Nowhere to Hide (14 page)

Accepting that the same man had killed all three victims, what then had first triggered Do Unto Others? Sheila was the first victim they knew about, but maybe there were others that just hadn’t been found yet. It was generally believed, though not proven yet, that the man who’d blasted his way into Zuma Software had also strangled women and left them in fields some twenty years earlier. Then, right on the heels of his capture, Do Unto Others had jumped onto the scene with a similar m.o. September had the feeling that the one had influenced the other, maybe even kickstarted Do Unto Others into action.

Or, maybe there were no new ideas, even with serial killers, she thought sardonically.

So, why Sheila? And Emmy? And Glenda? They were all dark-haired women with athletic bodies who lived and/or worked around Laurelton. All three women frequented bars around the area. Is that how he selected them? Was there another common denominator, and if so, what? The schools . . . ?

She wrote down the list of schools each of the three victims attended and the fact that Glenda Tripp had been teaching summer school at Twin Oaks.

What about mutual friends?

She circled “mutual friends” several times. The three victims might not know each other, but maybe they had friends who made up a larger circle that could even include the killer.

Unlikely. From everything she’d seen to date, this guy’s profile would be that of a loner. Someone who had trouble fitting in.

Someone who knew September Rafferty . . . ?

She grimaced and then glanced over toward her cell phone. She hadn’t asked for Jake’s number when she’d given him her card, but it was a simple matter of getting it. She had the resources.

With a snort of derision directed solely at herself, she dragged her attention back to the paper with her notes, and when that didn’t work, she jumped up and headed down the hall for her workout gear. When all else failed, go for a run.

His pulse was deafening . . . a tribal drumbeat that fed the beast. He sat in the dark outside the bar, shivering in his van though he was consumed with heat. In his left hand was his killing cord. Thin and taut. It bit into flesh like a wire and constricted until they simply gave up.

He stared through the windshield at the back of the dirty building. This wasn’t his area, nor was it his type of woman. Cheap whores hung out here, all tits and ass and hair. They’d been the bait for the Rock Springs Strangler and look what that got him. Bars . . . jail bars until death.

That wouldn’t happen to him. If the police caught up with him he was going to shoot his way through them. Except for September . . . she would be his before that final reckoning.

But not yet . . . not yet . . .

He chewed at his fingernails, caught himself, curled his hands into fists. He couldn’t afford even the slightest drop of blood. DNA. The word was like an ice pick to the heart.

They came stumbling out, hanging onto each other, a john and his whore. The guy was dead drunk, but she was probably faking. His lip curled as he imagined her slipping one hand inside his front pocket to ostensibly give him a little stroke while the other one was loosening his wallet from the rear pocket.

Yes, he knew her game.

He watched as they staggered toward his car, a Subaru Outback way past its prime. The guy was in the driver’s seat, cajoling, wanting her to get in with him, but she was resisting, playing coy and cute, and finally it looked like he’d opted for a blow job because she got on her knees and stuck her head into his lap. He musta been too pissed for anything to happen, however, because she finally gave up and when he threw the car into gear and drove off without paying, spraying some loose gravel in the broken asphalt, she simply let him. Why not? She had the cash.

He watched her walk in that mincing way all hookers in four-inch heels seemed to do. She was trying to hide the wallet down by her side. If he closed his eyes and dreamed, she could be September. A little older, a little more weathered, a lot less desirable. When she got close, he could see the inches of makeup on her face but her hair had a red glow . . . fake, probably . . . but his fantasy took flight.

Nine . . .

“Hey,” she said.

“Don’t talk,” he growled back.

“Don’t talk,” she repeated. “Well, now . . . how will I know what you’re lookin’ for, huh? Ya gotta talk.”

He hated the way she went into her routine. “Shut the fuck up.”

“C’mon,” she wheedled. “We could have a little fun together. . . .”

His outer self crumbled and he bared his teeth. His left hand came up with the cord and it was around her neck and he was pulling with both hands before she could utter one more fucking syllable.

