The Killing Moon

by Dan Padavona

  He slid into the darkness and waited. If Benson had heard, he hadn’t shown his face. After a minute passed, LeVar tried again, this time avoiding the steps by leaping from the ground to the stoop. He landed softly on his feet, the rickety stoop trembling beneath his weight. Even Chelsey appeared impressed as he moved his hand to the door and edged it open. Chelsey lunged inside with the gun raised. A bus ticket lay on the counter. LeVar glanced at the travel details—first stop: Detroit—and lifted his thumb at Chelsey. He was tempted to pocket the ticket and steal Benson’s means of escape. But Chelsey had already crossed the kitchen and thrown her back against the wall.

  LeVar joined her at the threshold before she cleared the hallway. It was too dark to see into the living room. LeVar swallowed, every muscle, every nerve twitching and ready for war. He’d busted into rivals’ buildings and homes as a member of the Kings. Stepped into the valley of death on one too many occasions. Though he lacked formal law enforcement training, he understood the greatest dangers lay in blind spots around corners. Cautious awareness did him little good. The entire house was a blind spot. Every shadow looked like a man with a knife.

  The ceiling moaned above their heads. Chelsey’s eyes moved to the staircase. She pointed at the upper landing and climbed the stairs, sliding along the wall in case Benson spun into view with a gun. LeVar gripped the wobbly banister and stayed close to his partner. Since summer, he’d prayed to one day meet Benson face-to-face. Pay the thug back for hurting Raven. LeVar wrestled with his emotions. Screw caution. He wanted to race past Chelsey, take Benson down and ensure he never hurt LeVar’s family again. But LeVar kept his cool. He respected Chelsey, and she was right to be cautious.

  At the top of the landing, the upstairs blanketed in darkness, LeVar swung his gaze around the hallway. Three doors, all closed. He wished Chelsey allowed him to carry a weapon. LeVar wasn’t proud of his past, but he’d become an expert with a handgun during his days in Harmon. He felt naked without a gun. Two fists lost to a pistol every time.

  Chelsey stood against the wall and leaned her head toward the door. This was the bathroom, LeVar recalled. Chelsey glanced back at him and shook her head. Moving without a sound, she crept to the next door and cupped her ear against the wall. Maybe Benson slept in the bedroom, curled up inside the closet with the blanket and pillow. LeVar wiped the sweat off his hands. Where the hell were Lambert and Aguilar?

  When Chelsey reached for the handle, LeVar had a vision: Mark Benson smiling on the other side of the door, the gun aimed at Chelsey’s chest. He opened his mouth to warn Chelsey a split-second before the floorboards creaked inside the bedroom. Then the unmistakable click of a gun cocking.

  LeVar dove at Chelsey and drove his shoulder into her side. The blast blew a hole through the door as they crashed against the floor.

  The handle jiggled. Benson threw the door open, intent on finishing the job.

  LeVar rolled to his back and kicked out, driving the open door against Benson’s head. The escaped convict dropped his face into his hand and staggered backward. His palm came away with blood, a crimson lightning bolt cutting across his forehead. LeVar grabbed Chelsey and dragged her across the hallway before Benson regained his senses. The next gunshot blew a hole into the floor beside LeVar’s feet. Dust rained down as he scrambled on his hands and knees toward the neighboring bedroom.

  Chelsey spun onto her side and fired at Benson. The thug leapt into the bedroom as the bullet scoured plaster. As Chelsey struggled to her feet, LeVar shoved the neighboring door open. He pulled Chelsey out of the hallway as Benson’s arm snaked around the corner. The convict fired blindly, blowing holes in the walls and driving LeVar and Chelsey out of the hallway. He had little hope of shooting them. This was suppressive fire.

  Chelsey stood beside LeVar inside the bedroom with the breath flying in and out of her chest. His ears rang from the gunfire. He didn’t realize Benson was halfway down the staircase until the criminal stumbled and struck the wall with his shoulder.

  “He’s getting away,” Chelsey hissed.

