The Third Victim (15 page)

Well, let me show you. . . .

The first time he’d been very careful. No ties between himself and the community. He’d selected the town by computer, researched it by computer, approached the players by computer. When it had finally been necessary to conduct some on-site activities, he’d worn disguises and used only cash. The three
P
s of a successful mission: Patience, Planning, and Precautions.
See, I was
listening,
you old
fuck.

In the end, it had been easy. Screams and smoke and blood. Beautiful, fantastical death.

Not a tremor in his hand, not a care in the world.

But then it had been over. Police came, investigated, arrested, moved on. Case closed. He returned to everyday life, visited the cemetery again, guzzled another bottle of brandy.

Who’s weak now, old man? Who isn’t feelin’ very smart?

And then . . .

Nothing. Story faded from the news. Town got on with things. People moved on with life. And he was alone again, feeling his power, knowing the things he knew, and . . . bored.

Time for a second strike. Raise the stakes, prove his point, elevate the game.

He picked the next town more carefully, spent longer reconning in the area, studying the rhythms of life. Still lots of patience and planning. Still many, many precautions. Computers were a wonderful tool.

Then one day everything was in place. Screams and smoke and blood. Beautiful, fantastical death. This time he lingered afterward—from a ways away, of course, using binoculars—but still he lingered, adding an extra zing.

Cops arrived on scene. Dull, unimaginative small-town yokels. Saw what he wanted them to see, thought what he wanted them to think. Made their arrest, felt good about themselves.

In fact, everything went so well, the man decided not to go home right away. He hit upon the hotel plan—in a separate city, of course, though frankly he wasn’t convinced even that precaution was necessary. He rented a car, drove back into town. Hung out in the local bars and listened to the local folks talk. He had so much fun, he even went to the funerals and watched the mothers cry.

Who’s smart now, you old fuck?

Five days later it was all over and done. Reporters packed their bags. Lawyers worked out some deal. He returned to the ordinary world of his “acceptable life,” and eventually this film also faded from his mind.

He needed something more. His plans worked, but the thrill was lacking. From what he could tell, he was too smart (
Hear that, old man?
). He could make the cops dance on a pinhead and they’d fucking thank him for the floor space.

He needed a place more challenging, a target more riveting, and an opponent more worthy. He needed to expand the playing field.

Bakersville had come to him like a goddamn wet dream.

The perfect place, the perfect target, and the perfect cast of Keystone Kops hot on his trail.

Finally, he was having some fun.

Big, burly Shep, crying over his son. Smart, pretty Officer Conner, worrying about her town. And now Supervisory Special Agent Pierce Quincy. Quantico’s best of the best.

Finally, he had a game worth playing. Which was good, because as far as he was concerned he was no longer producing a single-act play. This game was just beginning.

Do you remember what it felt like when you pulled the trigger, Officer Conner? Do you still dream about the wet sound of your mother’s exploding head?

Someday I want to hear all about it.

But not tonight. Tonight he had to drive to Portland. He still had work to do.

THE FIRST TIME
Becky O’Grady fell asleep, she dreamed she stood up to the monster in her school. She planted her feet in the hall. She yelled, “Bad, bad monster. Leave my brother alone! Don’t you hurt my friends!”

The monster was ashamed. He crawled away. Then Alice and Sally hugged her and cried. Pretty Miss Avalon kissed her on the cheek and told her she was very brave. Everyone was happy, including her mommy and daddy, who never fought again, and Danny, who gave her a kitty.

The second time Becky fell asleep, she dreamed she stood up to the monster and he bit off her head.

At five in the morning, Becky O’Grady crawled to the hall closet and piled coats on top of her shoulders. But she knew it wouldn’t do any good.

The monster was coming. She had not saved Danny, and she and the monster both knew it. Soon he would come for her. Soon it would be her turn.

Becky whimpered for her mother. But mostly she cried for Danny, because when he had needed her most, she had not saved him.

