by Tami Hoag
“Yeah? Like how?”
“With her poetry, and wanting people to just be who they are and let other people do their own thing.”
That would appeal to Kyle, she thought. He had always marched to his own drummer, even when he was small. He had always been sensitive to the feelings of other kids, had always spent much time in thought and contemplation.
He reached under his pillow and pulled out his phone. He tapped on the screen and navigated his way to what he wanted.
“She was always making videos with her phone,” he said. “She shot this one during the writer’s workshop and sent it to me.”
He touched Play and showed Nikki the screen. “We had to interview each other about what made us want to be writers.”
The camera focused first on Gray as she introduced herself and explained the purpose of the interview. Then she turned the camera on Kyle while he answered the question. He fidgeted and looked away and scowled, never liking to have his picture taken or to have the moment captured on a video. Gray came back on the screen while she answered. She spoke about how it made her feel to write a poem—like she was opening a window to her soul and letting the feelings escape. Sometimes they were good feelings, and sometimes they weren’t. Sometimes it felt as if she opened a vein and bled the words out.
Nikki watched with a sad heart, wishing she could have known this girl, wishing some adult in Penny Gray’s life would have cared enough to help her, to listen to her troubles and try to understand. She remembered herself at that age, feeling lost and misunderstood. It was hard to be sixteen, when every little thing seemed a matter of life and death, and the future was too far away to believe none of the immediate crises would mean much at all. She hadn’t gotten that kind of understanding from her own mother, and neither had Penny Gray.
She handed the phone back to Kyle as the video ended. “You know, I’m proud of you for sticking up for her the way you did that night at the Rock and Bowl.”
He shrugged one shoulder, looking down. “It’s not right to hit a girl. None of that was right.”
“The other girl, Brittany, do you know her very well?”
“I thought I did.” He sighed. “People are disappointing.”
“They can be. It’s not always easy to do the right thing. Sometimes it’s not so easy to know what the right thing is. Sometimes we just do the best that we can.”
He shook his head a little. “Sometimes people just do what’s easy or what other people want them to. For all the wrong reasons.”
She couldn’t argue.
“I wish I could have stopped Gray that night,” he said, his eyes filling with tears. “If I could have caught her before she drove out, maybe she’d still be alive.”
Nikki put a hand on his forearm and squeezed. “You can’t think that way, Kyle. A lot of things happened that night. That was just the last one that you know of.
“It’s like in a football game when the kicker misses that last-second field goal and everybody wants to blame him for losing the game. But there were a thousand things that happened before that moment that could have changed everything. Nobody thinks about those moments. A missed catch, a bad tackle, a penalty that shouldn’t have happened. All of those things were equally crucial. They just weren’t the last thing that happened.
“So maybe, yes, if you had caught Gray before she left, if you had gotten in the car with her, maybe she’d be alive today—or maybe you’d both be gone. But there are a lot of other maybes. Maybe if the girls hadn’t gotten into a fight. Maybe if your friend Brittany had made a better choice. Maybe, maybe, maybe.
“There are so many maybes,” she said. “Maybe if we could have solved this killer’s first murder or second. Maybe if he had turned left instead of right at an intersection he never would have met your friend. It’s not just about what you did or didn’t do, or what I did or didn’t do, or even what Gray did or didn’t do.
“We try to make sense of things that can’t be made sense of. All we can do is the best that we can. The rest is out of our hands. And if our best wasn’t good enough, we try harder the next time.”
“Gray doesn’t get a next time,” he said quietly.
“No. But all we can do now is try our best to catch her killer.”
“When you said you texted Gray and tried to call her. Was that the night she went missing or after that too?” Nikki asked.
“After too,” he said. He dug his phone out and checked the text messages he had sent to the girl. “I tried to text her this morning. I kept thinking she just went off somewhere to be alone. I thought maybe if I kept bugging her, she would answer.”
Nikki absorbed that and put it away in her head, too tired to think it might be significant. All she could think was that she was raising one hell of a good human being and that it was a pure damn miracle considering how little time she spent doing it.
“I love you so much,” she said, hugging him.
Kyle hugged her back. “I love you too, Mom. I’m really sorry about this morning.”
“Me too,” she said, squeezing him tighter. “We’ll both do better tomorrow, right?”
That was the thought she carried with her to bed. That they would all do better tomorrow. And hopefully that would mean finding Penny Gray’s killer.
34
How f’d up was that 2day? Cops! :O
Brittany sat on her bed, tucked up against the headboard, her legs curled beneath her, unconsciously making herself small. She looked at the text from Christina, not wanting to answer. She’d had a stomachache ever since the afternoon, ever since she had to talk again with the police.
She couldn’t believe any of this was really happening. How could someone she knew get murdered? How could she be involved in something so sick and twisted and crazy? All she’d done was try to be friends with a girl she felt sorry for. She was a good person. She tried to do the right thing. Usually. It was just that sometimes that was so much harder than it should have been.
She couldn’t stop feeling responsible for what had happened to Gray. It was her fault they had gone to the Rock & Bowl that night. She should have just told Christina no. Or better yet, she should have just ignored Christina’s text messages.
