Slice

by William Patterson

  EIGHTY-THREE

  Chief Walters was back at her desk, going through the pile of papers that had accumulated there, when her cell phone jingled. She saw it was her daughter calling from Philadelphia.

  “Emma!” she said happily into the phone.

  “Mom, what the hell is going on in Sayer’s Brook?” Emma’s voice sounded worried. “It’s all over the news today. Another body found . . .”

  The chief sighed. “Yes, sweetie. Bryan Pierce. Do you remember him?”

  “Yes,” Emma said. “I can’t believe it. A serial killer operating in our little town. Mom, please be careful.”

  “The FBI’s taken over,” Walters said. “We just mop up the mess from here on in.”

  “Any suspects?”

  “Well . . .” Walters wasn’t going to reveal too much. But suddenly she had a question for Emma. “Hey, sweetie, do you remember that fortune-teller we went to see before you got accepted to school?”

  “Yeah. Madame Paulette. What’s she got to do with it?”

  Walters laughed. “Madame Paulette is one of our witnesses, who claims she may have seen the killer. What do you remember about her?”

  “Well, I remember she was rather eccentric with her long gray hair and bright red lipstick. . . .”

  “Absolutely. Which is why I’m not banking on her reliability. After all, she said you wouldn’t get into your top pick of schools. . . .”

  “I didn’t, Mom.”

  The chief frowned. “Huh? Yes, you did, honey. You got into Wesleyan.”

  “Wesleyan wasn’t my top pick. I wanted to go to Emerson.”

  “No, honey, it was—”

  “You’re remembering this incorrectly, Mom. Madame Paulette was right. I didn’t get into my top pick, but that was a good thing, because Wesleyan turned out to be so much better for me than Emerson ever would have.”

  “Oh,” Walters said. “I thought Wesleyan had always been your top choice. . . .”

  “No. It just seemed that way, because I ended up liking it so much.” Emma laughed. “So maybe you ought to reconsider Madame Paulette’s reliability.”

  “Emma, honey, I have to go. I’ll call you later.”

  “Okay, Mom. Be careful!”

  Chief Walters sat at her desk staring straight ahead.

  It had been a lucky guess, she told herself about Paulette Drew’s prediction of Emma’s school. Learning that she’d remembered the incident incorrectly was hardly cause for Walters to reevaluate Drew’s position as a witness.

  But still . . .

  The FBI thought Emil Deetz was behind the killings. Paulette Drew thought it was Deetz’s ghost. Wolfie had been convinced that the killer was John Manning—with some kind of assist, knowing or not, from Jessie Clarkson.

  Walters’s gut told her the right answer might somehow be a combination of all of the above.

  EIGHTY-FOUR

  “It’s my mother’s recipe for fried chicken,” Manning was saying, as he and Caleb carried in trays of crispy wings, breasts, and drumsticks. “She was from Alabama, so it’s got all the best Southern ingredients.”

  “This is awfully sweet of you,” Jessie said.

  “I figured you all wouldn’t be up to making dinner tonight,” John said, giving Jessie a smile. “I’ve got some whipped potatoes to bring over, too.”

  “Mr. Manning is a wonderful cook,” Caleb said. “I’ve often told him if he weren’t such a successful author, he’d make a terrific chef.”

  “It smells great!” Abby chirped, as John handed her a drumstick. She began munching on it like a hungry little chipmunk.

  “Let’s eat out on the picnic table,” Jessie suggested. “It’s such a lovely afternoon. We can watch the sunset.”

  She grabbed a pitcher of lemonade and a handful of paper plates and led them all outside. Caleb ran back over to the house and brought over the potatoes, a hunk of butter melting all over them, and they began their feast.

  “Thank you so much,” Jessie said.

  John smiled over at her.

  For a few moments, she could push all thoughts of death and fear from her mind. She could forget that someone—something—was out there that wanted to hurt her. She could forget all of Aunt Paulette’s crazy suspicions.

