Aberration

by Lisa Regan

  I wanted to touch him, but I didn’t. “It was like that when Lexie died,” I said. “Probably not as bad though.”

  A moment slipped past. Isaac said, “Then you know.”

  “Know what?”

  “That you never really get over it, get past it. You never stop missing them or stop wanting them back. You just get used to this strange new reality without them in it.”

  I smiled even though he couldn’t see it. “It takes a long time,” I said.

  “That it does.”

  I changed the subject abruptly, and Isaac followed without missing a beat. “They’re not going to let me help—look for Foster, look for Dale, solve this case.”

  “No, but they’ll catch Foster.” He said this with absolute certainty.

  “What do I do?”

  Isaac sighed. “Go home. Take your parents with you. Go to the ultrasound on Monday.” Finally, he looked at me. He smiled a little. “Get ready for your baby.”

  We sat peacefully for another few minutes, tensing only when we heard my father cough and his footsteps in the kitchen. The scent of gasoline wafted through the house. Even after two showers, it still clung to him. The light from the kitchen stretched down the hall and leaked into the room. We weren’t doing anything. We weren’t even talking, but I suddenly felt like I was sixteen and about to get caught with a boy in my room. Neither one of us moved. We listened to my father shuffle around in the kitchen. Open the fridge, a cupboard. Pour something. Turn the faucet on and off. After about fifteen minutes, the light went out, and we heard him trudge back up the stairs. We laughed softly. I felt very tired all of a sudden, like I could sleep for a week. The baby turned over. I had to pee.

  “I’m going to bed,” I said.

  Isaac nodded. Then he reached over and squeezed my knee lightly. “See you in a few hours.”

  The next morning, we packed up and left for Woodbridge. Blake Foster had disappeared in spite of a statewide manhunt and the composite sketch being widely circulated. There was nothing I or my father could do—I had been pulled from the case, and my father was retired. Although we hated not being in the thick of things, we had no choice but to remain on the sidelines and hope that our colleagues could find Foster.

  My parents had decided they would stay with me indefinitely. I didn’t protest. I was relieved. I drove my mother and the dogs in my Trailblazer. My dad followed with Isaac in my mother’s Hyundai. I insisted on driving. It gave me something to do. I was trying to keep my mind off Dale—wondering where we would find his body and feeling guilty for having brought a killer into his life.

  I called TK from the car. He had nothing new to report except that Wyatt Anderton had flown back and forth from Denver during the week of Georgette Paul’s murder. He’d flown out of Newark the day of Boyd Henderson’s murder. He’d also taken a 10 a.m. flight out of Dulles to Portland the day of Megan Wilkins’ murder. He had rented a blue Honda Civic the day of Wilkins’ murder and returned it a week later in perfect condition. They’d check car rental facilities in all the cities where murders had taken place, but that would take a lot longer. Anderton seemed to always leave from D.C.

  “That makes sense,” I said. “If he’s stalking me, he’s probably been nearby all along.”

  TK promised again to call me with any news. We arrived at Quantico at noon. My father followed me into the parking garage where Isaac’s car was and let him out. Isaac came up to my window and said goodbye to my mother. Then he reached in and patted my belly. “Good luck,” he said.

  When he was gone my mother said, “I like him.”

  I shot her a stern look. “Do not start.”

  She feigned innocence. “What? I’m just saying I like him.”

  “Mom.”

  She smiled—a devilish smile. “He’s very cute.”

  “Mom!”

  “Oh, honey,” she sighed.

  “I’m trying to have a baby here. Can we not talk about this?”

  “Okay,” she agreed in a tone that silently added: but we’ll come back to it.

  I resisted the urge to stop at the office. I didn’t want to go home, although having my parents there would help. As soon as we arrived at my house, my father set about changing the locks on all my doors. Then he went to work in the nursery putting another coat of primer on the walls. I couldn’t sleep that night. I spent the night pacing back and forth from my kitchen to my living room, peeking out the windows at Dale’s empty house.

  My mother caught me at 3 a.m. “Honey, you have to get some rest,” she said.

  “I can’t get comfortable, Mom.”

  “Just sit.”

  I sat next to her and she picked my feet up from the floor. I moaned in pleasure as she began kneading the soles of my swollen feet.

  “Tomorrow, after Linnea gets here, we’ll go shopping,” she said. “We won’t know the sex of the baby till Monday, but tomorrow we can get the crib and all kinds of other things for your father to put together. Then on Monday after the ultrasound we’ll go pick out colors so your father can start painting the room…”

  I closed my eyes and floated along on the sound of her voice. I tried to clear my mind—forget about Dale being missing, about Blake Foster stalking me, about Jory being dead, about the fact that we had come so close to catching him and he’d gotten away. I tried only to think about my baby. She deserved my attention. I stroked my belly absently as my mother massaged my feet. The baby thumped back a few times. Impulsively, I reached over and grabbed one of my mother’s hands. I put it on my stomach.

  “Do you feel that?” I asked.