She was so stupid, always answering her texts like somebody was watching her and would know that she hadn’t turned her phone off or left it in her purse or something. How pathetic was she? So desperate to be liked by Christina that she jumped every time Christina looked her way. Why couldn’t she be stronger? Why couldn’t she be more like Kyle?
Kyle didn’t care that the cool kids didn’t like him. Or if he cared, he cared more about his integrity and being true to himself. He had pushed her to do the same, but she wasn’t like Kyle. She wasn’t strong. She wasn’t brave. The idea of not being liked, not being popular, was terrifying to her. And look where that had gotten her.
Her phone vibrated again in her hand. Another message from Christina.
Where R U? R U OK?
Even as she told herself not to, her thumbs moved over the keyboard.
OK.
Can U Blieve it? A serial killer! It could’ve been any of us!
No, it couldn’t, Brittany thought, angry. It couldn’t have been any of them. They had been with each other. Only Gray had gone off alone. Because of the rest of them. Nothing like that would ever happen to Christina Warner because she was always the center of attention, always surrounded by the people who feared and adored her.
No. It would happen to Gray, who had nobody to prevent it and nobody to care afterward. Gray, who counted Brittany as a friend. One of her only friends. They weren’t close the way Brittany had been close with other friends in her life. They didn’t confide secrets in each other the way best friends usually did. And yet Gray had chosen to come to her after the last fight with her mother.
And look what I did to her.
Brittany looked over by the big chair in the corner of her room where Gray’s duffel bag sat on the floor, half-hidden by
a menagerie of stuffed animals. She should take it back to Gray’s mom, she supposed. The idea of facing Gray’s mother made her feel sick.
Hello, Mrs. Gray. I’m Brittany. I’m the reason your daughter is dead. Here’s her stuff.
Her phone vibrated again. She wanted to throw it across the room, but she didn’t. Gray would have. No. Gray would have typed FUCK U and then thrown it across the room. Brittany looked at the message.
What did they ask U? what did U tell them?
I told them you’re a bitch, Brittany thought. I told them you’re mean. I told them it’s my fault Gray got killed because it was my fault she was there. Of course she hadn’t told them any such thing. She had told the detective the same thing everyone had told the detective. What difference did it make, anyway? Gray had gone out into the night alone, never to be seen again. That was all that mattered.
She looked down at her phone and typed Nothing.
Her stomach cramped like a fist. You make me sick, she thought, though she wasn’t sure if the thought was directed at Christina or herself.
All Christina was worried about was how this made her look. It had to be Gray’s fault that Christina had made up that horrible poem. Gray had to be the bad one for starting the fight between them. It had to be Gray who lunged at Christina because God forbid anyone thought Christina would lose her cool and do something like that. But she had.
It was Christina who had started everything that night. It was Christina who had planned the whole thing, Christina who had humiliated Gray, Christina who had flipped out and thrown herself at Gray.
It was Christina who had told everybody to say that Gray attacked her. She didn’t want to look bad. She didn’t want to get in trouble. She didn’t want her precious creepy father to think the sun didn’t rise and set on her. And if Gray was dead anyway, what did it matter that they made her look bad? She was bad.
At least she wasn’t a hypocrite, Brittany thought, like you, Christina. Like me.
The phone buzzed again.
Did U tell what she said?
Did I tell them Gray said you’re a phony and a fake, and everything she said about your phony fake Barbie doll life? That people don’t really like you, that they hate you behind your back but they’re too afraid to say it?
Did I tell them the truth?
She texted back: No.
Brittany wanted to scream. She pictured herself like Gray had been that night—in Christina’s face, shouting at her. It’s not about you, Christina! No one cares how this makes you look. No one cares if Gray had sex with your boyfriend or father or you or anyone else.
Her phone buzzed in her hand yet again.
UR the best Britt. I <3 U.
Me 2 U, she typed. Then she turned her phone off, went into the bathroom, and threw up.
35
Fitz had grown up the child of a single mother who had spent all her free time in the local American Legion tavern, shooting pool and tequila and picking up men. In contrast to her lifestyle, she had enrolled Fitz in the Cub Scouts and then the Boy Scouts.
Of course, he had seen that for what it was: a conduit to men who didn’t hang out at the American Legion. Still, he had applied himself to the role of Scout, taking advantage of the opportunity to learn interesting things, like how to tie knots, how to use a knife and an ax, and, most important, to always be prepared.
He took his time getting ready, making certain everything was in place, that he was forgetting nothing. He had to be especially diligent in his planning and execution because he was deviating from his normal way of doing things. This was when mistakes could be made if he wasn’t careful.
He would be using his small van. He never used the small van. When he worked on the road, he used the box truck, which was set up for the purpose. He went through the van methodically, checking his tie-downs, arranging the blanket, making sure the duct tape was where he needed it to be.
He double-checked the small gear bag on the passenger’s seat. Hand tools, knife, plastic zip ties. Good to go.