  “I wish Aaron were here,” Abby said. “He’d like this fried chicken.”

  Jessie thought about the little boy, and wondered where he was. She worried about him, out there by himself, obviously uncared for.

  John leaned in toward Jessie. “What have you learned about him?” he asked in a soft voice.

  “That he’s a scared, lonely little boy,” Jessie told him.

  John looked at her a little quizzically.

  “We have nothing to fear from Aaron,” she said firmly.

  “Mommy,” Abby said, looking up with a face covered with grease, “can I go trick-or-treating with Aaron?”

  Halloween was now just a couple of days away. Jessie hadn’t told Abby about Bryan’s death, but she couldn’t allow her to daughter to walk through the neighborhood at night. “I tell you what,” she said. “We’ll have a Halloween party here. Aaron can come. Will you come, too, John?”

  “Sure,” he replied. “But how will you let Aaron know? Have you found a way to reach him?”

  “Oh, he’ll be here,” Abby said confidently.

  Jessie thought she was right. Aaron would know to come. They didn’t have to tell him. He would just come.

  And that thought didn’t frighten Jessie at all.

  EIGHTY-FIVE

  From his perch on a log at the entrance to the woods, Aaron watched them. The setting sun cast a red glow on his little face.

  He sat there, listening to their laughter. He could smell the food. He was hungry.

  Very hungry.

  What a happy family they seemed.

  He watched them with his dark eyes.

  EIGHTY-SIX

  The chief ’s phone rang again. It was Harry Knotts.

  “You better get back out here to Hickory Dell,” the detective told her.

  “What’s happened?”

  “We finally tracked down the Pierces’ housekeeper at her sister’s house. She told us that she’d taken Heather’s car, and that Heather was home.” He paused. “She was right.”

  “Don’t tell me,” Walters said. “You went into the house and discovered yet another murder.”

  “Three other murders,” Knotts said. “The kids were dead, too.”

  “Dear God,” Walters said. “I’ll be right there.”

  EIGHTY-SEVEN

  Gert Gorin pushed her way to the front of the crowd of people trying to get as close as they could to the Pierce house. She’d caught a glimpse of the bodies, draped with sheets, being carried out into the waiting vans. A woman beside her was crying.

  “Children!” the woman was saying through her tears. “Now that monster is killing children!”

  Gert snorted. She wasn’t going to pretend she’d ever liked those two brats. But it was pretty terrible, nonetheless.

  It was hard to see what was going on. The police and the FBI were all over the place, but they had turned off all their searchlights, and the moon wasn’t cooperating either. It was a cloudy night. It felt like rain. Gert shivered.

  “Makes you feel none of us are safe,” she said out loud, to no one in particular. “Makes you wonder which one of us is next.”

  The woman beside her only cried harder.

  “If you ask me,” Gert said, still loud enough so that everyone around her could hear, “this all started when Jessie Clarkson came back to town. I hope the FBI is looking into that strange little coincidence.”

  “That’s right,” someone in the crowd murmured, and there were other sounds of agreement from the mob.

  But not everyone was in assent. “I hardly think you can blame Jessie for any of this,” came one voice from behind Gert.

  She spun around. It was old Mr. Thayer.

  Gert sniffed. “I’m not blamin
g her. I’m merely pointing out the coincidence.”

  “That’s very unfair to Jessie,” Mr. Thayer said, his eyes stern. “She has been horrified by all of this.”

  “But you can’t dismiss the fact that all of the murders have been committed by slitting the victims’ throats.” Gert folded her arms across her chest and looked defiantly up at Mr. Thayer. “Same modus operandi of Emil Deetz.”

  Mr. Thayer just shook his head. “Not the children, apparently. Poor little Ashton and Piper died from broken necks, as I’ve heard. An accident on the stairs.”

  The crying woman hurried away, unable to bear anymore.

  “Still, I hope the FBI is questioning Jessie,” Gert said.

  “They have been harassing her to no end,” Mr. Thayer said.

