Garage Sale Stalker (Garage Sale Mysteries) (25 page)

CHAPTER 57

“Y
RD
SALE” now read “RIS
AIF.”
Ruger knew this forgery would fail close inspection, but it should escape the casual scrutiny of passing vehicles, such as a rolling police cruiser. He also knew this subterfuge bought him critical time because white vans similar to this turned up everywhere. Until they located this particular one, they had no idea where to look for him.

Even when the cops found it, his inside/outside wipe-down and protective gloves afterward guaranteed no fingerprints. Still, he’d envisioned this scene unfolding years hence, when this missing woman was old news. Then he could easily drop her van in another city or even another state: Maryland, the District of Columbia, Pennsylvania and West Virginia were all within about an hour’s drive. They’d find the vehicle but not Jennifer Shannon, who would occupy a grave on his farm. Given that future “clean” car and no corpse, anybody could be responsible for her disappearance, which by then would be a dusty cold case.

Her escape destroyed that perfect strategy. He gritted his teeth and slammed a tightly clenched fist hard against the steering wheel. That woman! She ruined everything!

When she spilled her story, cops would swarm over his house. They’d investigate his computer, which his hasty midnight departure left no time to booby-trap. They’d discover his clandestine consulting for Special Forces and side-line activities with militia, both groups operating at the edge of the law. Besides losing the painstakingly compiled files he’d never see again, their discovery would turn the very friends who could help him create a new identity into enemies. Enemies determined to find and kill him for failing to secure their super-sensitive information entrusted to him. Now he had to dodge everybody—cops
and
clients.

Driving toward Tysons Corner, his life in a shambles, he took stock of his situation. He’d survived a bitter childhood, succeeded in a tough Army career, made a new start at the inherited house and worked with organizations where his unique military experience contributed importantly. He didn’t expect the unstoppable need to punish those women. But when the rage overpowered him with the uncontrollable need to punish as he was punished, he acted. Then the unimaginable physical and emotional satisfaction that followed, a catharsis experienced only by
humiliating
and
controlling
and
eliminating
them, justified all the risks.

Even so, except for the first woman in the bar, he’d planned carefully, proceeded efficiently, used them savagely and buried the evidence. That is, until this last one escaped. The decision for her to clean and cook allowed him critical hours to concentrate on his time-sensitive computer work and, when she reorganized the basement, to neutralize his mother’s power over the cellar. He’d captured Jennifer Shannon for his own whims. Why not use her that way, he’d decided, before he used her the other ways?

Everything went well until she caused the crescendo of events turning his life upside down. Now, as with perilous Army missions, new situations required new strategies. He needed a plan.

Pulling into a Tysons Corner hotel parking lot, he parked his car among the dozens belonging to guests asleep in their rooms. Leaning back in the seat, he closed his eyes to concentrate and fought a powerful urge to sleep, an unthinkable luxury at the moment! “On duty” now, as surely as with any Army assignment, he must fall back on his survival instincts, a natural acuity reinforced by rigorous military training.

Eyes closed, he focused his mind on the problem at hand. To accomplish his dual missions, avoiding capture and punishing Jennifer Shannon, he could flee or hide in plain sight, each with risks and rewards. If he left tonight, returning months later to teach that woman her painful lesson, she’d live in constant fear in the interim. The subtle cruelty of this psychological torture excited him. Police protection and interest eventually waned in such cases as new crises overshadowed old ones. In time, he’d get to her unimpeded.

He couldn’t use her stolen van to escape because that vehicle might be stopped at any time. Police would have a lock on all commercial transportation now, so scratch planes, buses and trains. Even driving to a truck stop to hitch a ride with a driver he encountered in the diner would be safer months from now. With the Shannon case currently top priority on every cruiser’s BOLO list, the sooner he fled, the likelier his apprehension.

As for hiding in plain sight, he again considered nearby big cities where he’d eventually planned to lose Jennifer’s van but could lose himself as well. For that matter, northern Virginia housed a dense population. A fact he collected for the militia listed Fairfax County with 1.4 million people. Add to that adjacent Arlington County and the city of Alexandria, never mind Washington, DC across the Potomac River. Hell, he could disappear right here!

A twinge of discomfort distracted his focus to the wound in his abdomen. He pulled a clean wash cloth from his knapsack, opened his trouser belt and studied the small hole on the lower left side of his belly for the first time. It hurt like hell when he prodded the spot with a finger, but absent that, he felt surprisingly little pain. Maybe this indicated a superficial wound that could heal on its own. The small quantity of external bloody ooze wouldn’t explain his weariness, but internal bleeding might. He could consult a doctor, passing off the injury as a workbench accident, but only as a last resort. Rubbing the area with antiseptic wipes from his knapsack and using the washcloth as a makeshift bandage, he anchored it top and bottom under the elastic of his briefs and refastened his trousers.

