Killer Within

by S. E. Green

  I hope not pathetic.

  The bell rings, we all clear out, and I go through the rest of my day. Dark blue BMW. A1B. Reggie could narrow that down for me. But then I’d have to come up with a reason why. I’m being followed would freak her out, and the perfect lie is just not coming to me right now.

  I’ll have to think on it.

  When we get home, Gramps has arrived sometime during the day and is already settled in. Daisy and Justin launch themselves at him while Victor watches, laughing. After they all disengage, Gramps turns to me for the obligatory welcome hug. I step up, give it to him, and let go of him just as quickly as he does me.

  Just once I’d like him to be as excited to see me as he is my siblings. But that never has happened nor will it probably ever.

  We sit through an early dinner of the Daisy and Justin Show while Gramps laughs and talks. I don’t say anything. If I do, it’ll just earn a grunt from him. I volunteer to clean, mainly because I need something to do.

  Victor comes up beside me in the kitchen. “I finally cleared out your mom’s personal things from her locker. I’m bringing the box home tomorrow. I want all of us to go through and decide what we do and don’t want to keep. Plan on that. Okay? Next I want to do the whole house.”

  I nod. “Absolutely.”

  “Dr. Depof recommended it,” he rationalizes, like he thinks it might bother me.

  It doesn’t.

  I’ve already combed through her stuff here, but I definitely want to see what she kept in her office. She was certainly sneaky enough to hide something right within the walls of the FBI, knowing no one would think to look there. Frankly, she would have gotten off on it.

  Gramps settles down in front of the TV, simultaneously reading the newspaper, and sometime later says, “Who is this Masked Savior person?”

  I bring my head up from the pot I’m scrubbing to see him staring at the TV. The reporter is going on about the local task force, the vigilante acts, if anyone has any information, and on and on.

  “Huh,” Gramps grunts. “Seems to me this guy is doing everyone a favor around here.”

  What do you know, maybe ol’ Gramps and I have found common ground.

  The reporter ends with “. . . and although the chief hasn’t specified, an inside source confirms there has been a big break in the case as to the true identity of the Masked Savior.”

  Big break? Well, damn, what the hell would that be? Clearly, they must not think the Masked Savior and Aisha are one and the same and already behind bars. So what am I missing?

  Chapter Seventeen

  I WORK MY PATCH AND Paw shift, and unfortunately “I’m” all anyone can talk about. Masked Savior this and Masked Savior that. It’s annoying. When Dr. Issa starts in, I give up, grab Corn Chip, and go outside.

  “You okay?” Dr. Issa asks some thirty minutes later.

  No, I’m not okay. I’ve created a monster of a problem with this copycat of mine, and I have no clue how to make it go away.

  On top of that there’s supposedly a “big break” as to my identity.

  Worst-case scenario: The cops somehow know it’s me. I just don’t see how that’s possible, though. I’m always so careful. Plus, they would’ve arrested me by now.

  Best-case scenario: They’ll find my copycat, the Masked Savior website will go away, and I can resume my life.

  “Lane, you okay?” Dr. Issa repeats.

  I nod. “Just thinking about this Savior character. What’s your take on it?”

  “Good versus evil versus ridiculous.”

  I turn from Corn Chip to look at him. “Interesting analysis.”

  “That teen prostitute,” he elaborates, “sure she made some bad choices, but did she deserve to be beaten? No. That’s the evil side of this guy.”

  I agree.

  “Then there’s that rapist and that guy who tortured ­animals—that’s the good side of this guy. They deserved what they got.”

  I agree. The Weasel and Marco, both done before Mom died. “And the ridiculous?”

  “Shaving that girl’s head. Ridiculous. Seemingly juvenile, if you ask me, and beneath our guy’s abilities.”

  Again, agree. Something I did after Mom.

  “Either our hero is confused with his game plan, or he has a split personality.”

  The side door opens, and the receptionist sticks her head out. “Lane, there’s a guy here to see you.”

  That’s odd. “Okay.” I toss the ball back to Corn Chip, don’t look at Dr. Issa, and head straight out to the parking lot to find Tommy standing next to his bike holding his helmet. My stomach muscles twitch.

  He doesn’t smile. “Hey.”

  “How did you know I work here?”

  “I ride by here a lot on my way to school. I caught sight of your Jeep and decided to stop.”

  I wait for whatever it is he wants.

  “I’m sorry about the other night. I get crazy sometimes. Ever since my sister died, I’ve been lost, looking for something, anything to make me feel again. Sometimes I find it, but then it’s gone. I know what I did was stupid. Hell, I knew it as I was doing it, but I can’t seem to stop. The adrenaline. The pumping blood. At least it makes me feel alive. If even for a few seconds.” He lays his hand over his heart and rubs it. “There’s this huge emptiness in me and I want to fill it, but I don’t know how.” He stops, takes a breath. “Anyway, there it is. That’s got to be the most I’ve said to anyone in a very long time.”

  I don’t immediately respond to his words that make too much sense. I take in his wind-messed blond hair and honest, yet lost and confused eyes. And then I decide to be just as honest. “For me it’s darkness. It’s an itch I need desperately scratched. It’s a craving that once satisfied keeps coming back.”

  He nods, and I find myself perplexed by the fact I just told him all that. Yet it feels so good that I did.

  “Maybe you and I need to try some adrenaline sports,” he suggests. “Bungee. Parachuting. Shark diving.”

  Actually, that doesn’t sound like too bad of an idea. “I went to church,” I tell him, as long as we’re sharing. “Found some clarity.”

  “Church.” He mulls that around. “Haven’t tried that yet.”

