Kill Game

by Francine Pascal

  Careful, Gaia told herself. Careful, now. Do everything by the rules. The rules are there for a reason.

  She got to the porch. The only sound was the crickets around the house.

  “Hello?” Gaia called out. “Ann?”

  No answer. A twig cracked behind Gaia—it was Catherine, walking closer.

  “Ann?” Gaia called. “Are you there?”

  “Mommy?” a voice called from inside the house. It was the voice of a small child.

  “Sam?” Gaia yelled. She was staring at the house’s darkened door. It was pitch black—like staring into the entrance to a mine. “Are you okay?”

  “My mommy’s hurt,” Sam’s plaintive voice called out. “I’m scared.”

  “Don’t be scared, Sam,” Gaia said. It was so dark now that she could barely see the outlines of the house against the sky. “You remember me? The blond girl from yesterday? I’m your mommy’s friend.”

  “I’m scared,” the boy repeated.

  “Sam,” Gaia called out, using as calm and friendly a voice as she could muster, “why don’t you come out here?”

  “Okay …”

  There was a long pause and then, deep in the darkness of the house, Gaia heard footsteps. The footsteps got closer and stopped.

  “Can’t see,” Sam called out. His voice was much closer.

  “Can you turn the light on?” Gaia answered.

  “Okay …”

  After a second there was a click, and inside the house the living room’s bright overhead light snapped on.

  Catherine screamed.

  Ann Knight was lying dead in the center of the room. Her head was twisted at a strange angle and there was a pool of blood spreading out around her body. It was remarkably realistic—maybe even better than the “Nathan Hill” body they’d examined days ago. It was also really strange, Gaia thought. Seeing the “corpse” of someone with whom she’d already established a connection. Another element of the game she’d have to get used to.

  Sam, the boy, was standing in the rear doorway, his hand still on the light switch. In his other hand he held a large red lollipop. Catherine was gasping for breath. She had stopped herself from screaming again but just barely.

  “Catherine,” Gaia said. “Stop it! Snap out of it!”

  “Okay—” But Catherine was still staring into the room. Her eyes were as big as saucers. “Okay. Okay. Um—What do we do?”

  “Follow procedure,” Gaia whispered.

  “Still here,” Sam called out. “He gave me a lolly!”

  Catherine and Gaia looked at each other. Gaia could barely see Catherine’s brown eyes shining in the dark.

  Catherine pointed wordlessly toward the edge of the house. Gaia nodded. They both understood—’because they clearly had both heard the same broken branch at the same time.

  The killer’s still here.

  Catherine leaned her head extremely close to Gaia’s “Got to go in there,” she whispered, so quietly Gaia could barely hear. “Kid’s in danger—”

  “No,” Gaia whispered back. “Crime scene. Means ‘do not disturb.’” She pointed at the flanks of the house. “You go right—I’ll go left.”

  Catherine nodded firmly. She squeezed Gaia’s shoulder, and they moved off in opposite directions as quietly as they could.

  Gaia crept step by step along the edge of Ann Knight’s house. Her feet sank into the grass and soft mud beside the house’s cement foundations. With her right hand she guided herself along the house’s rough siding. Her left hand was stiffened, thumb rigid—a karate weapon.

  The crickets were nearly deafening. Gaia could barely see; the harsh overhead light from the living room—the crime scene—flowed out a window overhead and behind her. Now she was moving through tall weeds, passing the glass globes of power meters on the side of the house. And she heard it again—a footstep on a twig in front of her.

  Squinting, Gaia could barely see a silhouette against the dark woods ahead. A male shape, with some kind of hood or hat pulled over the head. Powerfully built—and moving slowly away from her.

  “Freeze—FBI!” Gaia shouted.

  The shape of the man darted away toward the woods. Gaia sprinted to catch up, nearly twisting her ankle in the cold, muddy ground. “Hi-yaaa,” she yelled, launching into a flying tackle.

  Her shoulder shoulder collided with the man’s torso. Even through his thick clothes, Gaia could feel how strong he was. The man lost his balance, grunting as he slammed forward into the mud. Gaia lunged on top of him, trying to grab his wrists and pin him down, but the “murderer” was too fast—he had twisted around, aiming a powerful jab at Gaia’s head that she barely managed to dodge before slipping away and regaining her feet. Gaia stretched out her foot to trip the man and he went down again, collapsing with a grunt while Gaia, winded, tried to regain her feet. This time his blow connected, catching Gaia on the side of her forehead. The chop was expertly delivered—a flash of light shone in her left eye as a stinging sensation spread over her face. Get ready, she told herself dully—here comes the pain.

  And a wave of agony bloomed over her face as she stumbled and fell in the soft earth. The man scrambled to his feet, a dark shape like a child’s cutout, and bolted away, panting, into the woods.

  Damn it, Gaia thought, regaining her breath while lying on the wet forest floor. Damn it—it’s so hard when you can’t see.

  “Agent Bishop?”

  Catherine’s voice behind her, on her cell phone.

  “Agent Bishop, it’s Catherine Sanders. We’ve found a murder victim.”

  I thought the game was over, Gaia thought as she followed the sound of Catherine’s voice out of the woods and back toward the dark mass of Ann Knight’s house. What does this mean? What’s happening now?

  Now that the man was gone, Gaia recognized a slight aroma—a faint smell in the air. A sugary smell that reminded her of childhood.

  Candy, she thought, rising to her feet and delicately probing the tender bruise on her forehead. Or lollipops.

  WAITING ALL MY LIFE

  Gaia looked out across the road, away from the glaring police lights. The stars were out, but the western horizon was still light enough for her to see the silhouette of the bronze infantryman outlined against the sky.