  Gert suddenly felt uneasy. It was that strange sensation she sometimes got, that sixth sense that someone was watching her. Once in a while, peering through her binoculars, she’d see the person she was spying on turn and stare directly back at her. Such moments sent shivers down her spine—to be caught in the act, so to speak. Gert had a similar feeling now, as if someone was watching and listening to her accusations against Jessie.

  She looked around. There, a few feet away, standing unobtrusively among the crowd, was that strange, dark-eyed, barefoot little boy.

  He was staring at Gert.

  She shuddered.

  “I’m going home,” she said to Mr. Thayer. “And I’m going to lock all my windows and double-bolt my doors. I suggest you do the same.”

  Gert hurried off down the street into the dark shadows. She was trembling. She couldn’t understand why. But she didn’t stop trembling until she got back home and heard the reassuring sound of Arthur’s baseball game on the television set.

  “What are you doing?” her husband asked her.

  “Locking all the windows,” she told him. “There’s a killer loose. I’m not taking any chances.”

  “Good idea,” Arthur said, his eyes still on the game.

  Gert thought about taking a peek across the street at Jessie’s house with her binoculars. But she decided against it. Tonight, she was leaving well enough alone.

  EIGHTY-EIGHT

  Inside the Pierce house, as investigators dusted for fingerprints and collected evidence, Chief Walters took Patrick Castile aside.

  “Look,” she said. “I’ve put my entire force on the lookout for Emil Deetz. If he’s out there, we’ll find him.”

  Castile raised an eyebrow in her direction. “Changed your mind on the likelihood of Deetz being our man, have you, Chief?” he asked.

  “I’m open to the possibility,” she said.

  Castile’s arrogance really ticked Walters off. He was a kid. When Walters had started out as a rookie cop, Castile was probably still in nursery school.

  “And if I’m willing to keep an open mind,” she said, “I’m here to ask you to keep yours open as well.”

  “Oh, really? What should I be considering, Chief Walters?”

  “John Manning.”

  Castile sighed, and began to say something, but the chief cut him off.

  “I’m not saying he’s the killer. Maybe he is, maybe he’s not. I’m just saying there are questions that just won’t go away and that he’s never really given us satisfactory answers. You were aware that he and Heather Pierce were having an affair?”

  Castile looked at her, but made no reply.

  “Manning broke off the affair. Heather made some scenes. She was harassing him. And she was convinced he’d killed her husband.”

  Castile still said nothing.

  “It just strikes me as worth investigating why every murder has had some connection to Manning.”

  “I’d hardly say there was a connection between Theresa Whitman and Manning.”

  “Not that we know of.”

  “Please, Chief . . .”

  “Look, Castile, Manning was the last one to see Pierce alive, after beating him up. And the victim whose corpse you just carried out of here on a stretcher sat in my office not long ago and told me she was afraid of him. Come on. This is basic police work. You’ve got to find out where Manning is involved in all of this.”

  “Look,” Castile said, moving close to Walters so he could speak softly and she could hear. “I’ve already told you. We are well aware of John Manning. Leave him to us.” His face hardened. “In fact, Chief, I’d say your further involvement in this case is no longer needed. We appreciate all that you and your department have done, but we’ll take it from here.”

  Walters was aghast. “You can’t tell me not to be involved when a serial killer is roaming my town.”

  “I can,” he said. “And I am.”

  He walked away from her.

  Chief Walters seethed.

  EIGHTY-NINE

  Jessie was testing the security alarm system. She’d done so several times already this morning. She would set the alarm and then head outside, locking the new front door—a solid, heavy piece of oak and aluminum. Then she’d take a screwdriver and jimmy the lock—or attempt to open a window—or have Abby walk around inside the house. Each time the alarm sounded, much to Jessie’s satisfaction. She’d then hurry back inside and turn the alarm off before the security system notified the police.

  “Everything okay up here?”

  Jessie looked around. Monica was walking up the hill.

  “I keep hearing the alarm going off,” she said.

  “I’m testing it,” Jessie told her.

