The 9th Girl

by Tami Hoag

  Her phone announced another text message with a bright ping! Brittany glanced at it, braced to see Christina’s name on the screen, but it was Kyle.

  how r u? r u ok?

  That was how he always started his texts to her—with concern for her. As many times as she’d been a bitch to him, as many times as she’d told him to leave her alone, his first concern had always been her well-being.

  Wish u were here, she typed, then hesitated, thinking she wasn’t brave enough to send it. She looked at the picture of Gray on her iPad and drew on the memory of her friend’s strength. Gray would have sent the text. Gray would have told her to send the text. Gray would have said, Fuck yeah! Send it!

  She hit the Send button, and butterflies took wing in her stomach as the message went out into space.

  The answer came back right away. Me 2

  She felt giddy and guilty at the same time. She’d been so mean to him, and he was so nice.

  Can’t go with u to c Gray’s mom cuz of my mom/investigation. Really sorry

  Her disappointment was instant. She wanted to see him, to spend time with him without all the tension and BS of school and the people in it. More than that, she realized, she wanted to hide behind his strength when they met with Gray’s mom.

  Her first excuse was that she was shy by nature. She had met Gray’s mom only a couple of times, and her perception of Julia Gray had been colored by the things her daughter had said about her—that she was cold, that she was selfish, that she was a bitch. But that had been Gray’s reality with her mother and didn’t have anything to do with the here and now, or with what Brittany needed to do to fulfill her obligation to her friend.

  The truth was that she didn’t want to be strong on her own. She wanted to let Kyle be strong for her.

  No.

  No worries, she typed. will txt u when I get back.

  UL go alone? U shouldn’t.

  It’s just a few blocks.

  Still wish u wouldn’t.

  I’ll b fine.

  B careful.

  I will. Thnx.

  She sent the message and tucked her phone into the front pocket of her baby-pink cashmere hoodie, feeling like she had him close to her that way. Grabbing the handle of Gray’s duffel bag, she went downstairs to pull on her coat and the new Ugg boots she had gotten for Christmas. It would take ten minutes to walk to Gray’s house near the lake.

  It seemed strange to be carrying the belongings of someone who would never use them again, she thought as she started down the street. Makeup, underwear, sweaters, and socks. A toothbrush, a hairbrush, her laptop computer.

  The weirdest thought was that Gray lived on inside her computer. She kept everything on it. Her journal, her poetry. iPhoto contained hundreds of pictures of herself and her friends, and all the places she had been and people she had found interesting. She had always been snapping photos with her phone, making videos on her phone. She recorded everything and everyone—friends, strangers, homeless people, dogs. She was always recording her thoughts and ideas.

  In her recordings and in her poetry, Gray would always be alive, telling her story.

  Brittany wondered if Gray’s mom would let her copy some of what was on the computer. She could keep it like a digital scrapbook. She would end up spending more time with Gray after she was dead than when she had been alive.

  Her nerves were vibrating as she walked. The night was pitch-dark. There seemed to be no stars in the sky. She could see people in their homes looking warm and snug on the other side of their picture windows. They didn’t notice her. She was alone out in the cold.

  She hurried from one pool of white streetlight to the next, suddenly too aware of being the only person on the street. The police thought a serial killer might have gotten Gray. She thought of someone like that haunting dark alleys in bad parts of the city or on isolated roads in industrial parks or out in the country—like they showed in the movies—not in her nice upper-middle-class neighborhood. That was what she thought when she was in the safety of her own home. Now she was on the street, alone, walking to the home of a girl who had been murdered.

  Inside her hoodie pocket her phone pinged with another message. Brittany stuck her hand inside her coat and fished it out. Another message from Christina.

  I can pick u up. We should talk.

  What was there to talk about? The fact that Christina thought she was too stupid to look on Twitter to see the things her friends were saying?