  It was fifteen minutes after Catherine called Agent Bishop and left word on Kim’s voice mail that he and Will should come to Ann Knight’s house. Two of the familiar FBI blue sedans were parked in front of the house, their flashers shining red and white in bright revolving flickers against the dark surrounding forest. Two men in FBI windbreakers were unrolling yellow Crime Scene—Do Not Cross tape across the front of the house’s porch. It looked the same as the tape they’d seen across the Hogan’s Alley Retirement Home after “Abraham Kaufman’s” murder. From a distance Gaia could hear Catherine’s voice, issuing calm orders to the forensics squad.

  We stood and talked right there, Gaia marveled, looking out at the dark statue where she’d met Ann Knight. Amazing—so real. She realized she’d have to rack her brains, trying to find clues in everything the woman had told her. The dead husband, the flowers, the little boy—it was all significant now.

  Another car was slowing to a stop in front of the house. As Gaia looked over, its headlights went out and Special Agent Brian Malloy stepped from the driver’s seat and slammed the door. He took a moment to appraise the scene in his unreadable, ice-cold way and then came over to Gaia.

  “Moore,” he said. There was, as usual, no expression in his voice at all.

  “Sir.”

  “Ready to report?”

  “Not yet, sir,” Gaia told him, turning back to face the brightly lit house. “Agent Sanders has taken charge of the forensics, but they just started to secure the scene a few minutes ago. She would know more than I would about—”

  “You’re hurt,” Malloy said in a softer voice, looking at Gaia’s forehead. “You’d better get that taken care of.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Mall
oy stood there, looking at Gaia, as if waiting for her to say something else. Gaia was confused. Am I doing something wrong? She thought quickly. Some detail I missed? Something I did or didn’t see or hear?

  “You fought with the killer,” Malloy said slowly.

  “Well, briefly, sir,” Gaia said. “He got away almost immediately. I did what I could, but it’s difficult to fight under those conditions.”

  Malloy was waving a hand impatiently, leading her forward toward the well-lit porch. “I know, I know. I just meant that you came in physical contact with the killer. Would you recognize him again? His body type and mobility profile, I mean.”

  Gaia wasn’t sure. “I think so,” she said hesitantly.

  “You seemed to have learned a thing or two since you got here.”

  What’s he getting at? Why is he talking like this?

  “I hope so, sir,” Gaia said, following Malloy up the stairs. Catherine was busy examining muddy footprints at one end of the porch—she didn’t even look up. Malloy was leading Gaia into the house along the narrow, chalk-marked track of clean floor that had already been fingerprinted and fiber scanned—the only place in the room anyone was walking. The track led toward the “corpse” like a path into a forest.

  “Remember when I asked you what you would do in my shoes?” Malloy said.

  “Yes, sir.” Gaia didn’t look at Malloy—she was carefully following him toward the “body.”

  “I’m going to ask again,” Malloy said. He was looking at her seriously, his face flickering red and white in the police flashers from outside. “Would you put two young trainees in charge of investigating this murder? Even if one was coming off a temporary suspension?”

  Gaia was confused. “Sir, isn’t that the point? This is a new game, isn’t it?”

  Malloy smiled humorlessly. “I suppose you could put it that way. A whole new game.”

  They were standing over the figure on the floor—and the room, Gaia noticed, was filled with that sweet, cloying lollipop smell.

  “Look, we’ve got a lot to do,” Malloy snapped. “Sheriff Gus Parker is on his way, and his men will want to question you, but I’ll help with that. The point is, you saw the killer. In the dark but you were here. You and Sanders got that allimportant first look at the crime scene while it was still live—before all this.” He gestured around at the chalk lines and evidence bags, the flickering glare of the cars’ flashers outside. “And Sanders seems like a good partner for you—a very smart operative, Bishop tells me. So, let’s not waste time. That piece of paper on my desk—the one with the two signatures—do I tear it up?”

  What?

  Gaia was staring back at Malloy and trying to make sense of what she was hearing. Sheriff Parker—? I “saw the killer”?

  More cars were arriving outside. Glancing out there, Gaia saw that they were local police cars.

  Slowly she turned her eyes down toward the body. Crouching, looking up close, Gaia could feel the realization flowing over her like tide rising unstoppably across the surface of a beach.

  Oh my God.

  Reaching out, Gaia gently touched the side of “Ann Knight’s” face.

  Flesh. Not plastic—real skin. Ann Knight, the real Ann Knight, was dead. Brutally murdered, in cold blood.

  I saw the killer.

  Gaia took her hand away as fast as she could—not out of disgust, but because she didn’t want to leave any fingerprints on the corpse. Her heart sank. A vast feeling of sorrow and grief rolled over her right then as she remembered the afternoon in the rain with Ann Knight, who was, finally, a real person, as real as herself, lying here dead on the floor in front of her.

  Now nobody will ever put white roses in the statue again, Gaia thought suddenly, wishing that Will and Kim were there for moral support. Kim probably hasn’t had the chance to pick up his messages yet.

  “Well, Moore?” Malloy snapped, standing impatiently above her. “Am I putting you and Sanders in charge of the investigation? What’s it going to be?”

  Gaia slowly stood up, tearing her eyes away from poor Ann Knight’s body and turning back toward Malloy. Her eyes flooded with tears, which she quickly wiped away so that Malloy wouldn’t see.

  “Let’s get some gloves on,” she told him.

  Malloy allowed himself a very slight smile. His eyes glittered as he gazed at her.

  “Gaia!” Catherine called from the front porch. “We need you!”

  Have I been waiting all my life to hear that?

  “Excuse me, sir,” Gaia said to Malloy. She moved past him and went to join the other FBI agents. She had a killer to catch.

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