Final Breath (4 page)

Molly Gerrard had been much easier--and neater--three hours earlier.

She had been his first kill--ever. He'd tried to kill before, years ago, but it hadn't worked out. That failure was still the source of a lot of bitterness and frustration in him.

So he was surprised to have pulled off Molly's murder without a hitch. He'd been following her around for days now. He knew her car and had overheard several of her cell phone conversations. So he often knew what Molly was going to do before she did it.

Late this afternoon, he'd skulked up the Gerrards' driveway, crouched down behind Molly's Honda, and set a small board with four nails driven through it under the left rear tire. Less than an hour later, she stepped out of the house and hurried into the car. It only took four blocks for the tire to deflate--and in a perfect, remote spot, too.

He pretended he'd just happened by. And Molly looked so glad to see him--right up until the moment he punched her in the face. With one blow, he bloodied her nose, broke her glasses, and knocked her unconscious.

He drove her eight blocks to the ravinelike drive, where she started to regain consciousness. She was dazed and almost docile as he hauled her into the dark, wooded area. But then Molly seemed to realize what was happening. She pleaded with him--employing, no doubt, the same kind of reasoning and logic she'd used in school last week to save the lives of her classmates. Only it didn't work this time. It was hard for Molly to rely on those powers of verbal persuasion once he slashed her throat. Instead of words, a strange gurgling sound came from her mouth during the last few moments of her life.

He'd gotten only a few drops of blood on his glove and on the sleeve of his clear rain jacket. He wiped it clean with two Kleenex.

Along with Molly's broken glasses, he took her cell phone. There were three messages from Erin Travino about the movie: first, saying she'd meet Molly in front of the theater; next, asking Molly what had happened to her; and, finally, saying where she and Kim were sitting if Molly was still interested in meeting them.

As if Erin hadn't already made it easy enough for him to find her, she was the one who kept switching on her cell phone and checking her messages during the movie. That little blue light had stood out in the darkened theater. He'd followed her--and that blue light--out to the lobby, then up to the women's restroom.

He wondered if someone had discovered her body yet. Standing over the small sink in the coffeehouse washroom, he rinsed Erin's blood out of his hair. He watched the pink water swirl against the white porcelain. With some paper towels, he pat-dried his scalp, then checked for more blood on his jeans and shoes. He'd lucked out, just a few drops on his black sneakers.

After cleaning off the sink, he was about to toss away the used paper towels, but hesitated. They were smeared with blood. He didn't want anyone in the cafe later linking him to the murder across the street.

He stuffed the bloodied paper towels into the plastic bag, which was tucked inside his Nordstrom tote. Then he stepped out of the bathroom, returned the key to the barista, and headed back to his table. He set the Nordstrom bag down by his chair.

Sipping his latte, he stared at the theater across the street. He couldn't help feeling a bit disappointed. Perhaps that was why he took a chance coming here. He would have been better off getting as far away from the theater as quickly as possible. But he needed to see people's reactions to what he'd done. From this front-row seat, he could see their shock and panic. Maybe then it would feel complete.

He heard sirens in the distance.

Across the street, the theater door flung open. He spotted the woman who had taken his ticket earlier. With a look of alarm, she paused at the threshold, a hand over her heart. She anxiously gazed up and down the sidewalk. The pale, stocky, baby-faced guy who worked the concessions stand trotted around from the other side of the building. Like his friend, he, too, was looking in every direction. "Shit, I didn't see anybody!" the guy screamed to the ticket taker. "Jesus, maybe he's still in the theater..."

The girl shook her head and started sobbing. She said something, but her words were drowned out by the sirens. The piercing wail grew even louder. Swirling beams of white and red lights from the approaching patrol cars already illuminated the street.

He noticed other people in the cafe. They'd stopped talking to their friends or typing on their laptops, and now they were looking toward the window.

He had to contain a smile.

He couldn't stay here much longer. If the police did their job right, within five minutes, they'd hold everyone in this cafe and question them about who they saw coming out of the theater. He didn't want to stick around for that. Slowly, he got to his feet.

Three police cars and an ambulance raced up the street and came to a halt in front of the theater. But he wasn't watching them. His eyes were on a middle-aged woman with a pea-coat, purple scarf, and a shopping bag. She headed down the sidewalk in the opposite direction. Grabbing his Nordstrom bag and his latte, he hurried out the door, and caught up with the woman--so they were walking almost side by side.

"What do you suppose happened over there?" he asked her as they passed the ambulance and police cars.