  Annoyed, she turned the sound to Vibrate and tucked the phone back in the pocket of her sweater. A bolt of panic went through her as she thought Christina might already be in the neighborhood, expecting Brittany to cave in and agree to meet her somewhere or let Christina pick her up. What if Christina was at Mrs. Gray’s house, along with her father?

  Dr. Warner was engaged to Gray’s mom now, something Gray had been strongly against. She disliked Michael Warner. He had been her therapist for a while. She had probably told him all kinds of things she wouldn’t have told her mother. Having him dating her mother was like some kind of breach of patient/doctor trust. Gray and her mother had fought about it, and her mom had kicked her out of the house because of that fight. Maybe Gray had said the same vile thing about Dr. Warner to her mother that she had said to Christina that night at the Rock & Bowl.

  Brittany had met Dr. Warner on several occasions, and she had to admit she didn’t like him either. There was something vaguely creepy and phony about him. She didn’t like the way he was always touching Christina when they were together—putting his hand on her shoulder, on her back, touching her hair. Christina wasn’t bothered by it, but it made Brittany uncomfortable. She decided if there were cars in the Gray driveway, she was going to turn around and go home.

  She turned onto the block where Gray had lived and squinted against the glare of headlights coming her way. Her heart picked up a beat. The dark car seemed to crawl toward her like a panther stalking, sliding closer and closer to the curb. She thought of Christina and Aaron. Aaron’s dark car. She thought of the look on his face that morning as he ordered her to get in his car. She thought of him rushing at Kyle, fists swinging, and the way he had struck Gray that night at the Rock & Bowl . . .

  She thought about serial killers . . . and girls turned into zombies . . .

  She was all alone.

  The car came alongside her, and the passenger’s window slid down.

  Brittany’s heart was in her throat. She should have listened to Kyle and stayed home.

  “Excuse me, miss,” a middle-aged woman said. “Can you tell us how to get to the freeway?”

  Brittany was so relieved her knees went weak. She didn’t even think about the fact that these people were strangers and could have been dangerous too. The lady was her mother’s age. In the movies and on TV serial killers were all creepy-looking guys with scary eyes, not soccer moms.

  She gave the people directions and took a deep breath as they drove away. She was alone again.

  The day before, this neighborhood had been all over the news. Brittany had seen some of the coverage on television. News vans had lined the street. Cameramen and photographers and reporters had been camped outside the Gray home. Gray had been a missing person then. Now she was dead, and the news vans were gone. What happened after a person was gone was of no interest to anyone outside that person’s life.

  The neighborhood was empty now and dark there at the end of the block backing onto the darker, emptier park. A creepy feeling scratched at the back of Brittany’s neck as she walked up the driveway to Gray’s house. A part of her hoped Julia Gray wasn’t home. She wanted to turn around and just go back. She could wait and do this another time, when Kyle could go with her. But then she told herself to stop being a chicken. Lights glowed in the downstairs windows.

  Her phone vibrated inside the pocket of her hoodie. She opened her coat and dug it out and checked the screen. Kyle.

  RU there yet?

  Brittany slipped her gloves off and type
d: Just got here. Will txt you l8r. She tucked the phone away, rang the doorbell, and waited.

  44

  The girl looked at him with fear and loathing. Fitz had to give her credit for being feistier than he would have expected.

  Victims could be surprising. Sometimes the ones who fought hardest at the outset were the most pathetic in the end, begging for their lives, choking and gagging on tears and snot, peeing and shitting themselves in abject terror of death. While sometimes the meek ones rose to the occasion and defied him with more will the longer he tortured them.

  Dana Nolan was one of those. He felt a certain weird kind of pride for her. He couldn’t have chosen a better victim for taking his game to the next level.

  He struck her once more with the hammer, feeling the energy of the scream that was stifled by the gag. The sexual rush that came with that was more intoxicating than any drug.

  Still, he walked away from her. It was important to exercise discipline. It was in succumbing to the seduction of that rush where mistakes could be made. Caution would fall by the wayside. Discipline was the key to success.

