“On the bright side, relatively, your friend Rick has been exonerated,” Kathy said. “Though I doubt being hounded by the police for a while has helped his standing in the community.”
“You spoke to him?” Pete said.
“No, nothing like that,” Kathy said. “I hear things. I’m a reporter. I sometimes make calls and people pick up. He basically went underground when all this hit, which was smart. Doubly so for someone who would do something as cliché as having an affair with his secretary.”
Pete ignored her last comment. He typed a few words and scanned the laptop’s screen.
“Do you think our killer started here in Miami, though?”
“No idea,” Kathy said.
“Can you do a search on your
Times
Lexis account to see if you can find any similar unsolved cases on the East Coast, or nearby?” Pete asked. “If we could figure out where else this guy has killed, we might be able to track him.”
“You say it like it’s easy,” Kathy said. “It’s not. Girls go missing all the time. And remember, the only reason we know we have a killer is because the bodies have been found. Who knows how many are in a hole somewhere. I wouldn’t know where to start.”
“Right,” Pete said, scrunching his nose as he looked at his own screen. “It’s too wide a net to cast. But let’s speculate for a bit. Say he has killed before. A few times. Now he’s here and he’s paying homage to Whitehurst. What’s next?”
“Well, serial killers tend to go two ways,” Kathy said. “They either go dormant for years between kills, or they increase their frequency until they start to get sloppy. Like Rory Conde—the Tamiami Trail Strangler. If these girls died by the hand of the same dude, it looks to me like he’s settled into a pattern, with the exception of the floater. But who knows how long that’ll last.”
Pete stretched and let out a long yawn.
“I’m going to make some coffee,” Pete said, standing up and walking toward the kitchen. “Need anything?”
“Another can of piss, if you don’t mind,” Kathy said, shaking her empty beer can.
Pete opened the fridge door and grabbed a can of Coors. The cold on his hands sent him back. He placed it on the counter and walked toward the coffeemaker near the sink. He busied himself with the preparation of the pot, trying to ignore the silver can. The coffee machine began to percolate, dripping coffee into the pot. He looked out the small window above the microwave. The dusk gave Pete’s view an eerie, misted quality. The skies were getting darker. Soon, he wouldn’t be able to see anything outside the tiny window. Pete didn’t like it. Too much darkness. This time of year reminded him of things he’d rather forget. Mike. Emily. His father. Then he saw it. A movement—near the westernmost corner of the backyard. Pete moved closer to the window. He couldn’t see anything now. Was it a dog? A possum? Probably.
He poured a cup of coffee into his old
Miami Times
mug and splashed in a bit of milk and some sweetener before stirring. He kept his eyes on the window and took a tentative sip. Nothing else. He carried his cup and grabbed the now not-as-cold can of beer. He tossed it to Kathy as he walked in. She caught it, more gracefully than Pete had expected. As he walked toward the dining room table, he noticed that the door to the utility room—where the washer and dryer were, and which led to the backyard and carport exit—was ajar. He put the mug of coffee on the table.
“Did you go outside for a smoke?”
“No, not for a bit,” Kathy said. “Why?”
“This door,” Pete said, motioning toward the utility room. “I haven’t used it since last week, when I did some laundry.”
“You do laundry? Could’ve fooled me.”
“This isn’t a joke,” Pete said, turning to face Kathy. “Someone’s been in the house.”
Then the lights went out.
Kathy let out a frightened yelp. Pete backed away from the utility room door. The only light in the living room was emanating from the two laptops resting on the dining room table.
“This is not funny,” Kathy said, standing up and walking over to Pete. “Please tell me you just forgot to pay your electric bill. I don’t mind us going to my place to continue our very special episode of Cagney and Lacey.”
They heard the sound of breaking glass coming from the guest room.
“Someone’s in the house,” Pete said. He darted into the utility room and came back with his gun. He flicked the safety off. He held the gun at his side and walked toward the main hall, which led to the guest room and, further down, to his own bedroom. “Stay here.”