  From the corner of my eye, I saw a tear slide down her cheek. “Yeah,” she said. “I do.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  WYATT

  November 29th

  Blake trailed Kassidy, her parents, and Linnea from her home to the hospital. He stayed as far back as he could. He had no idea just how actively the FBI and local police were looking for him. No one would recognize him, but the Bishops would be wary of any vehicle that seemed to be following them. The Camry made a rattling noise as he drove over the speed bumps in the parking lot. He stayed one car behind entering the parking lot and paused outside the emergency room entrance. He waited to see where Kassidy parked and then he found a spot a few rows over from hers and Linnea’s car. He left his vehicle running as he watched them walk into the hospital together. It had to be the sonogram. He had found out via emails between Kassidy and Linnea. He left the Camry running. The heater whirred noisily even though barely any heat flowed through the ventilation system. He turned the temperature indicator all the way into the red, but the car began to emit a strange smell so he turned the heat off altogether. What could he expect for only $3,000.00?

  After leaving Sunderlin, he had burned the MKX and traveled on foot almost ten miles until he found a rental place. Lucky for Blake, a young guy had been working that day and hadn’t asked any questions, despite the stink of gasoline all over Blake’s clothes. In fact, the kid had been too busy texting on his cell phone to even take a good look at Blake before renting him a car. Blake had his backup identification with him—the same alias he’d used to fly to New York to see Dusty.

  As George Harbison, he’d rented a car and driven back to Virginia. As George Harbison he’d rented a room at a very questionable motel outside of Manassas and tried to come up with a plan. He had cash accounts and credit cards in George Harbison’s name. For $3,000 cash, he bought the Camry at some Mom and Pop dealership, the kind run by a guy named Jimmy out of the front yard of his trailer. It was very old, but it would do. He had driven past her house twice the day before. Long enough to see the FBI agents stationed outside, across the street, and to notice the Prince William County police drive by once. He had despaired of ever catching her alone, but then he remembered the sonogram appointment. Surely,
she would still keep it. She would be away from her home—he might have a chance at approaching her. He might even have a chance to take her.

  He waited almost two hours. He was shivering and dozing on and off, wishing he had picked up some coffee when Kassidy, her parents and Linnea emerged from the hospital, looking jubilant. Mrs. Bishop clutched what looked like the sonogram pictures to her chest. She wiped tears from her eyes even as she smiled broadly at her daughter. Even Cameron Bishop was uncharacteristically flushed. Blake could see him trying to maintain his usual stoic demeanor. His brow creased and then relaxed—wrinkling, then smoothing out. The corners of his mouth twitched, as if he was trying to suppress a smile, but he couldn’t. He beamed.

  Blake rolled the window down, trying to hear what they were saying. Linnea’s voice floated across the tops of the cars between them. “Well, that was very exciting,” she said. She slung an arm across Kassidy’s shoulders and gave her a squeeze.

  Kassidy smiled and tried to take the ultrasound pictures from her mother, but Mrs. Bishop would not allow it. “Not yet,” she said. “I just want to hang on to them a little longer.”

  Kassidy laughed. “Mom!”

  He felt a stab, a sharp pain in his gut. It was the first time in years he had seen her face all aglow. He wanted her to smile that way for him and only him.

  They stood between the vehicles—Kassidy’s Trailblazer and Linnea’s vehicle. “I’m going to ride with Linnea,” Kassidy said, tossing a set of keys to her father.

  He caught them expertly in one hand. “We’ll meet you two at the restaurant?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” Kassidy said. “You guys know how to get there?”

  “Your mother does,” he assured her.

  Blake watched her and Linnea climb into Linnea’s Impala and drive off. His heart sped up. Tiny beads of sweat popped out along his upper lip, in spite of the chill inside the car. Finally, he would have a chance at her. He backed out of his spot and drove parallel to them, turning at the end of the row of cars and pulling out behind them. He hung back as they turned out of the parking lot.

  They passed through a light as it turned yellow. He sped up, the Camry making a strange gurgling sound as he tried to keep up with Linnea’s Impala. A blue blur flashed in his periphery, and then the whole car rocked. Metal screeched against metal. Glass broke. Dazed, Blake looked at the passenger’s side of the car. It was all crinkled. The grill of a large pick-up truck was visible through the shattered windows. He looked back toward the road, watching the Impala recede into the distance.

  Then he was in the parking lot of a mini-mart. It was like waking up. He blinked and looked around. He was in the cab of a truck. The smell of motor oil clung to the inside of it. His pale hands gripped the worn steering wheel. He looked out at the hood of the truck. It was blue with a small bump in it. He looked to the right where two cars sat parked at the front of the mini-market. One of them was Linnea’s Impala.

  Then he was gone again.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  KASSIDY

  November 29th

  “How awesome was that?” Linnea asked as we drove to meet my parents for lunch.

  I grinned. “It was beyond awesome. I can’t believe that little person is inside me,” I said.

  Linnea laughed. “It’s definitely weird. I don’t think you’re getting those ultrasound pictures back from your mom. She’s so excited.”

  “I know,” I said. I put my hands over my belly. “I’m getting pretty excited myself.”