He yanked with all his strength, the cord biting flesh and into her windpipe, and her hands scrabbled and her feet clambered and she was falling off those platform shoes.

Relax . . . he told himself. Stop the pressure.
Stop.

He let go just in time and she went down gasping and flopping on the ground like a dying fish. Quickly, he hauled her up and dragged her to the back of the van. Looked around furtively. No one. He threw her inside and slammed the doors before she could make another peep. She could be dead, he supposed. He hoped not.

He drove back out of Portland toward Laurelton and beyond, down a twisting road that led through long tracks of sparsely wooded land to a field. He knew the area well though he didn’t know who owned the property and didn’t care. This was his land. Always had been.

He parked on a gravel road that separated this property from the smaller tracts further west. Sometimes kids cut through there—climbing over the fence with its barbed wire top. He got his wire cutters and snipped open a hole that he would conceal on the way out, making the fence look whole.

Pulling her out of the van, he saw her tongue loll from her mouth but she was still breathing. He’d put her in a coma, he suspected. Cut the oxygen a bit too long.

Well, good. He liked warm flesh.

He half-dragged, half-carried her to the fence, rolled her forward, then followed through into the open field, far from the road and close to a small stream. Above there was a three-quarter moon chased by ragged clouds. He paused for an instant, counting his heartbeats, savoring the moment. He’d been unsuccessful in his hunt last night, but he hadn’t been focused. He’d tried for some of those cleaner girls outside a Laurelton bar but it was too risky. He’d had to wait till tonight and go into a deep, dark corner on Portland’s southeast side where he knew the prostitutes trolled.

Stripping her of her clothes, he was disgusted by the bruises on her flesh. Someone had beaten her but good.

Then he took off his own clothes, set them neatly in a pile, pulling out his sheathed hunting knife and a condom from his pocket. He removed the blade from the sheath and then laid it on the ground beside him. He stared down at his flaccid member, then he closed his eyes and there she was—Nine—her hair in a long red-brown ponytail, her blue eyes smiling at him in that lustful way she had.

“C’mere,” she said, through her pink lips.

He felt himself harden and quickly put on the condom, afraid the image might shimmer away.

“C’mere . . .” She moved her finger, urging him to her.

He was on her in a flash. He couldn’t wait. Pushing into her. She was HIS and she always HAD BEEN and she always WOULD BE.

He was panting and thrusting when the whore woke up. She floundered beneath him and gave one aborted scream and he grabbed the knife, held it high, then plunged it into her chest.

He was still bucking against her when she died and he deemed it a good kill. He lay upon her for a moment, wondering how long it would take till her body grew cold. Could he be here that long? No. He pulled out, carefully, and naked, he began cutting her flesh.
DO UNTO OTHERS AS SHE DID TO ME.

When he was done he listened to the quietude around him and heard his blood singing in his veins. He waded into the stream, cleaned the knife, then lay back, staring up at the moon, washing himself of her, lulling the beast back to sleep.

It would be good for a while now, he thought, though he could already feel the turn of the beast’s head, nose to the air.

He donned his clothes quickly and gave one glance down at the woman. The dark lines of blood on her torso were visible in the moonlight.

. . . in fields where they lay . . .

September’s eyes popped open to a room black as pitch. Her curtains were made to block the light and they sure as hell did the job. She was hot and had thrown off the covers. Now she fumbled for the light, then stopped herself before turning it on. What had awakened her?

Pulse speeding, she climbed from the bed and parted the curtains, looking out her bedroom window to the road below. There was hardly any traffic so it had to be the wee hours because the street behind her building was nearly always busy.

She turned back, listening hard. Had she heard a noise? Was that it? When you were asleep, it was hearing that came back first. Throwing a robe over her pajama bottoms and tank, she carefully picked up her Glock from its shelf in the open closet, then cracked her bedroom door and peered out, gun kept down at her side.

She waited several long moments, then stepped out. “Who’s there?” she asked loudly, flipping on the hall light.

No one.

