“Oh, God.” Elizabeth felt sick.
“I don’t know how he did it. She had a dog. She had a gun.” Garik glanced back into the café where the people crowded the seats. “She knew her attacker. She had to. Where’s Rainbow?”
“She’s not working today.”
“Anybody seen Marrero?”
“No. Not a sign of him.” She lowered her voice as if the empty street could hear them. “What about Bradley Hoff? If he did the deed, he’s pretty bold to show his face and offer to help.”
“If he did it, then he’s enjoying himself.” Garik’s face was sculpted of oak and stone. “Killers love to observe the aftermath of their crimes.”
Chilled, she rubbed her arms and glanced through the window.
Bradley Hoff watched her.
She didn’t like him, she decided. She didn’t like him at all. And the things her father had said … if she believed them …
“There’s more.” Garik put his hand on her shoulder, and told her how Mike had stolen the evidence for him. He told her how he had managed to ship the scissors out of Virtue Falls via the Hoffs’ helicopter pilot, and how the FBI had run all the fingerprints. And he told her a partial fingerprint in a San Francisco killing matched a fingerprint on those scissors.
“What do you mean?” she asked. “The guy who murdered my mother was in San Francisco? And is now here?”
“The partial belongs to a serial killer called Edward Scissorhands.”
She tried to comprehend. “A serial killer? My mother was murdered by a serial killer?”
“If I’m reading the profile right—she was his first kill. She set him off. Now he kills blond women, mothers of young children—and their children.” Gently, Garik put his arm around Elizabeth’s shoulders and held her as if he wished to brace her for the last blast of news. “The children … after they’re dead, he mutilates them. He cuts out their eyes … Elizabeth, this guy not only has the right fingerprint, but he fits the profile as Misty Banner’s killer. And it’s clear that he wants … that he regrets he didn’t kill
you
. Do you understand? After twenty-three years, he still wants to kill
you
so you can’t bear witness to your mother’s murder.”
Elizabeth stood there, on a sidewalk in Virtue Falls, and tried to comprehend what this meant to her.
Everything about the case was horrible, yet out of all the things Garik had told her, the most important thing she heard was … her father was innocent. Not merely innocent by someone’s opinion—the nurses’, Dr. Frownfelter’s, Garik’s, hers—but innocent by reason of hard, incontestable evidence.
Elizabeth had seen her mother killed, but the label that had been slapped on her since she was four years old was
not
true. She was not the girl who saw her father kill her mother with the scissors.
And in a tiny, selfish portion of her mind, she was glad.
Except … now a serial killer murdered because of her and her mother.
She felt oddly ill, as if she carried responsibility for those deaths.
“How many has he killed?” she asked.
“Law enforcement is unsure of the exact number.” Still with his arm around her, Garik led her farther away from the café. “More than a dozen women. More than a dozen children. And a few people who got in the way.”
“Do you think it is safe for me to go to work?” she asked.
Immediately Garik snapped, “Hell, no!” He took a breath and tried for a more equitable tone. “I don’t think it’s safe for you to be anywhere. I would bring in a helicopter and send you out of town if I thought you would be secure elsewhere. But I can’t go with you—I need to find this guy. If I sent you away, he might follow. In fact, I know he would. He has you in his sights.” Garik contemplated her. He looked back at the café. He looked up the street, and down the street. “We should have done some catching up on your self-defense skills.”
“We were both a little wounded. Still are.” She put her hand to his ribs, felt the bandage, knew the stitches still hadn’t come out. And her shoulder ached; would ache for weeks, the doctor told her. “I
need
to work. I
need
something to occupy my mind. Writing the article’s not going to do it. I know you’re going to say that last time I lost track of the guys and almost got myself killed. But this time, I’m going to hang with them every minute.” She waved her hand toward the sky. “The sun is shining.”
“Fog comes in fast.”
“I won’t stay out past four. I’ve got a great pocket knife.” She groped for her bag, realized it was still inside. “I need to get my stuff.”
Together they headed back into the café.
