Mad Max: Unintended Consequences (25 page)

I heard a disturbance outside the courtroom. I had a sneaky suspicion I knew what it was. I glanced at Johnny, who opened his eyes wide, shrugged, and looked at the ceiling. For a second, I caught a glimpse of the impish little boy he once was.

The district attorney pushed through the door and into chaos.

“Mr. Weed! Mr. Weed!”

“How does it feel to lose your second high-profile murder case?”

“Was Mr. Pugh guilty like the murderer a few years back?”

“Or was your office sloppy this time too?”

“What's this going to do to your re-election campaign?”

Whip, with Emilie and Alex on either side, Bette and the Colonel right behind, followed Johnny and me through the doors just as Weed shoved the breaking news reporter from the NBC affiliate against the wall. Cameras captured everything. District Attorney George Weed's re-election campaign and his career were both in the dumpster. No more would he ruin the reputation of honest men.

Other reporters, both print and TV, turned toward Vince, who stood off to the side. “I have a brief statement. This hearing should have taken place two months ago. The district attorney's office delayed turning over copies of the evidence, which judicial rules of procedure mandate. As a result, we were forced to ask Judge Hamilton to review what the district attorney said would prove my client, Mr. Pugh, guilty of the murder of his wife.”

“Is he innocent?” A reporter from the
Richmond Times-Dispatch
shouted.

Vince continued without missing a beat. “As it turned out, the judge ruled Mr. Pugh is innocent, and the evidence proved it. Judge Hamilton dismissed all charges and set Mr. Pugh free. Now, please, allow this family to leave and spend some time together.”

As we walked through the crowd, the NBC reporter called out one last question. “If Mr. Pugh is innocent, doesn't that mean the murderer is still on the loose?”

Vince smiled a real smile. He let silence tell the rest of the story. He tucked a manila envelope under his arm.

We followed Whip to the jail where he signed papers, received an envelope containing his personal effects, and shook hands with the police officers, even Pete, his main jailer. It was just like Whip to be thanking his captors for humane treatment.

The Colonel and Bette drove to the house. Johnny tossed Whip the keys to his truck so he could take Emilie and Alex to lunch. I climbed into my Jag with Johnny and followed the Colonel and Bette. Bette talked with Emilie before court and knew she wanted to throw a welcome home party. The idea appealed to all of us.

“I don't have to get dressed up, do I?” While Johnny looked terrific in his court suit and tie, I knew he'd be much more comfortable in jeans and boots or sneakers.

“No, funny man. No tie. Go home and change. Be back by six for cocktails.” I stood on tiptoe and kissed him, before pushing him toward the door.

“If you don't mind, Max, I'll just watch a little TV and catch a nap.” The Colonel had taken his shoes off and put his feet on an ottoman. His head nodded as his chin sank toward his chest.

“You do that, Colonel.”

Bette made her husband a sandwich and left it beside his chair. She stood before the fridge list for long moments. There was so much she didn't understand.

After stopping for a quick lunch at the same diner where Whip made his first to-do list, Bette and I shopped for food. I'd spent little time with Whip's parents, although I talked with them every few days before and after Whip's arrest. Bette was my polar opposite—quiet, a homemaker, married to the Colonel since high school.

Whip's truck was in the drive when we rolled up with our groceries. Emilie ran out to help unload and asked if we had everything. Bette assured her Dad's favorites would be on the table.

“Yippee,” Emilie whispered. “Let's make it a surprise, okay?”

“Won't that be hard with Dad in the house?”

“Oh, he's upstairs getting the full story of what Alex did to help. They could be there the rest of the afternoon. You know Alex. No story takes less time than the original event.”

The Colonel snuffled in the family room, the TV tuned to an old movie, sandwich crumbs on the plate beside his chair.

We women retired to the kitchen. Emilie ironed a white linen tablecloth and napkins and set the dining room table with Merry's favorite china and crystal, which we only used at the holidays.
Why not use the good stuff all the time? If it breaks, it breaks.

Around six, Whip and Alex came downstairs. Johnny arrived at the same time and gave me a huge hug and a kiss on the cheek. The Colonel mixed martinis and opened beers. We toasted Whip's return. Emilie put snacks and hors d'oeuvres on the poolside table. We drank, ate, and talked until we had the whole story exposed.

I thought about my latest middle-of-the-night chat with Emilie. Even though Whip was out of jail, he was always on the road. How could he keep that up without someone to care for the kids? I was here, but maybe he'd want someone else.

I never gave “after Whip was released” a single thought. Well, I was in “after” now.

“We have all your favorites, Dad,” Emilie continued.

“Honey, anything not served on a tray with a plastic spork will be a favorite.”

We laughed, but Whip's time in jail was the elephant in the kitchen. We had to talk about it, to acknowledge how much our family changed.

“Steaks on the grill, if the men will do the honors.” I held up the starter.

Whip took the hint and the starter. With the grill heating and the potatoes nearly done, Emilie and Bette made a huge salad while I put a loaf of sourdough bread in the oven to warm.