  They ran into the hallway. Benson expected them. The gun blast stole a chunk of plaster an inch above LeVar’s head. Chelsey turned and ducked as the next shot ripped past her face.

  By the time LeVar and Chelsey lifted their eyes, Benson was thundering across the first floor. The front door flew open as a siren wailed in the distance. The deputies.

  LeVar took off running with Chelsey a step behind. When he reached the open front door, the Forester fired to life and roared out of the copse. Taillights vanished in the distance before the sheriff’s cruiser turned down the road.

  Chelsey slapped the wall.

  “Dammit!”

  LeVar pulled her aside as the cruiser sped after the fleeing Forester.

  “Don’t worry. At least we know where he’s going. We’ll catch him before he boards that bus.” Moonlight caught Chelsey’s face. Blood trickled off the woman’s scalp and over her brow. “You’re bleeding.”

  Had the bullet clipped Chelsey’s head? When she touched her scalp, her eyes rolled back and her legs gave out. LeVar grabbed Chelsey as she slumped to the floor.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  October 31st

  8:10 p.m.

  Valerie drew the curtains over the bedroom window, shutting out the night. Normally, she lived for full moons. But the lunar glow disturbed her tonight, reminded her of the frailty of life and how everyone walked a razor’s edge between happiness and danger. Evil hid in the shadows.

  Loomis curled around her shins, begging Valerie to pet him. Reaching down, she scratched behind the kitten’s ears. The broadcast quality microphone sat on the desk before her. Though she’d never struggled with stage fright or writer’s block, Valerie couldn’t decide how to begin. Posts to three horror forums had gathered her fans for an important announcement. She watched their numbers swell as sweat beaded across her forehead.

  She took a deep breath, swallowed, and clicked the microphone. No scary intro music tonight, no chainsaws or screaming. Just Valerie and the ugly truth. As she pulled the microphone toward her lips, she sensed the confused anticipation. This was no ordinary show, and her listeners didn’t know what to expect.

  “Good evening, friends. This is Violet…” She dropped her head and closed her eyes. A sip of water, then she curled her fingers around the microphone stand. “This is Valerie Leonard. I’m an eighteen-year-old senior at Barton Falls High School. Violet Lyon is my stage name, if you will. It’s just another lie I hide behind when I bring you this show every week.”

  The kitten leaped off the floor and padded across the desk. When Loomis licked Valerie’s face, she pulled him into her arms and hugged him to her chest. A joyless laugh passed through her lips.

  “As you’ve all figured out by now, I’m not dead. Heck, I’m not even who I pretended to be. I could claim I created the Halloween Man to entertain you, frighten you, give you something to chat about with your friends. But that would be intellectually dishonest, right?”

  Her chest shuddered.

  “I lied for ratings. I realized the show lacked punch, that I needed something to put the podcast over the edge and draw new fans. So I made up a killer, figuring it was all in fun. What harm could it do? I wanted to be John Carpenter for one night.”

  Slipping between the curtains, moonlight spread across the desk. It seemed to hunt her.

  “I caused more harm than I ever imagined. And I lost someone I loved.” She bit back a sob and composed herself before continuing. “My best friend…and my new boyfriend, as of last night…played the Halloween Man. It was his voice coming through your speakers. That’s the last time you’ll hear his voice. Derek died last night. After we said goodnight and took separate paths home, someone leapt from the shadows and murdered Derek.”

  A hundred fans dropped off the podcast after Valerie’s admission. She didn’t blame them. Who would believe her after the last show?

  “You believe I’m crying wolf. Or just lying
again. I’m not. Many of you probably read about the murder in Barton Falls. Derek Jordan was my boyfriend, and some maniac attacked and murdered Derek, mimicking our story.”

  Valerie snatched a tissue from the box and wiped her eyes. She ignored the web counter. It no longer mattered how many people listened. The important point was everyone who remained—her loyal fans—recognized a killer walked among them.

  “This morning, before the news broke about Derek, a man dressed as the Halloween Man followed me at school. Until tonight, I was convinced the killer was a teacher. I’ve since seen the error of my ways. The killer is one of you.” Valerie’s heart pounded. “And he’s listening now.”