  The yellow and blue sign of a mini-market ahead caught my eye. I poked Linnea’s shoulder and pointed. “Pull in here,” I said. “I need candy.”

  She raised one eyebrow and shook her head slowly. “Are you kidding me? We are on our way to lunch.”

  “They’re not going to have Twizzlers at the restaurant. Come on, it will only take a minute.”

  “Good Lord,” she muttered in feigned annoyance as she parked the car. She grinned at me as we made our way inside.

  There were only two other people inside including the cashier. Linnea stood near a bank of newspapers and magazines at the end of the candy aisle, perusing headlines while I searched for Twizzlers and any other candy that called to me.

  A woman screamed. Then a man’s voice. “Hey, you can’t—”

  A gunshot exploded inside the tiny building. Linnea threw herself across my back, pushing me down to the floor and pulling her Glock. We looked toward the front of the store just as the shooter turned the corner to the candy aisle.

  Dale Hunter walked toward us, his hair dyed blonde and shaved close to his head, a Smith & Wesson 22A at his side. He swaggered a little and smiled as if he’d just walked into a party thrown in his honor. He wasn’t wearing his glasses. He looked like Dale but not like Dale. There was something different about him—his carriage, the way he was dressed, the confidence in his voice.

  I said, “Dale?”

  Linnea’s hand was still on my back. I felt a slight tremor. “What’s going on?” she said. She didn’t lower her weapon.

  “The jig is up,” he said. “Not Dale anymore.” He was still smiling that megawatt, toothy smile. It was Dale, but it was definitely not my Dale.

  He waved the Smith and Wesson. “Linnea,” he said with a menacing edge to his voice. “Get out of my way.”

  “What?” Linnea and I said at the same time.

  I felt like I had just fallen into an alternate universe. Nothing was right. Things in my brain were coming together, but I wasn’t quite there yet.

  “I’ve come to get her, to take her with me, so put down your gun and get out of my way.”

  Linnea put it together before I did. Dale must have seen it in her face. What happened next took only seconds. Linnea reached up with her other hand to rack a round into the Glock’s chamber, but Dale fired the Smith and Wesson before she could shoot. A scream tore from my throat as Linnea flew backwards. Blood blossomed over her left shoulder. Her Glock clattered to the floor a few feet from us. She lay on her back, her eyes wide with shock. I scrambled over to her, but she was already trying to get back up. I reached for my own gun which was in my shoulder holster, beneath my coat but Dale was on me, clamping his hand around my upper arm and dragging me away from Linnea.

  He kicked Linnea’s Glock down the aisle, out of her reach. It slid beneath the display of newspapers and magazines. Dale released my upper arm and grabbed a handful of my hair. “Take your gun out and throw it on the floor,” he instructed.

  I hesitated, trying to think of a way out of this that didn’t involve anyone else getting shot—or Linnea getting shot again. Her face had gone gray. She was frozen on her hands and knees, staring at us.

  Dale yanked my head back again, eliciting a startled cry. “Don’t make me shoot her again,” he said.

  My whole body felt light and unreal, weightless. When I pulled my Glock out, my hand shook. Releasing my hair, Dale wrenched it from my hand and tossed it onto the floor. He wrapped an arm around my throat and held the Smith and Wesson to my stomach. Slowly, he pulled me backwards with him. I could barely breathe. Inside my body the baby was frantic.

  “It’s time to go,” he said.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  KASSIDY

  November 29th

  Dale who was not Dale dragged me outside, past a woman who lay bleeding from her abdomen at the front of the store. I didn’t see the man who had been in the store but hoped he had escaped and called 911. An old blue Ford pickup was parked at the edge of the parking lot, its engine running. I tried pulling away, but Dale held me tightly. The barrel of the gun pressed into my stomach. My breath caught in my throat.

  Please don’t take my baby. The words played again and again in my head. My prayer to whoever or whatever was listening.

  “Dale,” I said.

 
“You don’t have to call me that anymore.”

  “What the hell are you doing? Why are you doing this?”

  He pulled me along, urging me toward the truck. I felt his hands twitch, the gun knocking against my stomach. I chanced a look up at his face and saw his eyelids fluttering. For a moment, I wondered if he was having some kind of seizure, but then he glanced back down at me. His face paled.

  “Dale,” I repeated. “Stop. Let me go. Just let me go.”

  “I can’t,” he croaked.

  He looked all around us and continued to herd me toward the truck. As we got further from the mini-market, a sob rose in my throat. “Linnea,” I cried.

  “Linnea?” Dale said, meeting my gaze. His eyebrows drew together, puzzlement washing over his face. Quickly, he shook his head. It seemed like he was making a conscious effort to harden his expression. “Linnea wasn’t going to let me take you,” He said stiffly, craning his neck to look behind us.

  I turned my body slightly and stared into his face. The pieces of the puzzle tumbled into place. How had I not seen it before?

  “Blake?” I said.

  Even as I said it, as I thought it, my mind built walls up against it. It simply could not be. This person I had lived next to for four years, this person I had trusted, let into my home, eaten with, laughed with, even spent holidays with—he simply could not be a killer. It just could not be.