The low buzz of conversation paused. All heads turned their way.
Bradley was on the phone, speaking portentously to his wife. Without pausing, he lifted Elizabeth’s bag and offered it to her.
She took it with thanks. A glance inside showed her notebook had been tucked neatly into the proper pocket. Obviously, an artist understood the need for pen and paper.
“Are we set?” Garik asked the crowd in the restaurant. “Have you spread the word of warning to everyone who is vulnerable?”
Heads nodded.
“All right, then. Keep a watchful eye on each other. It’s the best way to stay safe.” He gave a wave.
Garik and Elizabeth walked out the door and toward his truck.
Garik helped her into the passenger side. “Now show me the knife,” he said.
She pulled it out of her bag. “It’s strong and it’s sharp. I use it to cut rope and brush.”
“Would you kill a man with it?” Garik focused on her intently.
“A man who wanted to cut out my eyes? Yes!”
“Good girl.” Garik patted her knee.
She caught his hand with hers and pressed it down, wanting to connect with him, to make him understand. “I need to go to work because I need something to keep me busy. I need to think.”
“Think about what?”
“Everything. Stuff my father said today.” In her mind’s eye, she saw again Charles’s trembling fingers hover over the drawing of her mother. “He’s good today. He’s talking.
He knew me.
”
“Good, because I want to go talk to him. Somewhere in his mind, he knows something. I’ve got to get this right the first time, so before I accuse anyone of anything, I want to hear what Charles Banner remembers.”
“I’m like him.” For the first time in her life, she wasn’t afraid to say that. “There’s so much hovering right at the edges of my thoughts.”
“How will going to work help?” Garik watched her with pleading, puppy-dog eyes, trying to get her to change her mind.
“It’s my subconscious we’re trying to break wide open, and pounding at it doesn’t work. Trust me, Aunt Sandy tried. I need to be distracted, to put the pieces together intuitively.” Anger stirred in her. “Because if I’m going to be killed for what I remember—I do want to remember it.”
CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE
Sheriff Dennis Foster stood in the courthouse and stared across the square. Through the big window at the Oceanview Café, he had seen Garik Jacobsen talking to the people of Virtue Falls, and those people gathered around as if he was the second coming.
Garik had been a troublemaker from the day Margaret Smith had adopted him, but everybody here knew him, believed him, trusted him.
And he, Dennis Foster, the boy who’d been born and raised in Virtue Falls, who was elected as sheriff again and again, who served the citizens faithfully as a public servant … they avoided him. No one chatted to Sheriff Foster unless they got a speeding ticket or had something stolen. He was a pariah in his own town.
Why? No one knew he had burned Mike Sun’s house. No one knew he had killed his mother. Most of all, no one knew he was guilty of gross negligence in the Banner case, that those murdered women and children haunted his days and his nights. No one except for Garik Jacobsen, anyway.
Sooner or later, Garik would make sure everybody knew.
Turning away from the sight of Garik Jacobsen and his sycophants, Sheriff Foster got in his patrol car and went home.
At last, he went home.
The front door was unlocked. Why not? The windows were still broken. Knickknacks still covered the floor. Dust covered everything.
He walked slowly through the living room, remembering years spent sitting on the couch, watching TV and trying desperately to shut out his mother’s voice. He went into the kitchen, wrecked and reeking of spoiled food, and looked at the stain on the floor where his mother’s body had rested.
He backed out, then walked into his mother’s bedroom. He saw the clutter of crosses and ceramic figures of Jesus. He smelled the mixture of flowery perfume and old lady funk. If he squinted his eyes, he could see Mother sitting on the bed, hear her haranguing him about taking care of her rather than spending all his time out chasing invisible criminals.
Slowly, he pulled his service pistol from its holster. Clicking off the safety, he pointed it at her picture on the bureau, and pulled the trigger. The frame and glass exploded. His mother’s photograph shredded.
She was dead. Again.
He had killed her. Again.