“Fine by me,” Kathy said. Pete looked back at her. The laptops provided enough light for Pete to have a sense of what was around them. Kathy was leaning against the far wall, next to the utility room entrance, peering out the back window onto the backyard.
Another crash. Pete couldn’t make out where it was coming from this time. Outside? His room? He crouched and began to walk down the hall, his body low to the ground. Once he got past the living room and the two laptops, the house became almost pitch black. He got closer to the guest room door. It was closed. Pete wasn’t sure if he’d left it open. The last time he remembered being in the room was when he found Emily’s note. Since then, he’d avoided even looking at it. His right hand tightened around his gun as he reached for the doorknob with his left. As his fingers touched the handle, the door creaked open. He couldn’t see inside the room. But as the door opened, he realized that he wasn’t alone. The figure—average build, hunched over, panting—stood in the middle of the guest room, in front of the bed. Pete couldn’t tell if he was armed. But he knew the man had heard the noise from the door. Pete rolled away from the doorway and pressed his back against the adjacent wall. His breathing was heavy. He felt his palms sweating on the gun.
Then he heard the laughter.
It started softly at first, a low rumble, almost a growl. It came from inside the guest room—from the shape Pete had seen. Then it grew louder. More menacing. As if the man had heard the best, saddest, and most off-color joke ever. The kind of laugh that kept going well past the expiration date of any bit of humor, inching further and further away from sanity. The laughter almost masked the fact that the figure in the guest room was now trashing the room, tossing furniture around and shattering the windows. Pete inched closer to the guest room door.
He wheeled his body around, facing the entrance in a crouch, his gun pointed into the room in his best imitation of a three-point police stance. He opened his mouth and felt nothing come out. The figure wasn’t moving anymore, but Pete knew he was there, in the corner of the wrecked room, poised to lunge.
“I have a gun and I know where you are,” Pete said, his voice low but clear. “Come out with your hands up in the next three seconds or I start shooting. I am not fucking kidding.”
Pete waited. Nothing. He tried to focus, to tune into the figure’s breathing, but found nothing. His hands, holding up the gun as he stayed in the uncomfortable crouch, started to shake. He felt the sweat forming on his brow.
“You’re foolish.” The voice came from the room, but Pete couldn’t pinpoint where exactly. It was a growl—like someone had swallowed crushed glass and was still trying to speak. “You think it’s that simple? That I’d just come in here, with no plan, no goal, no concept of how to scare you and your stupid girlfriend? Did you think you’d just find Nina and that’d be that?”
Pete looked into the darkness; his eyes narrowed. He lifted the gun for a split second, unsure of where the man had gone, his voice coming in at weird levels and from different directions. He felt disoriented. The mention of Nina threw him off.
She’s alive?
Kathy’s scream cut through the silence. Pete pulled back and stood up. He turned toward the scream—toward the living room—before he remembered he was leaving one problem behind. He felt the man slam into him, pushing his body into the wall across from the guest room entrance. His gun fell out of his hand and slid out of his reach. He heard the man kick his gun down the hall, away from the rooms. He felt the man’s knee rise and make contact with his face. He felt his face roll off the knee as his body fell. His jaw hit the carpeted floor. The man’s boot made contact with the back of his head. He rolled to the left, dodging another kick, and grabbed the man’s foot, trying to pull him down. But a quick punch to the face disoriented him. Pete’s vision blurred. The man darted down the hall, away from the living room—toward the guest room and Pete’s bedroom on the other side of the house. The room’s door slammed shut. He tried to pull himself up, but slipped and fell again instead. His head was pounding. He didn’t hear Kathy anymore. He could, however, hear his room being trashed—books, shoes, and drawers being strewn about and slamming into his door. Pete strained to get to his feet.
He had to help Kathy. Whatever was going on at the other side of the house would have to wait. He started to turn toward the living room—to Kathy—when he smelled it.
Smoke.