  He had a schedule. He had a plan. He had to stick to it or risk failure.

  Beneath those thoughts, he was well aware that he was already taking more risk than was prudent. But with great risk would come great reward. He was tired of success in anonymity. He wanted recognition for his achievements. He couldn’t escape the fact that he had an ego. He just had to be smart enough to control it. Riding that razor’s edge was becoming almost as addictive as the rest of it.

  He walked away from his worktable to his tool bench, where he had left his beer. He took a long, refreshing drink as he checked his phone for messages. He smiled as he listened, then hit the Return Call button and listened to the phone ring on the other end.

  Why not? What the heck?

  He took another sip of his beer and walked back to the table to admire his work. His work stared back at him.

  On the other end of his call a voice answered. “Kovac.”

  “Hey, Detective Sam!” he said. “Frank Fitzgerald, returning your call. Hey, I’m sorry to hear about what’s going on. You know, I spoke to your colleague the other day. Detective Knutson. Heck of a nice guy.”

  “Yeah,” Kovac said. “We’ve got a situation going on here. We’re reaching out to everyone connected to some of these older cases.”

  “Yeah, so he said. A serial killer, you think.”

  “Looks that way. Hey, you don’t happen to be in the area, do you, Mr. Fitzgerald? We’d like to have you come in and look at some pictures of possible suspects.”

  “You know,” Fitz said. “As it happens, I am in the area. I’ve got a big indoor flea market downtown next weekend. I came up from Des Moines early to make some contacts. Let’s set something up for tomorrow. Late morning?”

  “How’s ten?”

  “Perfect. See you then.”

  “Thanks.”

  “No problem. You have a nice evening. And please say hello to Sergeant Liska for me.”

  He ended the call, a big smile cutting through his beard.

  He looked down at Dana Nolan. Her eyes were barely open, but he thought she was still conscious.

  “Appreciate this now, Dana, while you still can,” he said. “You have the privilege of being the victim of a genius.”

  • • •

  “WHO WAS THAT?” Tinks asked.

  “My killer called,” Kovac said. “He sends his regards.”

  “He can’t be the guy,” Tinks said. “If he’s the guy, he’s got a set of balls on him that would put an elephant to shame.”

  “If he’s upping his ante, this is a good way to do it,” Kovac said. “Admit to being in the area. Come in and talk to the poor dumb cops working the case. Look at the surveillance video and say Hell, yes, that’s me buying doughnuts at the Holiday station.”

  “Then he’s either a genius or delusional. Let’s hope he just got too big for his britches.”

  “Pride goeth before the fall,” Kovac said. “Let’s hope it goeth straight into custody.”

  He got off his stool and went to the coffeemaker.

  “Do you want more?” he asked, refilling his mug.

  Nikki glanced over at him. “If I drink one more cup of coffee I’m going to be shaking like I’m riding a jackhammer,” she said. “Not that that idea doesn’t have great appeal to a single woman.”

  He groaned. “Please don’t tell me about your sex life again.”

  “Lucky you, I don’t have one,” she said. “Even my battery-operated devices have broken up with me. The most exciting thing I think about these days when I see my bed is getting more than three hours’ sleep.”

  “You and me both.”

  45

  Brittany debated ringing the bell a second time. The duffel bag hung heavy on her shoulder. She could just leave it by the door. Maybe Mrs. Gray wanted to be left alone.

  Even as she tried to talk herself out of it, her finger pressed the button.

  Gray’s mom opened the door and peered out at her with red, glassy eyes in a pale, drawn face. She looked like a ghost of the woman Brittany remembered.

  Brittany swallowed the lump in her throat. “Hi, Mrs. Gray. I’m Brittany Lawler. Gray—your daughter’s friend. Remember me?”

  Gray’s mom stared at her for a moment without saying anything. Brittany wondered if maybe she was on drugs, sedatives for her nerves. Probably, and who could blame her?

  “Brittany,” she said at last. A fragile smile trembled on her mouth. “Of course I remember.”