The Colonel carried a tray of ribeyes out to the patio while the women attended to other tasks in the kitchen. Their laughter drifted in through the open window. Soon enough, word would spread through the neighborhood Whip was home, but I was grateful for a quiet evening with just the family. We would plan a welcome home party but with a different outcome from the one we had for Merry.

“Are we eating outside?” Whip called through the window.

“Not quite warm enough even with the patio heaters.”

Whip flipped steaks onto the platter and carried them into the house, his posse following. After dinner, we sat around with various drinks, coffee, and strawberry shortcake. Bette was the first to talk about what brought us all together. “What's the significance of the list in the kitchen?”

“That's the ‘fridge list,’ Gramma,” Alex said. “It's what we did to get Dad out of jail and prove Dracula killed Mom.”

The kids had been so wrapped up in their roles, the whole process was routine.

I brought the list to the table. The Colonel hadn't seen it. He stared at it as I completed it. While I wrote, Alex and Johnny explained the Dracula nickname and the significance of Kiki.

“So why did he kill Merry?” the Colonel asked. “Was he playing God?”

“More like a rabid Henry Higgins trying and failing to turn Eliza Doolittle into a lady,” I said. “When he realizes he hasn't reproduced Kiki, his first and most likely only love, he kills the women.”

“Women? You mean he killed someone before Merry?”

“Yes, he did. Alex?”

Alex told everyone how he searched the Internet for all references to Hunter and how he followed his career as he moved westward from New York.

“Dad, don't get mad. After I hacked into his computer, it was easy.”

“You did what you thought was necessary. Just don't make hacking a habit. Okay?” Whip tried to look stern, but I knew he was too proud of his son's ingenuity to be angry.

“Okay.” Alex beamed from ear to ear.

“Do you remember, Whip, how Hunter bragged about being an artist?” I asked.

“Yes. It was the first time I met him.”

“Well, most artists keep portfolios of their works.” I prodded my grandson to continue. “Go on, Alex.”

“Dracula kept pictures of all the Kiki-soon-to-bes in a password-protected file. It was easy to figure out the password.”

“It was?” the Colonel asked.

“Like du-uh. ‘Kiki.’ How unoriginal. Anyway, I printed the file and searched the Internet. I found several victims.” Alex stopped and stared out the window. I could tell something just clicked.

“What? What's the matter?”

“Um, nothing. Just some ice cream on a sore spot in my mouth.”

I knew he was lying. So did Emilie, who turned the color of the whipped cream she piled on her strawberries. Beads of sweat popped out on her upper lip. She looked at me, or perhaps through me.

With one eye on Emilie, I explained how we put together packages of materials for the police departments all over the eastern half of the country with similar unsolved murders.

“Those police departments are now paying a lot of attention,” Johnny said. “Believe me, they're very interested in Hunter. If we could find his gun, we could close out at least four more murders. Next, I visited the parents of the missing women and told them what we thought happened.”

“They must have been happy to know their daughters hadn't been forgotten.”

“Not Lydia-Marie's. They'd moved on and convinced themselves they'd never know the truth. My visit churned up raw memories.”

“You're wrong, Johnny,” Bette said. “Mothers always want to know, even if it causes pain. You did the right thing.”

“Thanks, Bette.”

“So, what do you think happened to Merry's missing stuff?”

“Who knows? Hunter probably tossed it in a dumpster,” Johnny replied.

“Have you turned your evidence over to the local police too?” Bette looked at the fridge list again.

“That's the problem, Grandma. We don't have any real evidence against Dracula,” Emilie said.

“The police have bullets that may match the one…” Johnny stumbled to a halt and swallowed hard. “Well, if the gun ever turns up, they'll be able to close their cases.”

“You mean that if and when Hunter kills again, there'll be another piece to the puzzle?” Whip asked.

“We gave Vince everything we found after the hearing. He's going to look into Hunter and see if he can't convince District Attorney Weed to reopen the investigation. This time Hunter will be under a magnifying glass.” I topped off glasses for those still sipping wine.

The party broke up around ten, since the Colonel and Bette had a long drive to get home by eleven. As we waved goodbye, I overheard part of a conversation between Emilie and Alex.

“Do you have Mom's, um…?”

“I'll get it.” Alex headed for the stairs.

“He's coming.” Emilie followed.

“Yeah. I know. Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

I didn't know what they meant, but I didn't like what I heard.

I woke from a bad dream and glanced at the bedside clock. It was three forty-eight on the third morning after Whip was released from jail. Something felt different. The house held its breath.

Whip had reset the perimeter alarms again. If anyone broke in, the noise would wake the neighborhood, and the dead would walk the earth. I heard a more intimate sound, the squeak of the den door.
Gotta get Whip to oil those hinges.
Still, I was awake before the squeak.

I slipped out of bed, opened my closet, and reached up to the top shelf where I'd hidden a gun. I settled my thirty-two caliber revolver in a hand too small for a Glock, loaded it, and eased my bedroom door open.

Alex's door was ajar. His screensaver glowed. Emilie's door was shut tight. No light filtered down the hall, even though I knew I'd left a night-light burning. Now it was out. I peered into the blackness and looked for something blacker and denser than normal. Near the bottom of the stairs I saw movement.
Going up or down?