She shrugged and shook her head. "Drugs, probably. It's always something around here. This neighborhood has gone to hell in a handbasket--if you'll pardon my French." She picked up her pace--almost as if to avoid him, then she turned down a side street.

His first instinct was to follow her home, maybe even kill her.

Perhaps that would have made him feel better, but he doubted it. He'd been elated for only a few moments tonight, a rush of excitement as he watched them die by his hand. He'd felt so powerful. But the elation hadn't lasted long.

Those girls--as much as they deserved to die--were just substitutes for someone else. He was thinking of that certain someone when he'd killed Molly and Erin tonight. He wondered if their deaths would affect her at all.

It would be a lot harder to get to her. It would take more planning. But he vowed he would make her suffer. He would wage a campaign of terror against her, inflicting so much pain and anguish that she would almost welcome her own execution.

He paused on the corner and watched the woman with the purple scarf disappear in the night's distance. He smiled.

He was thinking about the next time and how it would be better.

C
HAPTER
T
WO

Portland, Oregon--Two years later

"So, sweetheart, I'm thinking of Tom, Bernie, and Pat for my groomsmen," Jared said to Leah as they walked from his car toward one of their favorite haunts, Thai Paradise on Hawthorne. It was 8:40 on a cold Tuesday night in early December. Holiday lights and decorations adorned the storefronts, but right now the street was nearly deserted.

Jared had his arm around Leah's shoulder. They were an attractive couple. Jared, tall and lean with wavy blond hair, blue eyes, and perpetually pink cheeks, looked like a thirty-year-old version of Prince William. Leah was thin and pretty, with short chestnut hair. "Waiflike" was how Jared's mother described her, and Leah wasn't entirely sure if that was meant to be flattering or not.

"You mentioned your cousin, Lonnie, as a candidate if I wanted someone from your side of the family as a groomsman," Jared went on. "But you guys aren't really that close. Maybe Lonnie could do a reading or something..."

Leah didn't say a word. She eyed the restaurant's red awning with green Christmas lights wrapped around the poles. She felt the knots in her stomach tightening.

"Are you pissed off?" Jared asked. "If having Lonnie in the wedding party is really that important to you--"

"No, it--it's fine," she said. But it wasn't fine at all. Everything was so screwed up. Jared didn't know it yet, but she couldn't go through with this wedding.

She needed to break up with him--tonight. That was why she still couldn't settle on a wedding date. Poor Jared--in a role usually reserved for the bride--became preoccupied with wedding plans, and she--like an apathetic groom--merely shrugged and said, "That's fine," every time he told her about some terrific caterer or a really cool place to hold the reception. Last week her mother came over and started talking about the wedding. Then Jared chimed in, and Leah had nuptial talk in stereo. It was all she could do to keep from running out of the room, screaming.

It wasn't fair to Jared, stringing him along like this. He was a terrific guy, who did very well at his accounting firm. Leah repeatedly told herself she was lucky to be his fiancee. Everybody else--her family, his family and all their friends--told her the same thing

But she didn't love Jared. Her infatuation with him had petered out two months ago. If she'd had any guts, she would have told him "no" on Thanksgiving night when he'd surprised her with the seventeen-thousand-dollar engagement ring. Thank God he didn't have it engraved or anything. He could still get his money back.

She couldn't marry him. It was that simple.

Leah planned to tell him tonight over dinner in Thai Paradise. She figured he couldn't yell at her or cause a big scene in one of their favorite restaurants.

Jared held the door open for her. "You feeling okay?" he asked. "You're awfully quiet tonight."

She shrugged. "I--think maybe I'm just hungry."

The restaurant felt almost steamy after the cold night outside. A blend of sweet and spicy aromas filled the place. The busboy who met them at the door wasn't much bigger than Leah. He was in his mid twenties, with long black bangs that fell over one eye. He had a sweet, handsome face, and he smiled a lot--perhaps to compensate for the fact that his English was horrible. That never stopped Jared from trying to strike up a conversation with him.

Tonight was no different. While the busboy led them past the empty counter area and around the huge tank full of tropical fish, Jared asked how he was, and how business was, and gosh, it sure didn't seem too busy tonight.

The busboy just nodded and smiled--until he sat them in a secluded booth against the wall in the windowless, dimly lit eating area. Leah used to think it was charming the way Jared was so friendly with waitpersons and salespeople. Now it just got on her nerves. It seemed phony and oversolicitous.

Slipping into the booth, Leah shed her coat and thanked the busboy as he handed her a menu.

"Looks like we're just about the only ones in here," Jared said to their busboy. "Hope we aren't screwing up your chances for an early quit tonight."