FIFTEEN
                                                                                                                                                                                                               

Thursday, May 17, 7:50
A
.
M
.

S
ANDY STOOD AT THE
kitchen sink, washing the same flower-bordered plate over and over again. Outside, the sun was shining. She had cracked the window to let in the fresh morning air, and now she could hear the sounds of her neighborhood preparing for a new day. Somewhere down the street a lawn was being mowed. Probably Mr. McCabe. He was a retired school principal who took religious care of his yard. In June, people drove in from miles around just to admire his roses.

A dog barked three or four houses over. Then came the sounds of a mother yelling for her child. Andy? Anthony? Maybe Andrea, the Simpsons’ four-year-old daughter. Last Halloween she’d dressed up as a cowboy—not a cowgirl, she’d told everyone, a cow
boy
. Sandy really liked the child, even if she insisted on calling her Mrs. O’Grady, which made Sandy feel old.

She turned the plate in her hand and rhythmically washed the back.

When she and Shep had first moved into this neighborhood eleven years ago, they were one of the few couples with kids. Since then the neighborhood had grown and so had the families. There must be five toddlers on this block alone. Two of the girls in Becky’s class lived just four blocks over. There were a number of boys as well, though most of them were too young for Danny. Sandy had always thought that was a shame. It was so easy for Becky to find someone to play with, whereas Danny had to be driven to someone’s house. That took planning. That took having a parent home to serve as chauffeur.

Danny had never complained, though. He seemed content to read books or stay at school or play on the computer. Later in the evenings she’d sometimes go on walks with him around the neighborhood. They’d wave at the other families. Danny would check out houses with DirecTV. Or sometimes she’d walk and he’d ride his bike around her and show off stunts like riding no-handed for her amusement.

She’d always liked those walks. She’d felt safe, passing through their modest community where everyone worked hard and knew one another’s name.

This morning Sandy didn’t feel comfortable enough to step outside to get the morning paper. She was too afraid people would stop and stare. And she wasn’t sure which bothered her most, the looks of anger or of pity.

She stayed in her kitchen, a prisoner under house arrest, and scrubbed her appliances until they sparkled. Then she attacked the kitchen floor, all the while pretending it was just another day in the neighborhood and her life hadn’t really ended two days ago.

This morning Sandy had called the detention center at promptly seven
A
.
M
. It had been forty-eight hours since she’d last spoken with her son, and she desperately needed to see him. Was he frightened, was he scared? Did he understand what was happening to him? Did he miss her or call out her name in the middle of the night?

What if he was having nightmares? What if he wasn’t getting enough to eat or the blankets scratched or the sheets itched? For God’s sake, she was his mother and she needed to be with her son!

The head of the detention facilities, a Mr. Gregory, had firmly but politely informed her that Danny had already begged them not to let his mother in. The director had located Danny in the cafeteria first thing this morning to mention that his parents wanted to visit. Danny had immediately grown so agitated that staff members had had no choice but to return him to his room.

It appeared he was too traumatized to deal with his parents. Maybe in a week or two.

Sandy had never heard of anything so ridiculous. If her son was traumatized, all the more reason for her to come. She could bring his favorite toy, bake his favorite cake. Please, something, anything . . .

Don’t leave me on the outside like this. Don’t leave me feeling so helpless.

Mr. Gregory informed her that her son was still under suicide watch. And they’d had to return Danny to his room because, at the mention of seeing his parents, he grabbed a fork from another youth and tried to puncture his own wrist.

She and Shep were not to visit. Period.

The sound of the lawn mower stopped. A sharp bang as Mr. McCabe removed the clippings bag. He was probably dumping the grass on his flower beds. Sandy had seen him do it a hundred times. Churning the grass clippings into the beds to replenish the nitrogen. Working the soil tenderly with his old, gnarled hands.

She finally set the plate in the drying rack. The dishes were done. Her countertops sparkled, her floor was freshly mopped. She’d even cleaned the stove and wiped down the microwave. Now it was eight in the morning and Sandy didn’t know what to do.