Leaning back again, Ruger felt a second wave of fatigue affect his concentration. His mind quieted as he lay back against the headrest. He wouldn’t fall asleep, but only rest a moment.

CHAPTER 58

Despite Ruge
r’s resolve to
s
tay awake at all costs, moments after his eyelids drooped his breathing slowed to long, deep inhalations, his lips parted and his jaw relaxed. Soon his eyes began moving beneath their closed lids as he passed into deep REM sleep. His mouth hung open and he snored slightly as his mind shifted into the imaginary world of dreams.

The unwanted, nearly forgotten memory of a woman’s face floated into his dream. From afar, the face seemed placid, even beautiful. But as it came closer, the features morphed into a leer and from its twisted mouth shrilled his mother’s unmistakable derisive voice.

“Failed again, did you? You dim-witted piece of garbage, I knew you would! You never could get anything right! Ever since you returned to my house, I watched from the basement as you threw away my furniture and defiled my bedroom. Just look at you now. You didn’t protect your computer and didn’t control the woman who escaped to tell the world what a loser you are. You couldn’t even train your dog right. Well, I’ll show you, you Cretan!”

Gripped by the teeth of his nightmare, Ruger contorted in the seat, arms protectively over his head to ward off the biting blows raining down from his past. The woman’s voice in his head shrieked on. “Why must you do everything wrong? Why do you make me do this to you? When you make mistakes you know you
must be punished.
Here it comes.”

“No,”
Ruger half-screamed, cringing and squirming.
“No, plea
se...”

Ruger twisted and writhed in the van’s front seat, reliving futile childhood efforts to tear himself away from the cruel face and unwanted pain. Yet the dream roiled on, and the punishment. How could she
know
about his recent failures, to ridicule and taunt and humiliate him with them? His eyes rolled back, his hands stiffened into claws and his body trembled. Minutes ticked past.

He lay spent, his powerful body curled into a fetal position and his eyes staring trance-like, as a rivulet of saliva trickled from the corner of his mouth. For several semi-conscious minutes, he remained inert until awareness crept back through vaguely overheard sounds: the grinding of a garbage truck emptying dumpsters, the rumble of a passing car and far away, a fading fire truck siren: waaaah, wah-wah-wah-wah...

The noises drew him back to reality. He sat up, blinked his eyes several times and shook his head to clear the dream’s fear and confusion. Finding his chin wet, he dragged a wrist across his mouth to remove the drool. The screwdriver wound throbbed on the lower left side of his gut, aggravated by his recent convolutions. Reaching into his knapsack, he took a long swig from a water bottle.

As Ruger’s waking mind processed this terrifying episode, he drew the protective, self-serving conclusion that he’d done nothing wrong, but Jennifer Shannon had. He had total control before she came. The others were easy; they obeyed. She could have too; he thought she had, but instead she did everything wrong.

The dreaded childhood commandment preceding each discipline flooded his mind: “ When you do something wrong, you
must
be punished.” Jennifer Shannon must be punished! His hate escalated into rage, pulsing adrenalin into his body and feeding an insatiable desire for vicious, satisfying revenge. As passion further displaced logic, a new mandate filled his mind. Forget postponing her discipline until it was safer for him. Do it
now!

Face red, neck veins bulging, jaw clenched and muscles tensed for action, he narrowed his plan to four simple steps: ditch this car, steal another, find the woman, punish her!

Still wearing rubber gloves, he took her purse from his knapsack, extracted her wallet and again read her driver’s license address. From her box of garage sale paraphernalia conveniently next to him on the passenger seat of her van, he removed and opened her northern Virginia book map.

A feral grin creased Ruger’s face, as he translated her address into exact map coordinates. Now, where to get rid of this car and steal another? He drove slowly through the hotel parking lot, searching for an older model car without an electronic alarm system to hoot relentlessly if violated. Damn! He saw only newer models not worth the risk. Reluctantly, he moved on.

Driving down Route 123 toward McLean, he sought a strip mall with an all-night grocery or drugstore, where parked cars and traffic around open stores drew no special attention even in these early morning hours. Improved security lighting and people locking their vehicles heightened the challenge as he looked for an inconspicuous dark-colored, older model car, preferably unlocked. Cruising slowly, he entered the Chain Bridge Corner shopping center, glided by the Giant Supermarket, CVS drugstore and Kazan Restaurant.

