in my name.
My name?

I grab the whole thing up and go to find Mom.
What
is going on?

Chapter
Twenty-Six

A FEW MINUTES LATER I
knock on my mom’s office door.

“Yes?” she calls. “Just a sec.” I hear a rustling of papers. “Okay, come in.”

I hand her the big white envelope with the death certificate right on top and wait to see how she’s going to explain this one.

She takes her time flipping through the papers. “Close the door,” she finally says.

I do and take a seat beside her desk.

Mom looks right at me. “Clearly, I’ve lied to you.”

Not what I expected her to say, but okay.

“Seth Leaf, your real father, has known about you your entire life. I’m going to be brutally honest. He never wanted a thing to do with you. When I met and married your stepdad, Seth agreed to sign off all rights to you. Your stepdad and I decided to tell you Seth was dead to save you from emotional distress.”

I take a second to digest all this. “Where has Seth been all this time?”

Mom shrugs. “I don’t communicate with him. I do know he’s been in and out of mental institutions for years.”

“
Mental
institutions?”

Mom sits back in her chair. “Do you remember I told you his dad died?”

I nod.

“Seth killed him.”

What?

Mom’s expression gentles. “Your grandfather was not a nice man. He horribly beat your grandmother and both the boys.”

“I thought you said my grandfather was a pastor. Wait—
both
the boys?”

“Your grandfather
was
a pastor. And Seth has a younger brother.”

“I have an uncle?”

Mom nods. “He’s younger than Seth by three years. Anyway, your grandfather was beating your uncle and Seth defended him. Your grandfather ended up dying.”

“And grandmother?”

“She committed suicide not long after.”

“And my uncle?”

Mom sighs. “Like Seth. In and out of mental institutions his whole life.”

“So he’s still alive?”

“As far as I know.”

Oh my God. Seventeen years. For seventeen years I thought my real father was from a loving Christian home. I thought he grew up as this special boy, served his country as a decorated marine, mourned the loss of his parents, and died a tragic, unexpected death.

Everything I spent my whole life believing was a big effing lie. I don’t have some dark memory that I need hypnosis to unravel. It’s in my blood. An abusive grandfather, a suicidal grandmother, a father and uncle who have been in and out of mental institutions. No wonder I am the way I am. I shove all ten fingers into my hair and drop my head into my hands. I have nothing but hate and violence running in my veins.

“You remind me a lot of Seth,” Mom softly admits as she has before.

Funny, I don’t take that as a compliment.

“Stoic,” she clarifies. “He rarely showed emotions.” She leans forward and puts her hand on my knee. “Do you understand why I didn’t tell you about all this?”

I brush her hand away. “No, I don’t.”

She doesn’t move, and I get the impression she’s trying extremely hard to figure out what to say or do next.

“Would you have told me eventually?”

“Yes. Your stepdad and I both knew the time would come. We just didn’t realize it would be tonight.”

What were you waiting on?
I want to immediately snap.
For me to mature? Because I’ve been mature for a very long time now.

“How do you feel?” Mom cautiously asks.

I’ve always hated that question. How do I
feel
?
Angry at being kept in the dark and finally,
finally
hearing some significant facts. Facts I could’ve handled years ago instead of spending so much time wondering about myself.

“Are you okay?” she tries again.

“No, I’m not okay. It’s probably going to be a long time before I am. My whole other side of the family is a giant lie. Why would you think I’m okay?”

She doesn’t have an answer for that.

“What about Four Buchold Place?”

She frowns. “Where?”

I pull the deed from the paperwork.

Mom looks it over. “Herndon . . . this is the place his brother lived.”

“So you’ve been there?”

“Yes. Only one time. Even back then it was broken down. I can only imagine what it looks like now.”

“I need to go there. Will you go with me?”

“Of course.”

Now?
But I know that’s not reasonable. “Tomorrow?”

Mom picks up the big white envelope. “Tell you what, I’ll call this law firm and get more information.”

“Okay.”