She turned toward Becky, who was eyeing her somberly from the kitchen table.

“Would you like more cereal, honey?”

Becky shook her head. The bowl of Cheerios placed in front of her fifteen minutes ago still appeared to be untouched.

“What about some fruit?” Sandy coaxed. “Or what about pancakes? I can make you chocolate chip pancakes!”

Sandy regretted the words the moment she said them. Chocolate chip pancakes were Danny’s favorite.

Becky shook her head.

Sandy resiliently turned toward the refrigerator, searching for more options. Becky hadn’t eaten in nearly two days.

“I know,” Sandy said brightly, “how about some salad!”

She eagerly pulled out the clear glass bowl. The salad had been among four dishes that had arrived on their front porch yesterday. The others had contained macaroni and cheese, a ham-and-potato dish, and some kind of mystery-meat surprise. This bowl had impressed Sandy, however. The mixture of strawberry Jell-O, apples, bananas, walnuts, and whipped cream was a favorite children’s salad, and it touched her that others were thinking of Becky. God knows, the little girl was suffering too.

Sandy held up the brightly colored salad for Becky’s inspection. Becky had always loved Jell-O and whipped cream. . . .

A slight hesitation, then finally Becky nodded. They had a winner!

Sandy dished up a large bowl for her daughter, humming slightly to herself in honor of having scored a victory. She poured a glass of orange juice to go with Becky’s breakfast. After another thought, she poured a glass of juice for herself as well and joined her daughter at the table.

From the living room came the sound of Shep snoring. He’d been out most of the night and returned at some small hour of the morning, reeking of beer. Sandy knew without asking where he’d gone. Rainie’s house. Whenever he was troubled, whenever he had something on his mind, he always went there.

Once Sandy had entertained wild notions of what must be going on at the Conner residence. Everyone had heard stories of Rainie’s mother and what kind of woman she’d been. Sandy had imagined her husband and his deputy rolling around in a torrid embrace. She had fantasized about them laughing together and giggling madly over what an idiot pretty little Sandy Surmon must be not to suspect a thing.

One night in a fit of jealous rage, she’d hightailed it over to Rainie’s tiny home in the middle of the soaring woods. She’d driven up the dirt driveway at full steam, already formulating a bold confrontation in her head.

She’d discovered her husband and Rainie sitting on the huge back deck in complete silence, each just staring out into the woods and holding a beer.

Sandy had gone back home without ever saying a word.

Over the years she’d come to realize that she simply couldn’t fathom her husband and Rainie’s relationship. She didn’t know what caused the long silences between them or the unspoken exchanges. She didn’t understand how Shep could sometimes seem to belong more to Rainie than to her, when Sandy had borne him two children and, as best as she could tell, Rainie only handed him bottles of Bud Light.

Whatever bonded them was deep, but at least it wasn’t sexual. So Sandy did her best to fight her nagging, painful wish that Shep would come to her when he was troubled, instead of heading to another woman’s house for hours of companionable silence.

“Mommy, what happened to school?”

Sandy looked at her daughter, genuinely startled by the question and the sound of her daughter’s voice. Becky had barely spoken since the shooting, and when she did, it was generally a one-word statement. “What do you mean, honey?”

“There’s no school today.”

“No, Becky, there’s no school today.”

“Tomorrow?”

“You don’t have to go to school tomorrow either, sweetheart. I don’t want you to worry about school. It’s all done for a bit.”

Her daughter continued to eye her intently. “Are the other kids going to school?”

“You mean your classmates? No.” Sandy was trying to pick her words carefully. “They’re all done with school for a bit as well.”

“It’s not summer.”

“It’s almost summer.”

“Mommy, it’s not summer.”

“Becky . . . You know something bad happened at school, right? You understand that?”

Becky nodded.

“Well, that bad thing has made everyone sad. You’re sad, aren’t you?”