He doesn't have a fucking clue what you're saying, stupid,
Leah wanted to tell her dear, well-meaning fiance. But she just kept a pleasant smile frozen on her face, and took a quick inventory. Jared was right. There were only two other customers in the restaurant--in a booth across from them. They were finished with their dinner and donning their coats. Leah's hopes that Jared wouldn't pitch a fit in a restaurant full of people vanished as she watched the other couple head for the door. She and Jared were now the only customers in the place.

The busboy filled their water glasses. Leah waited until he left their table, then she cleared her throat. "I need to talk with you about something, Jared," she said, squirming a bit in the booth's cushioned seat. "This has been really heavy on my mind lately..."

He looked up from his menu. "What is it, sweetheart?"

The busboy returned with their tea in a medium-size stainless-steel pot. "Tea very, very hot," he said, filling their cups. He set the pot on a trivet on their table.

Leah's stomach was still in knots. She watched the busboy retreat toward the front of the restaurant. He hung the
CLOSED
sign on the door. It occurred to Leah that after tonight, she wouldn't want to come back here again. It would always be
that place where she broke up with Jared.
This was probably her last time in here, and it was too bad, because she loved their garlic chicken with wide noodles.

"What is it?" Jared repeated.

Leah couldn't answer him.

The waitress approached their table. Delicate and pretty, she had a round face and a shy manner. Her black hair was swept back in a barrette, and she smiled a lot--like the busboy. In fact, they were brother and sister. Her English was better than his. After Jared subjected her to his requisite chitchat, she took their drink orders.

Once the waitress withdrew, Leah sighed and nervously drummed her fingers on the table top. "Listen, Jared, if I've seemed distracted and on edge lately, well, there's a reason..."

Staring at her, he put down his menu.

"This just isn't working out," she said finally.

"What isn't working out, babe? This booth? You want one on the other side of the room?"

She quickly shook her head and then looked down at her engagement ring. "No, that's not it. I'm sorry, Jared, but it wouldn't be fair to you if I--"

"No, we closing, we closing!"

Leah glanced up--just past the fish tank, toward the front of the restaurant. The busboy was shaking his head and half-bowing to two men who must have ignored the sign on the door. "We closing now!" he repeated.

But the two men were already in the restaurant, and they didn't look as if they were ready to leave. One was tall and skinny, with long, greasy, wavy black hair and a goatee. He wore jeans and a black leather jacket, and had a tattoo on the side of his neck. He muttered something to the busboy. Leah was too far away to see what the tattooed image was, and she couldn't hear what he'd just said. But she had a terrible feeling about this. The meek little busboy was still shaking his head at him and his friend.

"What's wrong?" the man asked loudly. "Answer me in English, asshole. What? Are you all out of food? Did the kennel stop delivering the dog meat?"

Jared half-turned in the booth and looked over his shoulder. "What the hell?" he murmured.

The tall, creepy man's friend laughed--a high-pitched cackle. Shorter and stockier than his buddy, he had a marine buzz cut and muscular arms covered with tattoos. Despite the frigid weather, he wore only a T-shirt and jeans. He was all twitchy and seemed hopped up on something. Still laughing, he reached over and slapped the busboy on his shoulder.

"You go, please, we closing!" the busboy repeated. He pointed at the sign on the door.

A hand over her heart, Leah watched as the cook emerged from behind the counter. A thin, older man, he had a red apron over his short-sleeve shirt and baggy black slacks. He, too, was shaking his head at the intruders and pointing to the door. Between his hushed tone and the broken English, Leah wasn't sure what he was saying. The young waitress hovered behind him.

"Fuck you, old man," the skinny goon said, laughing.

"Who do these scumbags think they are?" Jared muttered. He started to climb out of the booth, but Leah grabbed his hand to stop him.

"Please, Jared, no--don't," she whispered urgently. The
scumbags
obviously hadn't yet noticed two customers were still in the restaurant. Part of Leah wanted to stay inconspicuous, just lay low until all of this was over. It seemed like the safest option right now: avoid a confrontation at any cost.

Then the stocky man suddenly pulled a revolver from the waistband of his jeans. His T-shirt had been camouflaging it. All at once, he slammed the butt end of the revolver over the older man's forehead. The waitress let out a scream as the cook collapsed on the floor. "No, no, no!" she cried, rushing to his aid.

But the stocky man grabbed her. His friend pushed the busboy against the counter and sent him crashing into two tall counter chairs. They tipped over and fell to the floor with a loud clatter while the busboy clung to the counter for balance. The chubby guy thought this was hysterically funny.