Then, making sure a fresh round had moved into the chamber, he put the muzzle of the gun under his chin. He took a breath, his last. He pulled the trigger and blew out his own brains.
It was just easier than having to face justice.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO
Garik pulled into the Honor Mountain Memory Care Facility, parked as close as possible to the door, and headed in. Without his usual chitchat and charm, he flashed his ID and did the necessary stuff to quickly get into the nursing home.
He needed to know. He needed to know
now
.
Charles sat slumped in front of his computer, watching Elizabeth’s tsunami video online. He watched as if he’d never seen it before. His expression was forlorn; it seemed as if in the last few weeks, since he’d begun having seizures, he was suddenly an old man.
An old man … a dying man.
Garik settled into the chair next to Charles’s desk. He reached out and grasped Charles’s hands.
Charles turned his gaze away from the screen. He examined Garik. At last he said, “You’re Elizabeth’s husband.”
“Yes.” Perhaps this would not be a hopeless cause. “I need to talk to you about Misty’s murder.”
“I didn’t do it.” Charles looked weary, sounded weary, as if he’d said it a thousand times.
“I believe you.”
Charles viewed him cautiously.
“But I don’t know who
did
do it. I need to know who killed Misty. Tell me what you saw when you walked into the scene of the crime.”
Charles took deep breaths, as if he was insulted. “It wasn’t the scene of the crime. It was my home.”
“Tell me what you saw.”
“It hurts. It hurts to remember.”
“Please, sir. I think I can help you. Tell me what you saw.”
* * *
Charles parked his car in front of the cozy Craftsman-style house, sat with his hands on the steering wheel, and stared at the place that had been his home for the past four years. He loved this spot, and he had thought Misty did, too.
She had painted the house white, the shutters cornflower blue, and she’d worked for days scraping the front door down to the original oak and refinishing it so it glowed with a rich wood patina. She’d found the old-fashioned wicker furniture at a garage sale, cleaned it up and painted it, and sewn blue-and-white striped seat cushions. Flower baskets hung from the top rails on the wide front porch; reds and golds and purples rioted joyously, chaotically.
This house looked like a well-loved seaside home, and inside, he knew, Misty had worked twice as hard to make it comfortable and happy.
Tears filled his eyes. He wiped them away.
Was it all a lie?
Had she done all this work to keep him off guard? So he wouldn’t realize why she no longer slept in their bed? For months, ever since she’d returned from her mother’s funeral, she had slept in the extra bedroom.
He’d tried to be understanding. He had talked to her, asked what he could do to help, gone to that stupid art class with her, taken her to Seattle to the
Sound of Music
sing-along … and she had been so sweet, hugging him, kissing him, thanking him. She had admitted she had problems stemming from the finality of her mother’s death, begged him for more time to deal with her grief and guilt, talked to him while tears brimmed in her big blue eyes.
Was it all a sham?
Was it true, what that awful Foster woman said? That Misty and her lover and the whole world were laughing at him?
Charles put his hand on his chest.
His pride hurt. It really did. But he had always known he was too old for Misty, that she should have a younger man.
It wasn’t his pride that had broken. It was his heart. If this was true, if all these years Misty had lied to him …
Except … he didn’t believe that of Misty. Perhaps she had made a mistake. Perhaps she had fallen in bed with another man for reasons Charles didn’t understand. But he couldn’t believe she had never loved him. For over five years, he had known her, lived with her, talked to her, and she was a woman of sincere feelings and gentle depths.
And she loved their baby. She was a wonderful mother, spending hours with Elizabeth, teaching her, laughing with her, holding her.
He had to remember what he had witnessed in Misty, the joy she had brought him, and go into the house with the attitude that if she was willing, they could work this out.
He got out and slammed the car door.
Usually when he drove up, Misty and Elizabeth came out, and Elizabeth ran to him and hugged him, and Misty kissed his cheek and smiled at him.
Today, although the front door was open and the screen door shut, everything was silent.
Perhaps they’d gone for a walk.
Or perhaps Misty had heard about the scene at the diner, and sat inside waiting to talk to him.