He surveyed several nearby lots, tentatively identifying two cars. Parking away from them on a dark nearby street behind the old McLean Fire Station, he stuffed Jennifer’s purse and keys into his knapsack. Then he slung it onto his shoulder, locked the van and slipped into the shadows.

If lucky, he’d select a car belonging to a night-shift employee, which bought him several hours before the owner would discover its theft. Such employees usually parked a distance from the store to free closer spaces for paying customers. He walked toward the larger lot, aware the success of his remaining plan hinged on this step. Otherwise, he might have to retrieve Jennifer’s van and scout another area. The longer he drove her car, the likelier that police would spot him.

Walking up to the older model black sedan he noticed earlier, he couldn’t believe his luck: a locked passenger-side door but its window wide-open! In a hurry to get to work, the driver apparently pressed the four-door lock button without first ensuring all windows were closed.

Ruger got in. He could hot-wire the ignition but knew a faster way. Using a screwdriver from his bag, he pushed the sharp end into the key slot and rotated it to the right. The vehicle purred to life and the gas gauge revealed a nearly full tank. No failure here, he congratulated himself!

Picking up the piece of paper on which he’d written directions, he turned his new ride toward her McLean neighborhood to deliver Jennifer Shannon’s date with destiny.

CHAPTER 59

B
ecca and Hannah
hurried
down the stairs, clutching their purses and overnight bags. As they dashed out the door, Hannah asked Adam, “Shall I call you on my cell from the hospital or later when we get to my brother’s house?”

“From the hospital. You can tell me how Tina’s doing. Here, I’ll walk you to your car,” Adam volunteered to be sure they were safe until their last minute here. “Do you know how to get there?”

“Actually we do. We’ve visited sick friends there before… and Tina’s dad.” The girls climbed into their small car and rolled down the windows, still conversing with Adam.

“Both of you keep your cell phones turned on. I want to be able to reach you with any new developments.”

The girls checked their phones. “Okay, they’re on.”

“You shouldn’t run into much traffic this early. I know you’re impatient to see her, but…” Adam looked directly into Hannah’s eyes, “be careful,” he said, touching her arm resting on the car’s window ledge. His hand lingered, reluctant to let her go. “Cops see some terrible accidents. We never want to find somebody we know in one.”

She put her free hand over his and gave it a warm squeeze. “We’ll be fine.
You
watch out, Adam.” Genuine concern clouded her pretty face. “You’re the one in danger here, guarding the house from that maniac. Adam,
please
be very careful.” She held his gaze.

“Enough, you two! Let’s get going,” Becca prompted.

He waved as their Volkswagen beetle circled out of the cul-de-sac, raced down the road and swerved around the corner.

As he turned toward the house, thoughts of Hannah filled his mind. He realized his rescue of her mother and Tina accomplished more than saving their lives or doing his job competently. The “ripple effect” also saved the Shannon and MacKenzie families from the shattering experience of losing a loved one in the grotesque manner Yates, if that was his name, intended.

A vision of Hannah’s sunny smile floated before his eyes. Something about her really got to him. Her quick mind, graceful body, clever humor and the way she looked
in
to
him with her bright, intelligent eyes stirred a new and compelling need for her. He stared down the quiet street, her absence creating emptiness. How could he miss her already when she’d been beside him only moments ago?

Then, he realized he didn’t want to miss her any more. He wanted to be near her all the time, to devote his life to enjoying her, protecting her and sharing happiness with her.

“I’m going to marry this girl!” he said aloud to the dark, empty street, startled to hear his own words clarify the confused personal thoughts nudging him the past few weeks. He grinned as this decision opened a purposeful path, but then frowned. Leery of serious commitment after her broken relationship with Kevin, how would
she
react to this?

Pushing his personal thoughts aside with effort, he knew he needed to assure the Shannon family’s safety by positioning his people in and around their property. He turned to his task.

***

Ruger parked the black sedan far enough down Jennifer’s street to watch her house without being conspicuous. Taking a swig from his water bottle, he thought about how much he’d learned from the contents of her purse.

The day he discovered and opened his mother’s purse held vivid memory for Ruger. Odd, he thought now, that she even owned a purse since she never left the farm. Perhaps old habits died hard. He thought of her purse as her secret hiding place. Since the purse rarely left her bedroom, where the boys were forbidden to go, finding it unattended one day in the kitchen transfixed him. Though dreading consequences if caught, he discovered his powerful curiosity coupled with extraordinary opportunity overcame fear. Although he was never allowed to touch or hug his mother, opening her forbidden handbag and touching its contents thrilled Ruger with the illusion of closeness to her. This sensation of intimacy translated to future purses he’d investigate with similar results. After that, women’s pocketbooks held irresistible fascination for him.

