by Blake Pierce
He chuckled grimly and added softly …
“I can help with that. Just give me a chance.”
He’d been following her around for more than a week now—ever since he’d killed that Ogden fellow in his house down by the beach.
He’d been patient—and he’d been proud of his patience.
But now his patience was wearing thin.
Indeed, his whole body suddenly twitched with irritation. The heat certainly didn’t help. Even the dark wasn’t cool these days. Standing next to a scrubby tree, he could feel no breeze. And all was quiet except for the steady rumble of crickets and a single car engine a few blocks away.
He wondered—how was the heat inside the house? He could see that the family had a fan going. Was their air conditioning working? People all over town were complaining these days that theirs had broken down.
The windows to the house were closed, so apparently the family’s air conditioning must not have kicked out completely. But the heat out here was certainly wearing him down.
He knew that, logically, he could just choose someone else.
He laughed a little at the very idea …
Logic’s got nothing to do with this.
He had no logical reason for killing anyone, and certainly none for choosing Vanessa for his next victim. His actions grew from some internal urge that he had to respect, something that told him exactly what needed to be done—and the kind of man he needed to be, not just for himself, but for everybody.
He’d known without knowing why that he’d had to kill Ogden.
And now he knew the same thing about Vanessa Pinker.
The idea of killing women was appealing to him more and more, but that was hardly the point.
The only thing that mattered was the deed itself—its integrity, its swiftness, its quiet brutality.
Of course it was important for him to keep in mind …
The FBI is in town.
Everybody in Rushville knew that by now. That hardly worried him. In fact, it heightened his excitement. He was delighted at the thought of the Feds spinning their wheels, looking for a motive for Ogden’s murder, perhaps even thinking they’d found one.
But any theories they managed to devise would be dashed by the next murder.
What motive could anyone have for killing an ordinary small-town housewife?
Certainly no one would ever suspect him.
The most important thing was not to get ahead of himself, not to do anything rash or impetuous or ill-timed, to wait for and seize the precise and perfect moment.
Discipline, he reminded himself.
Discipline was so very, very important.
Discipline was what had been lacking ten years ago.
The Bonnett family had died much too sloppily.
He was pleased at the swift, clean blow that had killed Gareth Ogden—a single blow to the forehead. He had to achieve the same success with Vanessa. Nothing less than perfection would suffice.
As he stood watching, the woman turned and wearily walked away out of sight.
Nothing more to see, he thought.
As he stepped out of the shadows and started to walk home, he remembered overhearing some kids scaring each other by talking about Ogden’s murder. They’d also been also talking about the family that had been slain before they could remember, before some of them had even been born.
And now they even had a nickname for the killer …
The Carpenter.
“The Carpenter is back again,” the kids kept saying.
He smiled.
It was an apt moniker for a killer with a hammer.
It was also suggestive of dexterity and skill.
As he walked through the streets lined with quiet houses, he thought about the terror he was only beginning to unleash.
It’ll do Rushville good, he thought.
A few murders were just what this town needed to bring it to life again.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
When Riley walked into the diner early the next morning she was wondering what kind of attitude they’d run into today. Bill and Jenn were following close behind her, and she thought they must be a bit apprehensive too.
A different hostess met them with menus.
“Why, you must be the FBI folks,” she said rather sternly. Then with a wink she added, “Now you’re not going to go busting up the place again this morning, are you? A couple of workmen are putting in a new door to the women’s room right now. The owner’d be happier not to have to do any more repairs.”
Riley and her colleagues chuckled. Sure enough, Riley could hear the sound of power tools from the direction of the restrooms.
Riley looked around the place, which was crowded for breakfast. This time the glances they got looked friendly enough—but curious, too. Riley guessed that everybody here knew what had happened last night.
Riley said to the hostess, “Don’t worry, we’ll try our best to behave.”
Jenn added, “As long as nobody else tries to pick a fight.”
The hostess called out to everybody in the diner …
“Y’hear that, folks? The FBI wants to keep things peaceable this morning. Is everybody OK with that?”
Riley was startled to hear general laughter and yelps of approval.
The hostess said, “Come on in, a couple of local cops are already waiting for you.”
As the hostess led them to a large booth, Riley was pleased to see that Officers Kuehling and Wolfe were sitting there drinking coffee. Yesterday evening the two cops had said they’d meet Riley and her colleagues here if they could.
As Riley, Bill, and Jenn sat down with them, Kuehling said, “Chief Crane said it would be OK for us to help you out today.”
Riley said, “I’m glad to hear that.”
Wolfe laughed and added, “It’s not out of the goodness of his heart, believe me. He’d still rather you just picked up and left, and he wanted us to tell you that. He’s letting us work with you because, well …”
Kuehling finished his thought …
“He says we’re not much good to him. He can spare us easily.”
Riley smiled. She’d guessed as much yesterday. As far as she was concerned, it was another sign that Chief Crane wasn’t very bright. Riley was still impressed by the ability Kuehling had shown yesterday to describe how Ogden’s empty living room had looked at the time of the murder.