  Rising from the chair, Valerie paced the room. After she arranged her thoughts, she returned to the microphone.

  “Who stole Derek from our lives? Was it you? This isn’t another skit, another ploy to grow my listeners. This is a warning. Not everyone you meet online is who he or she claims to be. Evil exists in the world, and it hides in chat rooms and on message boards, pretending to be your friend. A psycho took the role of the Halloween Man and murdered a beautiful person. And now he wants to kill me too.”

  Removing the microphone from the stand, Valerie placed it close to her lips.

  “I know you’re listening. When I figure out who you are, you’ll be the final victim in this story. I’ll make you pay for what you did to Derek.”

  Valerie clicked out of the podcast. Lowering her head into the crook of her arm, she cried. Great, wracking sobs that burned her throat and chest.

  Silence crept through the house. She no longer heard her father stomping through the downstairs. Her mother had gone to bed early.

  The crying ended. She massaged the headache out of her temples and shuffled on dead legs to the window. When she peeked between the curtains, she saw his shadow staring up at her from the backyard.

  The Halloween Man.

  * * *

  “This is ridiculous. I’m fine.”

  Chelsey’s legs dangled off the table, the paper beneath her butt crinkling every time she wiggled. The doctor at the urgent care clinic ignored her as he threaded another stitch through Chelsey’s scalp. The man appeared a few years out of medical school with a bushy head of hair, a clean-shaved face, and kind blue eyes. When the needle pierced her scalp again, she winced and stiffened her legs.

  “Sorry about that.”

  “I thought you numbed my head.”

  “It’s normal to notice a little pinch.”

  “That’s more than a pinch.”

  The doctor sighed and straightened his back. LeVar sat in the corner, skimming a magazine.

  “Seven stitches. That should stop the bleeding. You want to tell me how this happened again?”

  “I hit my head in the basement.”

  “Hmm. Better move somewhere with a less dangerous basement. Keep the wound clean and be careful shampooing for a few days. I suggest just rinsing your hair in the shower. You don’t want to forget and yank a stitch out while scrubbing your head.”

  “How long until you remove the stitches?”

  “Ten days, if the wound heals properly. And it will, as long as you’re careful. Manage the pain with over-the-counter medication. Ibuprofen should be fine. Get plenty of rest. Don’t exercise or exert yourself before the stitches come out.”

  LeVar cocked an eyebrow from across the room, a warning for Chelsey to heed the doctor’s advice.

  “Can I go?”

  “You may go now.”

  LeVar helped Chelsey off the table. The first step felt unsteady, but LeVar supported Chelsey when her legs wobbled.

  “How are you feeling?” The doctor asked. “Dizzy?”

  “Never better,” she said, waving him off.

  As LeVar led Chelsey to the door, the doctor nodded at Deputy Aguilar, who waited in the hallway.

  “What’s the prognosis?” Aguilar asked.

  “Seven stitches,” LeVar said. “If she infects the wound, he’ll need to sever her head.”

  “Shut it,” Chelsey growled, leaning on LeVar’s broad shoulders for support.

  “Now that you’re awake, I need a full statement.” Aguilar removed a pen and pad. “And an explanation. Why were you inside that house? I need your statement too, LeVar.”

  Chelsey released a defeated groan.

  “Where’s Benson?”

  “We lost him outside Wolf Lake. Every law enforcement officer in the county is looking for him. He can’t run forever.”

  LeVar sat beside Chelsey in the lobby. He asked, “What happened to Deputy Lambert?”

  “He’s at the gymnasium with Darren and Raven.” She shot LeVar and Chelsey a pointed stare. “Someone has to keep you people safe. We can’t have Benson shooting another private investigator tonight.”

  Chelsey removed a mirror from her purse and assessed the injury. It looked as if someone had run over her head with a riding mower. With a scowl, she put the mirror away.

  “We’ll join them after we give our statements.”

  “Oh, no, you won’t,” LeVar said. “Coach is sitting your ass on the bench for the rest of the game.”