  “I brought Gray’s bag over,” Brittany said, lifting the duffel on her shoulder. “She left it at my house.”

  “Oh.”

  “It’s just some clothes and makeup and stuff,” she said nervously. “And her computer.”

  “Her computer? Oh, well, thank you. Thank you for bringing that over.”

  “But I was wondering,” Brittany said. “Would it be okay—if I—um . . . I wanted to talk to you about Gray. Would that be all right? Is this a good time?”

  Julia looked surprised. “Of course,” she said. “Yes, that’s fine. Come in. Please.”

  Brittany had only ever been in this house a couple of times. Gray usually came to her. She had told Brittany she didn’t like to have people over because she felt like this house was her prison and her room was her cell, and she didn’t want to subject herself or anyone she cared about to the bad energy here.

  “You have a lovely home, Mrs. Gray,” Brittany said, looking around the foyer.

  “Thank you. Come in. It’s been very quiet here. I’ll appreciate your company. It’s sweet of you to come.”

  They went into a living room with a dead Christmas tree and a fireplace. An old photo of Gray sat on a side table. Her hair had been long and plain, and she looked sad and small.

  “I’m really sorry for your loss, Mrs. Gray,” Brittany said. “It’s terrible what happened.”

  Gray’s mom motioned for her to sit down. “Thank you, Brittany. It’s very kind of you to come by. I know Penny didn’t have many friends.”

  “She had a few,” Brittany offered, feeling badly for Gray.

  Julia smiled sadly. “You’re the only one I’ve heard from.”

  “I’m sorry. I guess kids just don’t know what to do, considering what happened and all.”

  “You don’t have to make excuses, Brittany. Penny didn’t make it easy for people to like her. I know that more than anyone.”

  “No, I guess she didn’t,” Brittany conceded. “But sometimes I think the people who are the hardest to get to know sometimes turn out to be the most worth knowing. I think Gray was like that.”

  Tears came to Julia Gray’s eyes as she tried to smile again. She glanced away and took a drink of something that looked like it might have alcohol in it—a pale amber liquid over ice in a heavy crystal tumbler. The glass was almost empty.

  “I don’t think I knew her very well,” she admitted. “She
was my child, but that doesn’t make it easier. That makes it harder. Are you friends with your mom, Brittany?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re lucky. Your mom is lucky,” she said. “I didn’t have that with my daughter. We didn’t get along at all. I would imagine she didn’t have many nice things to say about me.”

  Brittany didn’t say anything at all. She was a terrible liar. And what could she say that wouldn’t sound lame, anyway?

  “She probably told you about the fight we had that night before she came to stay with you,” she said, making an odd motion with her right hand, which was bound up in some kind of a brace, as if the fight she’d had with her daughter had been the cause of that. Or maybe the injury was the result of the fight.

  Brittany said nothing. Gray was always fighting with her mother, though she had never said anything about the fights being physical at all. She couldn’t even imagine getting in a physical fight with her mother or anyone else.

  “Did she tell you about that?” Julia asked.

  “Not really.”

  “She wasn’t very happy about me getting engaged to Michael,” she said. She took another sip of her drink. “She was always so jealous of anything good happening to me.”

  Brittany squirmed in her chair, physically uncomfortable with being there and hearing this. It seemed a weird thing for a mother to say about her daughter. She couldn’t imagine why Gray would have been jealous of her own mother—especially when it came to creepy Michael Warner. Gray had plainly loathed the man.

  Julia’s mouth trembled as she tried to smile. “You’re a very sweet girl, Brittany. You don’t strike me as the kind of girl who would have been friends with Penny. You’re so . . . normal. What brought you together?”

  “The writer’s workshop last summer.”

  “You’re a writer too?”

  “Not like Gray. She was really good. But you probably knew that.”

  “Penny didn’t share her writing with me.”

  “Oh. Well . . .” Brittany brightened as the idea struck her. “You’ll have all her poems now. You can watch the videos!”