This first connection between the excitement of risk and the palpable satisfaction in overcoming it would surface repeatedly in Ruger’s life, drawing him toward the elite covert branch of the military where nearly every assignment exposed him to deadly danger.

Handling the array of items inside a woman’s purse intrigued him. It was more than learning confidential information about the person who assembled them. Touching these personal items felt like caressing a secret part of the owner.

When a woman at a bar near his military base joked that if he kept kissing her he’d “have to be punished,” Ruger froze. Outside that bar, he punched and kicked her until she stopped moving, then threw her body into his car and buried her in a trench at an abandoned training field on base. He kept her purse, a lingering memento of his satisfaction and triumph, stashed in a wooden box in the woods. He visited it frequently. Now, Jennifer Shannon cost him his entire coveted collection of purses, sequestered at the farmhouse he could never enter again. She would pay for that sin!

He reached for her purse on the seat beside him. The mother of a big family, Jennifer needed a lot of items at her fingertips. What he found were the usual comb, mirror, nail file and cosmetics plus emergency items like Bandaids, wet wipes and hand sanitizer; child amusers like crayons, notepad and miniature flashlight; practical items like a tape measure, postage stamps and eyeglass repair kit; and health items like cough drops, Kleenex, allergy tablets and aspirin. Besides $62 in cash, her wallet held numerous credit, ID and membership cards. Add sunglasses, earrings, shopping lists and key ring. The amount and variety in her purse surpassed anything in Ruger’s experience.

But her two most-valued purse items were a small photo album containing family pictures and a thin calendar book. It not only detailed her scheduled activities, but on its back pages listed names, birthdays, clothing and shoe sizes, phone numbers and
addresses
of her children. Her driver’s license simplified finding her house, and entering it later with her own keys would become almost too easy.

He fondled each item before returning it to her handbag.

Then he waited…

***

Absorbed in conversation as Hannah’s VW bug sped around the corner, the sisters failed to notice an older black sedan parked farther down their street ease away from the curb and into the road behind them.

Following at a distance, Ruger Yates used his free hand to press another clean cloth from his knapsack against the gouge in his abdomen. That done, he lay that same hand confidently atop several items assembled on the seat beside him: his unique Special Forces ceramic pistol and a case containing a hypodermic set, together with a cardigan sweater to cover blood on his shirt and upper trousers. Useful items for whatever unfolded next.

Surely they didn’t think he’d continue driving that woman’s easily identified SUV. Like his parents, like all of his foes and like the women he destroyed, the cops too had underestimated him.

As he drove, he couldn’t repress a smug smile; for he possessed sole knowledge of a tightly held secret which had served him well and would again. Deployed in a remote Central American mountain village, he was worshiped by those natives as a bona fide god for his obvious magic with fire (matches), talking box (cell phone), food in hard bark (rations in tin cans), traveling-river-face (mirror) and stick-that-throws-fire-and-kills (pistol). To earn favor with this “god,” the ancient medicine man one night confided his own unique knowledge, passed to him alone from generations of revered predecessors: the cryptic method for
prese
rving
the poisonous extracted frog toxin indefinitely. Knowledge is power and power is control, Ruger reminded himself.

After jerking out the screwdriver that
idiot woma
n
had rammed into his belly, he felt little pain until now. The gentle pressure he applied nearly stanched the slight bleeding, but he needn’t re-examine his wound to know that if this new pain increased, he’d need a doctor.

How he hated that woman! Why hadn’t he dealt with her as he had the others? The police cars at her house thwarted putting his hands on her tonight, but there were other ways to even the score, after which he’d ultimately deal with her.

Revenge could take various forms. For now, he’d follow and eliminate the two girls. Harming her daughters would tear at the heart of this woman who, unlike his own mother, apparently cherished her children.

Her purse revealed a roadmap of her life. Hating her superficially was easy enough, but through the purse, he
knew
her. Such knowledge gave him so much more to despise. He grinned menacingly, savoring
ve
ry special
plans for her and her family once inside her house. Drawing upon his considerable practice during interrogations, where he instigated human suffering while carefully sustaining life, he would save the
worst
torments he could inflict for Jennifer Shannon.

He gloated, anticipating her suffering and screams.