  “Isn’t that a little dramatic?”

  “The doctor just stitched your head shut, and you can’t stand without me supporting you. After we finish, I’m driving you home in your car, and you’re going to sleep.”

  Chelsey started to argue and decided against it. LeVar and Aguilar glared like stern parents. She brushed the hair from her eyes and sat back in the chair.

  “Okay, Deputy. What do you want to know?”

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  October 31st

  9:00 p.m.

  The geolocation tags painted an unsettling picture. Krueger31 lived in Barton Falls with Valerie Leonard. He wasn’t some nameless, faceless creep stalking a stranger on the internet. He was a neighbor, possibly a friend. Someone she passed on the street every day.

  Scout’s pulse raced. She sipped from a glass of water, but her mouth remained desert dry. Time grew short for Valerie. If Scout didn’t identify Krueger31, he’d claim Valerie as his next victim.

  Behind Scout, Naomi sat at the card table and read a book about lighthouses. Serena’s eyes grew heavy as she curled on the couch with a throw pillow tucked beneath her head. Even Jack couldn’t keep his eyes open. The dog lay beneath the table, sawing logs, his doggy legs kicking out as he chased a rabbit in his dreams. Until an hour ago, Serena and Naomi had worked as hard as Scout, throwing out suggestions as she searched for clues. Scout knew they’d lose interest. When sleuthing, Scout rarely unraveled a mystery in one afternoon. It took time and perseverance, reversing direction when she reached a dead end, charting courses through alien territories.

  Krueger31 possessed intelligence. Like Valerie, he never posted revealing information. No clues which gave away his age or where he lived. He played the role of a cipher, the infamous serial killer trope from the seventies and eighties. A man who murdered without motivation.

  Except a secret motivation ruled his actions. She felt sure of it.

  “Serena, why don’t you sleep at my place,” Mom said, placing a hand on Serena’s leg.

  Serena gasped and lifted her head.

  “Sorry. I drifted off.”

  “Take my keys. I’ll text you when Scout catches the bad guy.” Naomi narrowed her eyes at Scout. “And she’d better catch the bad guy before ten o’clock, because it’s almost past her bedtime.”

  “Come on, Mom. I’m not nine anymore.”

  Serena climbed off the couch and stretched her arms with a yawn.

  “Appreciate the offer, but I think I’ll drive home.”

  Naomi rose from the chair.

  “You sure? We have an extra bed.”

  Serena patted Scout’s shoulder.

  “As much as I want to see the conclusion, I hear my bed calling. Besides, my daughter will be home soon. I don’t want to worry her.”

  “Please let me know when you arrive home.�
�

  Jack followed as Naomi walked Serena to the door. While Naomi cleaned up at the counter, Scout rubbed her eyes. The long day had worn her down. Though she’d tracked Valerie Leonard, she felt no closer to protecting the local internet celebrity. The girl would remain in danger until Scout caught Krueger31.

  The concern was evident on her mother’s face when she returned to the room.

  “Call it a night. You can pick up the hunt tomorrow morning.”

  Scout twisted her hair around her finger.

  “Mom, can I talk to you?”

  “Of course. I’m always here for you.”

  Shutting down the monitor, Scout wheeled herself around to face her mother. Wind whistled against the house and rattled the door, causing Jack to lift his head and growl.

  “Earlier today, before you came home, Dad knocked on our door.”

  Naomi blinked.

  “Your father was here?”

  “At our house, yes.”

  “What did he want?”

  Scout exhaled.

  “I called to him, but I doubt he heard me over the wind. I tried to catch up, but he drove off before I reached the driveway.”

  Naomi glanced away.

  “He should have told us he’d planned to stop by. Regardless, your father knows I work weekdays and you’re in school. Why would he visit on a weekday?”

  “That’s what I wondered. Should we call him?”

  Naomi crossed one leg over the other and clasped her hands over her knee.

  “Let me contact him first. Something is up with your father.”

  A hopeful butterfly winged through Scout’s chest.

  “Do you think he wants to join the family again?”