She turns to her computer. “I’m sorry to do this to you, but—”

“No,” I interrupt. “Don’t start working. Now is not the time. Can’t you see I’m upset?”

Cautiously Mom takes in my expression. “Lane . . .”

“Mom, you lied to me. It’s going to take more than ‘save me from emotional distress’ to explain this to me. You should’ve told me about this years ago.”

“I know.” She sighs. “I’m sorry. You’ll understand one day when you’re a parent.”

“I hate when adults say that!”

Her phone rings. She glances at it and then guiltily up to me. “I’ve got a ton of work to do. Can we talk more later?”

“Fine,” I grit out through clenched teeth. Although I know there won’t be a later. There’s really nothing more to be said. I trudge upstairs to my room and slam my door.

If my real dad just died, then he definitely
could’ve
been the one messing with me this whole time. It all makes sense now. The letters. My own dark urges. The weird fascination and connection to killers.

No wonder I’m messed up. My real father could have very well been the Decapitator, which still aggravatingly does not explain James Donner coming forward.

• • •

The next day at school all I can think about is 4 Buchold Place, my real dad, details of the decapitations, and what James Donner has to do with all this.

And the more time I spend thinking the more something just seems off. Untied. Loose. Disconnected. Or maybe I’m telling myself that so I don’t have to deal with the fact my real dad might have been a serial killer.

I don’t know. It’s all frustrating, depressing, and not nearly as tied up and connected as it should be. As far as 4 Buchold, I definitely want to see inside.

I’ve thought about Mom a lot today as well, and . . . I understand why she kept everything from me. She was trying to protect me. I don’t agree with it, and am definitely still angry with her, but I get it.

By last period it occurs to me I haven’t seen Zach all day. Even if it’s just across the room, we at least see each other at lunch. And to think just yesterday he and I—

“Did you get a load of Zach’s lip?” my lab partner asks.

He and Zach play soccer. He knows Zach and I have hung out. “No. What’s wrong with his lip?”

My lab partner shrugs. “Dunno. He’s got stitches.”

Stitches?
He’d been kissing me with those lips just yesterday. He said I tasted like butter.

I never look for people after school. Today, though, I look for Zach. I see him at his locker, and he sees me—I know he does—but he acts like he doesn’t. Normally I could care less if people avoid me, but it matters this time.

He ducks into the bathroom, I’m sure convinced when he emerges I’ll be gone, but I’m not. I’m standing right at the entrance when he comes out.

He takes one look at me, and it’s more than obvious he doesn’t want me seeing him.

I check out the row of stitches bisecting his bottom lip. “Gonna tell me what happened?”

“I fell. Listen—”

“Fell off what?”

“The . . . stairs at our house. Actually the outside stairs.” He looks around. “I’ve got to go.” With that he heads off down the hall.

I let him, but I know he didn’t fall. Of course he didn’t. That lip looks like someone hit him.

My cell buzzes and I check the display. It’s from Reggie.
CALL ME. IT’S ABOUT YOUR DAD.

I ALREADY KNOW,
I type back. This has got to go down in history as the first time I know something before her.

EVERYTHING?
she texts back.

I dial her number. Sometimes there’s too much to say for texting.

“Institutionalized,” she answers. “Killed his father. Mother committed suicide. Younger brother currently missing.”

“Yes to all. But . . . brother currently missing?”

“No known address. Hasn’t been officially seen in years. Could be living in a ditch of some third-world country for all anyone knows.”

Or could be decapitating people.
Hell, for all I know my real dad and my uncle were partners in all this mess.

“Thanks,” I tell her. “Mom and I are going to Four Buchold Place when I get home. I’ll let you know how it goes.”

Daisy’s waiting at the Jeep when I get to the parking lot. “Like what you saw the other day? West reciprocated, by the way.”

I don’t bother telling her to shut up. What a slut.

We get Justin from school, and he launches into the longest story in history about finding a dead mouse on the playground. Even Daisy gets bored, and she’s pretty good about the giving-our-little-brother-patience thing.