She stood for several moments with the Glock now held in both hands in front of her, then she backtracked to the bathroom. The shower curtain was open. She was alone in the apartment.

Relaxing a bit, she went into the kitchen and poured herself a glass of water. Fragments of her dreams came back to her: a skulking shadow working its way toward July who was a baby, Rosamund’s baby . . . Jake’s smile and a woman’s voice saying he was damnably attractive . . . her own voice maybe . . . on television saying she’d just started as a detective and it wasn’t her fault . . .

September set the water glass down with a thunk. A noise hadn’t woken her, she realized. It was a thought . . . a breakthrough, maybe. That’s what had snapped her eyes open.

Sandler’s words, just before September received the bloody artwork:
How long you been here, Nine?

And her response:
About four months.

And then Sandler:
About the time Sheila Dempsey was murdered. That’s how I remember it.

Gretchen had actually said something similar more than once. She’d only been half-kidding when she’d pointed out that this current rash of murders coincided with September joining the Laurelton Police Department.

But why . . . what . . . ?

The newspaper article. In the
Laurelton Reporter.
Right when September began with the Laurelton PD, there’d been an article in the local paper about her, detailing both her training and where she’d attended school.

Someone had seen that article, she realized now. Someone with mal intent. And shortly thereafter Sheila Dempsey’s body had been discovered. She’d never put it together before because Sheila’s investigation had started with county and didn’t become part of the Laurelton PD investigation until Emmy Decatur’s body was found and Lieutenant D’Annibal basically appropriated the case.

But what did that mean?

Was the fact that she was a Laurelton PD detective the kickoff to Do Unto Others’s killing spree? How could it be? She’d been in uniform with the Gresham PD and had patrolled her beat and arrested drug dealers and muggers and been to the scene of many domestic disputes before she ever made detective. But there was nothing remarkable about it other than the fact she’d been instrumental in talking down a father who’d kidnapped his own kid and had threatened both their lives before he surrendered. As a direct result of her actions she’d received a commendation and a chance to work at Laurelton with her brother.

But that father she’d talked down was currently serving five years in prison and he’d completely broken down anyway, admitting guilt and feeling remorse. He didn’t blame September for her involvement. He’d actually
thanked
her, after the fact.

No, if her theory was right, Do Unto Others had begun because he knew her, knew she lived in Laurelton, knew where she went to school. She was at a loss to imagine who it could be. Her family? Someone from her criminal courses at PSU? Someone from high school, or better yet,
grade school
?

Not Jake, she told herself immediately. It just didn’t feel right.

She put the Glock back in the closet, slid back her curtains, and opened her window a crack, letting in some light and air from outside. She stood there a moment, then went back to bed and stared up at the ceiling.

Not Jake.

Jake stood on the back patio in the dark outside his living room and kitchen. The moon was disappearing into daylight. A glass of red wine sat on the glass-topped side table behind him. He’d poured it thinking he would drink it while sitting in one of the lounge chairs he possessed. He’d been meaning to buy more furniture but he’d been meaning to do a lot of things that hadn’t gotten done because after his final breakup with Loni; it was like he’d hit the PAUSE button on life.

He wore a pair of boxer shorts and it was almost too much clothing. Oregon had the most pleasant of summers as a rule, but there was the occasional blast of blistering heat that might run a few days, maybe even a week or so, in July or August or September, and right now they were in the thick of it.

Since running into her at The Willows yesterday, he was bothered about September Rafferty. She really thought he could be involved in Sheila Dempsey’s death? And that maybe he’d kept her artwork from second grade all these years?
Really?

What kind of cop was she? he thought angrily. Suspicious and closed off and seeing criminals behind every tree, bush, and blade of grass?

It wounded him that she thought so little of him, whereas all these years he’d carried a small torch for her. The memory of their night among the grapevines was a really good one. He’d held it close a long, long time, whether he was with Loni or not. He’d
used
it as a feelgood, as a means to remember that yes, there were other women in the world besides his problematic girlfriend who would be great to date and hang with and just generally enjoy.