Riley said, “I think Chief Crane underestimates your ability, Officer Kuehling.”
Kuehling blushed and ducked her head.
She said shyly, “Um, Agent Paige—I’m feeling pretty daunted by having you folks around. I mean that in a good way, I think you’re just awesome. But I’d feel more at ease if you just called me Sam—short for Samantha. It’s what everybody calls me.”
Then with a nod toward her partner she added with playful grin …
“And you can call him Dominic.”
Dominic laughed and said to Riley and her colleagues, “That’s Sam for you. Always calling the shots for us both. Which is OK, because she does most of the thinking. Anyway, I’m fine with Dominic.”
Riley eyed the two young cops with interest. It was obvious that Sam had the talent and brains of the team. But Dominic didn’t seem to resent that. They seemed to be good friends and good partners.
The five of them ordered breakfast and began to talk about the case. They all had to admit that they seemed to be at a dead end. It would soon be two weeks since Gareth Ogden had been murdered. There had been no sign of the killer since then.
Then Dominic said, “Or maybe he’s killed somebody else that we don’t know about.”
Sam looked at her partner and said, “Do you mean like he hid the body?”
Dominic shrugged and said, “I dunno. Something like that.”
Riley said, “It’s an interesting idea, but I doubt it.”
Bill explained, “Statistically, most serial killers are consistent about how they deal with the body—whether they mo
ve it, hide it, or leave it right where the murder happened. Some always conceal it and others always want it to be found.”
Jenn added, “Consistency is part of our problem. Was Ogden killed by the same person who murdered the Bonnett family? Aside from the murder weapon, there aren’t a lot of similarities.”
Riley sensed that Jenn’s brain was clicking away. She waited to hear what she might say next.
Finally Jenn said, “Riley, I think I owe you an apology.”
“For what?” Riley said.
“I got awfully sharp and defensive yesterday about Amos Crites. I kind of implied that you thought I was … well, you know.”
Riley understood what she meant. She was referring to her remark in the car yesterday …
“I suppose this is where you accuse me of not being objective.”
Riley was relieved that they could put that hurtful moment behind them.
She smiled at Jenn and said, “It’s OK, Jenn. You were frustrated, and with good reason.”
Poking at her scrambled eggs with her fork, Jenn said, “Still, I can’t help thinking Crites did it. Killed Ogden, I mean.”
Bill said, “Explain your theory.”
Jenn shrugged and said, “Well, it’s not like I’ve got any amazing insights. It’s pretty obvious that Crites had a motive. He wanted to buy Ogden’s house. And now that Ogden’s dead, he’s liable to buy it more cheaply, sooner or later.”
Jenn paused, then added, “But I don’t think he had anything to do with what happened to the Bonnetts. I think he used a similar MO just to throw us off his trail, just to confuse us.”
Sam shook her head. “I’m sorry, but … I don’t agree. I still think the same person killed the Bonnetts and Gareth Ogden. That doesn’t eliminate Crites as a suspect, though. He might have killed the Bonnetts back then and Ogden a couple of weeks ago.”
Riley mulled it over …
If Crites is trying to confuse us, his tactic is working.
And yet …
“We’re still in the same situation as yesterday,” Riley said. “Chief Crane isn’t going to help us investigate Crites. Keeping watch on him would mean rotating watchers, but that’s not going to happen. If he’s our killer, we’ve got to catch him some other way.”
She took a sip of coffee and remembered something she’d thought of yesterday.
She said to Sam and Dominic …
“Do you happen to know whether Crites had any property issues with the Bonnett family before they were killed?”
Dominic said, “No, but we could find out. Sumption Real Estate has been trying to sell that house ever since those murders happened. Somebody there would know.”
Bill said, “We should check that out today.”
Riley agreed, and the group fell quiet for a few moments.
Then Riley said, “Sam, you mentioned that your father was a cop when the Bonnett family was killed. You said he was part of the investigation.”
Sam nodded silently.
Riley said, “Is your father still alive?”
Sam looked somewhat uneasy now.
“Yes,” Sam said slowly.
“Could we talk to him?” Riley said.
Sam squinted and said, “Oh, Agent Paige, I don’t know. Dad’s in an assisted living facility. He’s been there for about a year now, ever since my mother died. He’s mostly pretty functional, but he’s got bad days. He seems to be in the really early stages of dementia. And he gets sometimes gets confused, and he sometimes gets upset. There’s nothing that upsets him more than talking about that case. I’m afraid it would be really hard on him.”
Riley asked, “Is there anyone else in town who might know as much about the case as he would?”
“I’m afraid not,” Sam said.
Riley leaned across the table toward Sam.
“Sam, I understand how you feel,” she said. “But if he can remember anything that can help us, I really think we should talk to him. I’m asking you, please—can we pay him a visit?”
Sam sighed and said, “Anything to solve this case, I guess. But go easy on him. He’s pretty fragile.”
Riley and her companions finished eating and left the restaurant. As they had yesterday, the FBI agents followed the local cops in their car. They soon arrived at Hume Place, the assisted care facility where Sam’s father lived.