Mom’s already home when we get there. “Daisy, watch Justin. Lane and I have someplace to go.”

“Well, it’s a good thing I don’t have plans,” Daisy snarks back.

Mom ignores her.

“How are you doing today?” Mom asks a few minutes into the trip.

“Fine.” Really, what kind of question is “How are you doing”? How does she think I’m doing—Jesus!

She takes the cue I’m not in the mood to talk, and flips on her GPS, and we get onto the toll road to Herndon.

“Yes, this looks vaguely familiar,” she comments some thirty minutes later as she pulls onto Buchold Place.

She watches the numbers on the houses while I look straight ahead at our destination. Number four looks different in the daylight. Not so deserted. Like someone may have been here since I came last.

Mom pulls onto the side driveway. She kills the engine and slips a key from her purse. “Picked this up from the law firm today.”

I take it from her outstretched hand, and we both get out of the car.

“Doesn’t look as shabby as I thought it would after all these years.” She gives it a second look. “No, I’m wrong. It’s pretty shabby.”

I make my way under the huge oak tree in the front yard and across the brick walkway littered with weeds.

We step up onto the porch and it creaks.

One huge spiderweb spans the corner of the porch, and a swing sits half on, half off its chain.

I fit the key into the old lock, click it open, and, feeling more curious than anything, step inside.

Mustiness hits me. But it’s not too bad. Maybe a few weeks’ worth of mustiness in lieu of months or years.

I turn to the right, where a well-worn brown plaid couch sits. To the left is a window, broken and boarded up. I cross through the room and into a small kitchen with yellow linoleum, an old refrigerator, and no stove.

Mom opens the refrigerator to reveal one lone box of baking soda.

I test the light switch and find the electricity on. Someone’s been living here. Most likely my real father.

Above the sink sits a window that looks out over a backyard full of leaves with a rusted swing set off to the left.

A child’s laughter echoes in my ears, and I glance around the yard but see only the wet leaves and empty swings. “Have I been here before?”

“No. Not that I know of,” replies Mom.

I turn to her. “Not that you
know
of?”

She sighs, and that sigh tells me there’s yet another story to tell.

“When you were three,” she begins, “Seth . . . took you. You were only gone for the afternoon, and he brought you back, guilty, apologizing. By then the police had gotten involved, but I decided not to file charges. The next day Seth signed away rights to you. And he’s never seen you again.”

I slump back against the sink. “Why didn’t you tell me this last night?”

Mom sighs again. “I don’t know, Lane. But I promise you that’s the last bit of information I kept from you. I promise.”

Unbelievable. Another lie. I’m so pissed, I can’t do anything but just stare darts at her.

She closes her eyes in—I don’t know—guilt, frustration. “Lane, please don’t hate me.”

Logically I realize this is stressful for her, dredging up a past she thought long gone. But this is stressful for me, too. Surely she gets that. I push past her. “Let’s just see the rest and get out of here.” I step through the other side of the kitchen and down a wood-planked hall.

“From what I remember there’s only one bedroom and one bathroom.” She points to a white door. “That’s the bathroom.”

It already sits open a few inches, and I push it the rest of the way. A chipped claw-footed tub with no curtain crowds the small space. Beside it sits a toilet with no lid and a sink with old-fashioned hot and cold knobs. I twist the cold and water runs out.

“Do you suppose Seth has been living here? The water’s on, the electricity’s on, and although the place is run-down, it’s obviously been kept up by somebody.”

Mom nods. “You read my mind. It does seem to have had some life in it.” She motions to the bedroom. “Let’s see the last room.”

I take the few steps past her, reach out, and turn the porcelain knob. The door creaks open.

Screams shatter the walls.

Blood sprays the ceiling.

Sun glints off a long knife.

I stumble back.

Mom grabs me. “Lane?”

I shut my eyes. A blond woman, eyes wide with fear, reaches out.
Help me.

“Lane?” Mom shakes me.

I turn and race from the house.