The adrenaline was beginning to flow. He couldn’t rest. He couldn’t sit down. He was like a shark, moving constantly, as he visualized what would happen tonight. He could feel the cold air on his face, freezing his nose hair. He could see Dana Nolan’s face—the split second of confusion, then the spark of recognition, then the flash of fear and panic.
He could the feel the rush of power, the sexual excitement. He went through the scenario over and over in his head.
This too was different for him. He had always trolled for victims, capitalizing on opportunity. The adrenaline rush was quick and explosive. This excitement of anticipation was almost too much to stand.
He checked his watch.
Go time.
Careful to stay just under the speed limit and to obey all traffic laws, he drove to Dana Nolan’s apartment complex. He made sure not to arrive too early. He backed the van into the parking spot beside her car and settled in to wait under the harsh glow of the security light.
Every second seemed like a minute. He tried to listen to the radio. Music annoyed him. People talking annoyed him. He worked on taking slow, deep breaths, concentrating on trying to lower his heart rate. He had once read that Shaolin monks could use their minds to slow their heart rates to practically nothing.
He checked his watch.
He tried the radio again. Hits from the eighties. Hits from the nineties. Hits from today. NPR. Delilah.
He was a sucker for Delilah. He found it kind of comforting that no matter where he traveled, he could always get Delilah’s syndicated show on the radio. It was like traveling with a friend.
She had a soothing voice. There was something sweet about all her corny love talk. He didn’t believe in any of it—not for himself, at least. An argument could be made that falling for the idea of true love made people weak and ultimately miserable. Still, he listened to Delilah.
She was talking about love being an action rather than an emotion when Dana Nolan emerged from her apartment building.
Fitz took the small bottle of chloroform out of his coat pocket and poured some on a washcloth as he watched her come toward him. He stuck the washcloth in his pocket and got out of the van, keeping his head down, and opened the hood as if he was having engine trouble. As she got within earshot, he groaned: “Oh, man! Not again!”
He stepped back from the vehicle and flopped his arms helplessly at his sides.
“I can’t believe this!”
He could see her in his peripheral vision. She had slowed down but was still coming toward him. He heaved a big sigh and shook his head at his phony misfortune as he turned in her direction and began to trudge toward the buildings, hands in his coat pockets, shoulders hunched against the cold.
“Dead battery!” he said.
She was going to walk right past him; she had quickened her step, anxious about meeting someone in the parking lot at this time of night.
Fitz slowed down. “Miss, you couldn’t help me out with a jump start, could you? I’ve got cables. My wife is going to kill me.”
She glanced at him, slowed her step. She looked a little annoyed, a little uncertain. Then there it was—the spark of recognition.
“Oh, hey!” he said, feigning surprise. “What the heck? You’re Dana! Oh my God! Remember me? Fitz. From the Holiday station.”
She relaxed a little, stopped moving. “Oh, yeah.”
They were just a few steps from the van.
“What are the odds of this?” Fitz asked, chuckling. He moved back toward the van. “I hate to impose, Dana, but if you could just give me a jump—”
She hesitated. “Oh, gee, I’m really sorry,” she said. “I have to get to work.”
“It’ll just take a second,” Fitz said, opening the sliding side door of the van. He leaned inside as if to get the jumper cables.
“Hey, I saw you on the news this afternoon,” he said. “You’re covering that missing girl case. That’s something, huh? Did she turn out
to be that dead girl? The zombie?”
“It looks that way,” she said, coming a little closer.
Even if she didn’t want to help him, she had to come closer to get to the driver’s side door of her car. She was only a few feet away.
“That’s terrible,” Fitz said. “Some lunatic going around abducting young women. What’s the world coming to?”
In the next second he turned and lunged at her, and that familiar panic flashed in her eyes. She tried to turn away. He grabbed her ponytail in his left hand and shoved her backward into the side of her car, pinning her there. She tried to draw breath to scream, and he shoved the chloroform washcloth over her mouth and nose.
The struggle was over in seconds. He had only to turn with her in his arms and shove her inside the van. He went in after her and slid the door shut behind him.
Duct tape across the mouth.
Zip tie the hands together.
Tie her up. Tie her down.
Cover her over with the blanket.
He got out and closed the hood of the van, then squatted down beside Dana Nolan’s car to glance over the things she had dropped during the struggle: purse, makeup bag, tote bag with papers spilling out of it. He pulled one of the papers out and smiled to himself. It was a flier with a photograph of a young woman. HAVE YOU SEEN THIS GIRL? A missing persons flier for Penelope Gray.
Struck by inspiration, Fitz fished a fat marker out of a side pocket on the tote bag, wrote a note on the flier, and tucked the page beneath a windshield wiper on the Mini Cooper. Then he got behind the wheel of his van and calmly drove slowly out of the parking lot. In his rearview mirror he could see other fliers from Dana Nolan’s tote bag taking flight as the cold wind kicked up a gust.
He smiled and turned up the radio and sang along.
36
Three hours of sleep. A shower. A shave. A small bucket of coffee from 7-Eleven. A couple of doughnuts to perpetuate the stereotype. Back to the job.