As they walked toward the building, Riley thought it bore an odd resemblance to a typical funeral home. The style of architecture was residential, but the place looked too fake somehow for anyone to actually live there.
Riley’s impression didn’t change when they went inside the building, with its spacious carpeted foyer and furniture that looked like it had been there for years but even so had barely been used. Hume Place was obviously not new—there were signs of fairly recent repairs and places where the walls had been repainted. Even so, it struck Riley as a little too clean and spotless and odor-free …
Like kind of a decayed sterility, Riley thought.
They checked in at the front desk, and Sam led them through the hallways toward her father’s room. They were greeted outside the room by a woman in a nurse’s uniform.
Riley and her colleagues produced their badges, and Sam introduced the woman as Tracy Spahn, the nurse who took care of her father during this shift.
The nurse looked kindly but agitated.
“Sam, I’m glad you’re here,” she said. “We were just getting ready to call you.”
Sam gasped and grew a little pale.
“What happened, Tracy?” she said. “Is Dad OK?”
Tracy sighed and said, “Yes, he’s fine, at least right now, but …”
She paused, then added, “Sam, you know we try to give our residents as much freedom as possible. This isn’t a prison. As long as they’re well enough, residents can come and go as they like.”
“So what’s the problem?” Sam asked.
“Your dad has been going out some nights. Last night, in fact. That’s fine, as long as he checks himself out and back in again, and can account for his whereabouts. But lately he’s just coming and going without letting anyone know, and he’s vague about where he’s gone.”
Sam looked down and shook her head.
“Oh, dear,” she said. “I’m sorry, Tracy. I’ll talk to him about that.”
“Please do,” Tracy said. “Your father has been one of our most independent patients, but he’s starting to slip, I’m afraid. He’s likely to need more care soon. If he goes out like that again—even once—I’m afraid we’ll have to limit his activities, take away some of his privileges. And he’s not going to like that.”
Tracy opened the door to the room, and Riley and her companions walked inside. It was a small, one-room studio with a kitchen area and a single bed. Sam’s father was sitting at a table playing solitaire with a deck of cards.
He smiled a wide smile when he saw his daughter. “Sam—and Dominic, too! It’s great to see you! Make yourselves comfortable—you and your friends.” Looking at Riley and her colleagues, he said, “To whom do I owe the pleasure?”
As Tracy sat down at the table with him, she introduced the three FBI agents. Her father exchanged hearty handshakes with Riley and her colleagues and introduced himself as Art Kuehling.
As she, Bill, and Jenn sat down, Riley noted a strong resemblance between father and daughter. Like Sam, Art Kuehling was vigorous and athletic-looking, and his expression was sharp and alert.
He also looked remarkably young for his apparent years. Riley found it hard to believe that he needed to live in this kind of facility.
Then he looked at his daughter affectionately and said …
“Punkin, it’s nice of you to come. But I thought I told you not to—at least not yet.”
Sam squinted and asked, “Why not?”
“I just think it’s too early to plant tomatoes. Normally this time of year is about right. But there’s still a winter chill in the air.”
Sam looked shaken.
/> She said, “Dad, it’s August. And you don’t have a garden anymore.”
Her father tilted his head in mild surprise.
“Oh, is that right?” he said. “Yeah, now that I think of it, I guess I don’t.”
Sam reached over and took her father’s hand.
She said, “Dad, Tracy tells me you’re going out at night.”
Art chuckled a little and said, “Sure. Is there anything wrong with that?”
Sam said, “You’re supposed to check out before you leave, and check in when you come back.”
Art shrugged and said, “I always do.”
“No, you haven’t been doing that, at least not lately,” Sam said in a gentle but urgent voice. “Tracy just told me. You’ve got to follow the rules, Dad.”
Art looked a little worried now.
“I guess it’s been slipping my mind,” he said. “I’ll do better.”
Sam asked, “Where have you been going at nights, anyway?”
“Just for short walks,” Art said. “When I feel up to it, anyway. In this kind of weather, I usually just like to sit out on the back porch swing.”
Riley could see Sam gulp hard with emotion.
Her father gazed into her eyes for a moment and said …
“We don’t have that old porch swing anymore, do we?”
“No, Dad,” Sam said. “You don’t even live in that house anymore.”
Art stared silently at the playing cards on the table in front of him.
In a slightly choked voice, he said …
“Sam, I’m afraid I’m …”
His voice faded away and Sam said nothing.
Riley remembered what Sam had said back at the diner …
“He’s mostly pretty functional, but he’s got bad days.”
Riley sensed that this was an especially bad day—probably a lot worse than Sam had expected.
Art pulled himself up and spoke to Riley and her colleagues in a strong, clear voice.
“Well, I don’t guess you FBI folks are here on a pleasure visit. How can I help you? Has this got something to do with what happened to Gareth Ogden? He was a mean old cuss, but I never thought anybody would want to kill him. Especially with a hammer like that. Such an awful thing.”
Riley was startled by his sudden display of lucidity.