He looked up: nothing. It was too dark. But he felt it. His lungs took in another dose of smoke and he responded with a coughing fit. He started to walk toward the living room and could see the smoke now, obscuring his vision further. He squinted his eyes. He reached the large living room and crouched on the floor, feeling around for his gun. Nothing. He was lost in his own house.
“Kathy?” Pete said, his voice low but loud enough for someone in the room to hear. “Kathy, where are you?”
The muffled whimper came from the far end of the living room, near the main window that faced the backyard. Then he did something he wished he’d thought of before: he pulled out his cell phone and let the small display light shine on the area in front of him. Within a few seconds he found her, bruised and beaten, her face red and bloodied. She was tied to the couch with what appeared to be one of Pete’s own white undershirts. The same kind of shirt had been stuffed into her mouth. He pulled it out and began to work on untying her hands. The smoke was getting thicker, and he could feel the warmth of fire behind him. His father’s house, the home he grew up in, was on fire. After a few more seconds, Kathy was free.
“We…we have to go,” Kathy said.
“Stay calm,” Pete said. “He’s in my room, on the other side of the house. He’s nuts. He’s ripping the place apart. He can’t hear us.”
“What are you talking about?” she said, her voice shaking. “He was just here. He just tied me up.”
Kathy’s second scream of the night came too late to warn Pete. He felt the thud of something metallic and hard slam into the back of his head. He felt his body get heavy and his eyelids close. The last thing he saw before blacking out was Kathy’s outline, moving toward him through the smoke. It felt warm all around him. His head felt light.
And then everything shut off.
***
“Come on, come on, come on…” It was Kathy’s voice, slow and quiet at first, then louder. Pete heard it as his eyes opened, then closed, smoke sneaking in and stinging them. His head hurt. A lot. It was throbbing—and he felt his body moving—no, sliding. He tilted his head up and got a shot of pain at the base of his skull.
“Fuck,” he said, finally remembering what had happened earlier. An hour ago? A minute ago? How long had he been out?
She hadn’t heard him. Her hands were still at his ankles, dragging him across his living room floor, smoke surrounding them, flashes of fire flickering into the living room from down the hall. Pete was hot. He felt dizzy and fevered. He hadn’t thought to move yet. She noticed he was awake.
“Can you walk?” Kathy said. “We need to get the fuck out of here and I don’t think I can carry you.”
“I…I think so,” Pete said, pushing himself up onto his elbows, each movement causing a chorus of pains and aches. “Is he gone?”
“I don’t know,” Kathy said. Normally, this would be her time to quip or make a remark, but they were past that. Pete could see the bruises and dirt caking her face, even through the haze of dark smoke. His house was on fire, and he could barely move. “We don’t have much time.”
Pete nodded, his teeth gritting at the motion of his head. He felt her move around and get behind him, looping her arms under his and lifting him up. The rush of motion sent his head spinning, but after a few seconds he felt almost normal. He took a tentative step and stumbled, falling back into Kathy. She held him up.
“Just lean on me, but not too much,” she said, a dry laugh escaping her mouth. “I’m not as strong as I look.”
They took a few steps when he felt something with his foot. His gun. He knelt down, holding onto Kathy in case he fell. His hands rummaged around the floor, which was already dark with smoke, a bad sign, he thought. He felt the gun’s handle and picked it up. He’d have something to remember his father by. He thought of their laptops and the piles of research they’d be leaving behind. Their entire case was lost. Nothing he could do about that now. He stood back up and gripped Kathy’s hand with his free one.
“Let’s go.”
The first explosion seemed to come from the backyard. The house shook in response. The crashing plates and toppling furniture could barely be heard over the roar of the growing fire tearing through the house. They looked at each other.
“The fuck was that?” she said.
“We have to go,” Pete said. They were about ten feet from the door, but even that seemed like three football fields of distance. Pete couldn’t go a step without pain scorching his skull and neck, and Kathy looked like she’d just been run over by a few joyriding cars. He thought he heard her sigh in resignation.