I crept to the top of the stairs and watched the shadow move down the hall toward the back of the house. I didn't sense danger in the shadow and assumed Whip too had awakened when the atmosphere in the house changed. I couldn't be certain. I dodged the squeaky tread and followed the shadow.

The air conditioner was off for the year, yet a cold draft stirred along the floor. Up ahead, the sliding glass door in the family room must be open. I put one bare foot in front of the other and moved toward the back of the house. The door to the family room was ajar, and a light cast thin shadows into the hall. I left the shadow and ducked into the kitchen.

I eased an eye around the door frame from the kitchen until the family room came into view. The outline of a man was backlit by the pool lights. Why hadn't the alarms gone off?

I squinted at the man. Son of a bitch! Hunter! Invading our personal space, violating our house. This murderer of five women was in our family room. I was about to call him out when Hunter spoke.

“I've come for you.”

Is he talking to me?
No, he wasn't looking at the kitchen. Was he talking to the shadow in the hall?

“I told you I'm not going.”

Dear God, Emilie! Sitting in the same chair where the Colonel napped earlier. I couldn't see her; the side of the chair was too tall.

“Yes, you are. You're young enough. The others were too old.” Hunter took a few steps closer to the chair where Emilie sat. Light from the reading lamp illuminated his face.

“Young enough for what? To become Kiki? I know all about her. You tried to make Mom into Kiki. It didn't work.”

The shadow edged closer to the hall doorway.

“I can make you into Kiki. You'll love being her. She was so perfect.”

“I don't want to be perfect. I don't want to be Kiki. I want to be imperfect Emilie Pugh, the daughter of Merry, who you killed because you couldn't play God.”

“Play God? I don't play God!” Hunter took a step forward, his face radiating rage.

If I'd been sleeping, I'd have been awake now. The hall shadow slipped into the family room and blended into the wall. Hunter was concentrating so hard on Emilie that the shadow could have been covered with neon lights and sirens and gone unnoticed.

I didn't dare flinch, because the shadow was in Hunter's line of sight. I gripped my gun and waited. I knew I'd shoot if he made a move toward Emilie.

Oh God, he's holding a gun on Emilie!
I could hit him, but Hunter might, just might, squeeze off a shot. At that moment, I couldn't take the risk.

“I know about Lydia-Marie. The police found her body. I know about the other women you shot. And you killed Kiki.”

“I did not kill Kiki!” Hunter shrieked, spittle flying. “I loved her.”

“You killed her as surely as you killed my mother. You killed Kiki on the operating table. You shot Mom. We talked to your mother. She told us everything.”

“That bitch doesn't know shit. She can't know what I've gone through.” Hunter waved his left hand. He'd graduated from a hard cast to a splint.

“She knows you're sick. She knows you're a serial killer.”

“I am not a serial killer!” More spit droplets sprayed the air as Hunter became hysterical.

I held my breath and prayed Alex didn't come galloping downstairs. He was such a trouble magnet that he could cause Hunter to pull the trigger.

“What do you call killing those women? Didn't you shoot them? With that gun?”

“They were experiments that didn't work. They had to go. Like in a lab, when we euthanize animals after they're of no further use.”

“If you kidnap me and I don't turn out to be Kiki, will you euthanize me too?”

Cold sweat trickled down my back. I was amazed at Emilie's composure. Raising my gun half an inch at a time, I took aim. I saw the slightest glint when Whip raised his gun. I probably had seconds before Whip went for the double tap.

“I won't fail. I have drugs to erase your memory. You'll be Kiki within a year and all mine.” Hunter moved toward Emilie again.

“No.”

There was a small rustle as Emilie shifted.

Hunter backed up and raised his gun.

Whip stepped through the door, sighted, and squeezed off two shots. I fired at the same instant. Hunter jerked down, then up, then sideways before he fell to the carpet. Blood flowed from his torso, neck, and head.

Whip ran into the room and dragged Emilie out of the chair.

“Daddy!” Emilie threw her arms around his neck and almost strangled him. She was shaking so hard she nearly fell down.

“It's over, baby. It's all over. He can't hurt you now.”

“I knew he was coming. He's been following me since he killed Mom. I've been waiting every night since you got home.”

Emilie backed away and turned toward the body. It was then Whip realized she had a gun.

“Did, did I kill him, Dad?”

Whip took the gun. Merry's little twenty-five-caliber Beretta.

“I don't think so, baby. I hit him twice.”

“I hit him at least once.” I walked into the pool of light and kicked Hunter's gun away.

“Look.” I pointed. Hunter wore a double pair of latex gloves.

The smell of cordite filled the room.

“Oh wow! Is that Dracula? Is he dead? Who killed him?”

Alex ran toward the bloody body. I snatched him before he could get a closer look. Even though he was all boy, he didn't need to get close up and personal with brain matter on the walls.

“Who knows? Call it a family affair.”

We had a dead man in the family room with at least three bullets in him and blood and bone fragments all over the glass door. I took the kids into the kitchen and closed the door. They'd already seen too much. Whip called nine-one-one.