  “Good idea,” her sister agreed. “Can’t be too safe. The news about Heather and the kids really freaked me out. I’m thinking of staying at a hotel for a while. Do you and Abby want to come?”

  “I’m not running away,” Jessie said, checking the window locks for probably the twentieth time. “I’m through with that.”

  There was a heavy silence between the sisters.

  “Look, Jessie, I’m sorry about the other day.”

  Jessie looked over at her.

  “Really, I am,” Monica continued. “And I hope you’ll accept my apology.”

  “The apology I’m waiting for, Monica, is for the lie you told to me and to Todd all those years ago.”

  “Jesus Christ, Jessie. Why won’t you believe me that I was really pregnant?” Monica’s face twisted in resentment. “You should be angry at Todd for seducing me that night.”

  “He didn’t seduce you,” Jessie said plainly.

  Monica smirked. “Oh? Is that what he’s told you? Has he been up here to plead his case? He comes to see you but not me.”

  “No, Todd hasn’t been here. I haven’t spoken to him. But I know he didn’t seduce you. I know that he was in love with me. Whatever happened that night was your doing.”

  “What happened that night was that he got me pregnant.. . .”

  “Bullshit, Monica. You were never pregnant.” Jessie laughed derisively. “I’m amazed at how tenaciously you’re clinging to that lie.”

  “I’m not lying!”

  “You are, Monica! And I guess I understand. It’s all you have. Without it, your whole marriage crumbles. Your whole existence crumbles! That’s why you want me to corroborate your lie. But I won’t do it.”

  Monica’s face was bright red. “All I know is that Todd has left me, thanks to you!”

  Jessie turned to check the motion detector on the front-porch light. “I hope we can be friends someday, Monica. I really do. But until you can acknowledge what you did, I don’t see that happening.”

  “You’ll be sorry, Jessie! You’ll be sorry for breaking up my marriage!”

  She turned and stormed back down the hill toward her house.

  Jessie sighed. She sat down on the porch steps and put her face in her hands.

  Within seconds she felt a light touch on her shoulder. She removed her hands from her face and looked up. Standing beside her, his small hand resting on her shoulder, was Aaron.

  “Hello, Aaron,” Jessie said, smiling.

  “Are you
okay?” he asked.

  “Oh, I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me.”

  “I don’t like seeing you so sad,” Aaron told her.

  Jessie smiled and wrapped one arm around the boy’s waist, pulling him in toward her. “You’re a sweet boy, you know that?”

  “I like it when you smile,” Aaron said.

  “Then I’ll try to smile more,” Jessie replied.

  The boy sat beside her on the step. “Where’s Abby?”

  “She went with her Aunt Paulette for ice cream. She helped me all morning and that was her reward.”

  “Well, I can help you now.”

  Jessie tousled his hair. “I’m pretty much finished. I was just testing the security system.”

  “Is that because you’re frightened?”

  “Well,” Jessie said, careful not to worry the child, “I’m just taking precautions. You know that some very bad things have happened in this neighborhood, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “I want you to be careful, Aaron. You shouldn’t be walking through the woods alone anymore. When you want to come visit, I want you to call me, and I’ll come pick you up.”

  “So you are frightened then.”

  Jessie sighed. “Well, sometimes I am. But I’m not going to let fear overpower me. That’s happened in the past. I won’t let that happen again.”

  “Who are you frightened of?” Aaron wanted to know.

  Jessie looked at him. His dark eyes shone out at her. Yes, she could see Emil in the boy’s features. Aunt Paulette was right.

  “I don’t know,” Jessie said honestly, in a very soft voice.

  “Are you frightened of Mr. Manning?”

  “Oh, no. Mr. Manning is a good man, Aaron.”

  The boy was shaking his head firmly. “He’s a very bad man.”

  Jessie frowned, taking one of the boy’s hands in hers. “He’s not, Aaron. Once you get to know him, you’ll like him.”

  Aaron said nothing, just dropped his eyes to the ground.