Paralyzed, Leah watched in horror. "Oh my God," she whispered. "Call 9-1-1...."

Jared quickly dug into his pants pocket for his cell phone.

The two assailants still hadn't spotted them on the other side of the large fish tank.

The skinny one grabbed the busboy by his hair, and then hit him in the face. The waitress screamed out again as her brother tripped over the fallen counter chairs and tumbled to the floor. The thug kicked him in the ribs.

"Who else is back there?" he asked, nodding toward the kitchen area behind the counter. He glanced at the waitress. "You got somebody washing dishes back there?"

Tears streaming down her face, the waitress shook her head and said something. Leah couldn't hear it. All the while, the hulky creep pawed at her and cackled.

"Do you have a safe in this dump? A safe?" the tall one asked her.

Once again, Leah couldn't hear her reply. But the man must have heard it. "Fuck!" he hissed. "Okay, so where do you keep the money?"

With the phone to his ear, Jared peered over the top of their booth. His earlier fortitude had disappeared. Leah could tell he didn't want to be a hero right now any more than she did. This was something for the police--if they ever picked up.

"Yes," Jared whispered into the phone--finally. "I'm reporting a--a--a robbery in progress at--um, at Thai Paradise on Hawthorne...No, I'm sorry. I can't speak up. I'm here in the restaurant. It's happening right in front of me..."

The busboy let out a frail cry as the tall, skinny creep savagely kicked him again. It broke Leah's heart--and enraged her--to see that sweet, quiet young man brutalized. His sister sobbed uncontrollably in the other thug's clutches. "I'm getting some of this yellow tail before the night is over," he announced, groping her.

"Take her into the can," the one with the goatee said. "Let's move them
all
in there and get away from this front window. I'll clean out the register. Then we'll cap them all. I don't want any fucking witnesses..."

"Oh, my God," Leah murmured. She'd heard that term
cap
in a movie about street gangs. It meant shooting somebody in the head.

Jared was still whispering into the phone, explaining he couldn't talk any louder. "These guys have guns!" he said under his breath. He peered over the top of the booth. "They're going to shoot everyone in the place, for God's sake. Please, send help..."

"Where's the restroom?" the skinny one asked the waitress.

She timidly pointed toward the dining area--past the fish tank. The man's gaze followed, and suddenly, he locked eyes with Leah.

She gasped and tried to duck. Jared shrank back in his seat as well. But they were too late. They'd been spotted.

"Shit, we got company," the skinny creep muttered. "Let's round them up."

"My God, they've seen us," Jared whispered into the phone. "Tell the police to hurry. Did you hear me?"

Leah flinched at a loud, tinny clattering sound. Peeking around the edge of the booth, she saw the taller one kicking the fallen counter chairs aside. He grabbed the dazed, beaten busboy by the arm, and pulled him up from the floor. Blood streamed from the young man's nose. He could hardly walk. The tall guy seemed to hold him up as they moved toward the dining area. The stocky thug followed them, his tattooed arms still around the waitress. Both assailants had their guns ready.

"Come out of there, you two," the skinny one called.

"Yeah, come out, come out, wherever you are!" his friend chimed in, laughing.

The two hoods stepped into the dining room area with their terrified hostages.

Leah recoiled in the corner of the booth. Sitting up straight, Jared switched off his cell phone and nervously stared back at them.

"Get up," the skinny guy whispered. With one hand, he had the trembling busboy in a choke hold. With the other, he pointed a gun at Leah and Jared. "Get the hell up," he repeated. "We're gonna stick all of you in the restroom for safekeeping."

But neither Jared nor Leah moved. Her heart was racing.

The tall, ugly gunman violently shoved the busboy to one side. The young man collided into a table, knocking it over. Glasses, plates, and silverware flew in every direction. He hit his head on the top of a chair, then fell to the floor, unconscious.

The stocky one cackled. Following his friend's lead, he hurled the poor waitress toward another table. The petite girl slammed into a chair, but somehow managed to keep from falling. Wincing in pain, she clung to the chair and caught her breath.

Horrified, Leah sat frozen in the booth, watching it all.

"Yahoo!" the hulky guy yelled. He swiveled around and fired his gun three times--at the large fish tank. There was an explosion of glass and water. He must have hit some electrical wiring, because sparks shot out from the top of the tank. There was a loud bang, and the lights in the restaurant flickered. Water gushed from the broken receptacle, and suddenly the restaurant floor was a quarter-inch deep in water and flopping, floundering exotic fish.