Becky nodded again.

“I’m sad,” Sandy said softly. “Daddy’s sad. And the other kids, they’re sad too. So for a little bit, because everyone is so sad, there’s no school.”

“But someday?”

“Someday, Becky, yes, there will be school. But it’s okay, honey! It won’t be until you’re ready, and we’ll make sure the school is very safe. So the bad thing—”

“The monster.”

Sandy hesitated. “Yes, so the monster can’t happen anymore.”

Becky stared at her. Her eyes were big and serious. Sandy hadn’t realized until now just how old her little girl had become. Then Becky returned her attention to her bowl of whipped cream and Jell-O. Sandy understood. Becky didn’t believe her. She already assumed her world wouldn’t be safe again. Not in a time when monsters could go to school.

Sandy returned to the kitchen sink, downing the last of her orange juice and then carefully, methodically washing the glass. The light on the answering machine blinked madly at her, but she’d already heard the message yesterday. Mitchell trying to find her, before Shep had changed their phone number to end the relentless calls. Mitchell, so sorry to disturb her at a time like this, but he was desperately trying to get his hands on the Wal-Mart reports. Could she please give him a quick buzz and tell him where he might find the files?

Sandy knew what he was looking for. She could picture the files perfectly in her mind. But she hadn’t picked up the phone and called him back.

Maybe Shep was right. Maybe she’d been working too much, putting her own needs in front of the children’s. If she’d been home more, paying more atten-tion . . . If Danny had felt safer, more important, more loved . . .

If . . . if . . . if . . .

Sandy shut off the water. Her hands were shaking on the faucet; she had tears in her eyes.

Mommy, what happened to school?

I want to make the world safe. Oh God, honey. I wish I could make the world safe for you.

“Mommy.”

Sandy turned back to Becky. For a moment, she thought she saw blood on her daughter’s face and she nearly screamed. Strawberry Jell-O, her mind filled in belatedly. Strawberry Jell-O.

But then she saw the tears in her daughter’s eyes.

“My tongue hurts.”

Sandy rushed across the kitchen. She looked at her daughter’s mouth, and to her dismay, she realized it was bleeding. Poor Becky’s tongue was bleeding.

“What happened? Did you bite your tongue? Ah, honey, let me get you a washcloth and an ice cube. Hang on a second.”

She picked up the salad, carrying it over to the sink. It wasn’t until she was running a fresh washcloth under the tap that she looked in the bowl and noticed the way light glinted off fragments of Jell-O.

Very slowly, Sandy got out a spoon. She dug through the salad. She pulled out five shards of glass.

Baby killer. Baby killer. Baby killer.

It’s a children’s salad! Even if you hate us, what kind of animals put shattered glass in a fucking children’s salad!

She returned to Becky with surprising calmness. She wiped off her little girl’s face; she gave her an ice cube to suck on. Already the bleeding appeared to have stopped. The glass shards were small. Maybe they hadn’t done much damage.

Tenderly Sandy feathered back Becky’s fine blond hair. “How are you feeling, honey?”

“Okay.”

“Did you eat much?” she asked lightly.

Becky shook her head. “Not hungry.”

“If your tummy hurts, you’ll tell me, won’t you?”

Becky nodded. Sandy decided to let it go. Becky seemed fine and Sandy didn’t want to frighten her with another trip to the emergency room.

“I know,” Sandy said briskly, “let’s make some snickerdoodle cookies! I’ll bring out all the ingredients and you can help me measure everything. How does that sound?”

Becky shrugged.

“Wonderful. Let me just clean this stuff up and we’ll be on our way.”

Sandy gave her daughter a bright, reassuring smile. She kept her chin high and her features composed. Then she returned to the kitchen sink, where she spooned all the Jell-O salad and the three other casseroles into the garbage disposal while she swore to herself that she would not, would not,
would not
cry.

“Don’t let the monster get you, Mommy.”

“Becky, I would never dream of doing any such thing.”