  “Maybe we’ll go sometime.”

  “Yeah, maybe.” Tommy takes a tentative step toward me. “So can we try again? At being healing friends?”

  Healing friends. I kind of like that choice of words.

  “Yes,” I say, even though I know deep down I’ll never heal. I’ll always be who I am.

  Tommy gives me a hug that at first starts out awkward and slowly turns into being okay. He smells like leather. Zach always smells like boy-scented body wash. Why am I comparing their smells?

  Tommy brushes a kiss across my cheek and steps back.

  My insides do the fluttery girlie thing, and I frown. Fluttery girlie thing? That’s not me. But I liked that kiss. He has whiskers, and they feel good. Real good.

  Then why am I frowning? If I like something, shouldn’t I be smiling? Yes, but I don’t want to be fluttery and girlie. I want to be focused.

  He doesn’t look at me as he rumbles off on his bike. After he’s gone, I turn to head back into Patch and Paw and catch Dr. Issa still standing in the side yard, watching us through the fence.

  He quickly turns away, trying to make it look like he wasn’t staring, and I find this oddly amusing. So Dr. Issa is snooping about me and biker guy. Isn’t that something?

  When I get home, Daisy and Hammond are sitting on our front steps, holding hands and talking. He sees me getting out of my Jeep, gives Daisy a good-bye kiss on the cheek, sends me a wave, and walks off.

  Daisy sits there, watching him, and when I finally reach her, she glances up. “I’ve got it bad.”

  This is where I normally brush her off, but with us being
more sisterly now, I take a seat. “Yeah?”

  Her face curves into a dreamy smile. “Yeah,” she chuckles. “He doesn’t believe in sex before marriage. He doesn’t drink or do drugs. I mean, where’d this guy come from, right?”

  “That sounds great.” So different from what she’s ever done before.

  She looks at me, like she’s completely perplexed with her own self. “Yeah, it really does.”

  We share a smile, and the front door opens. Victor takes a second to look between us, like he can’t believe his daughters are having a “moment.”

  “Ready for our help?” Daisy asks, then turns to me. “We’re clearing out some of Mom’s stuff for storage.”

  “Yeah, Dad told me.” I can’t wait.

  He tosses me a key. “That’s to our file cabinet. The whole bottom drawer is full of stuff she threw in there. Just put it all in the box I brought from work and leave it in the office. I’m going to go through it tonight.”

  I already picked the lock on the filing cabinet. I know what’s in there. Nothing really.

  He turns to Daisy. “You hit the bathroom and clear out all her makeup and products. Both you girls go through her jewelry and clothes and see if you want anything. I’ll be in the basement with Gramps.” With that he walks off.

  Daisy looks at me. “This is morbid.”

  “I know.” I give her an understanding smile. “But it has to be done. Why don’t you wait for me, and I’ll help you do their bedroom.”

  “It’s okay,” she reassures me. “I’ll get started.”

  “Hey.” I stop her as she’s getting up. Three months ago she would’ve never been this mature. I’m proud of her. “I like being your sister,” I tell her.

  Playfully she rolls her eyes. “Don’t go getting all mushy on me, Lane.”

  I laugh with her and we head inside. I go straight to the office and look around. In the corner of the room sits a box I assume is the one Victor brought home from work. I lift the lid.

  Inside are things you’d find on a person’s desk. Stapler. Hole punch. Family picture. Along the side are several files. I glance at their tabs: TRANSCRIPTS, INSURANCE, PERSONAL.

  I thumb through the transcripts and insurance ones, don’t see anything of interest, and then slide the personal one out. I give the hallway a quick glance, see it empty, and open the file.

  Right on top sits a stack of old report cards with straight As. Not surprising.

  Next are a bunch of drawings, and according to the initials and date in the corner, Mom did them when she was a teenager. Drawings of people I assume must have been her high school friends. I never knew she got into artsy stuff. One catches my eye and I slip it out.

  It’s of a dark-haired girl, and something about her seems very familiar. I study it for a second, thinking, and then it occurs to me . . . the two pictures Victor gave me of Seth and Mom. There was a dark-haired woman, and, yes, her hair, her eyes, her long face—they’re one and the same. The drawing’s just a younger version of her.

  Whoever she is, my mom knew her when they were teenagers.

  I keep that drawing out and continue going through the rest of the file. There are newspaper clippings announcing her achievements throughout the years: childhood, teenage, and older. Clippings of her making the honor roll or later with her FBI cases.

  I riffle through the rest, and at the very back of the file, taped to the inside, is a small yellow envelope. I peel it off, open the flap, and shake the contents into my palm.

  A key. With no tag. The numbers 963 are engraved on the square head.

  I hold the key up and study it. It doesn’t look like any of the keys to this house. Or to any of the filing cabinets in here. Maybe it’s to something at FBI headquarters.

  Or perhaps 4 Buchold Place. Or that house in Maryland where she held Zach.

  I rotate the key, giving it a good solid study. But the more I stare at it, the more I convince myself whatever it unlocks is not going to be good.

  Victor and Gramps come up from the basement, and I quickly fold the drawing and slide it and the key into my pocket. I go back to what I’m supposed to be doing and unload the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet. I wedge the lid on the box and set it on the desk for Victor to go through tonight like he said.

  When I come out of the office, Victor and Gramps are talking in the kitchen. I give them both a little smile and head straight up to the master bedroom to find Daisy sitting on their bed, staring at a card.

  “What’s that?” I ask.

  “An old birthday card of mine I found in Mom’s stuff.”

  I sit down beside her. “You okay?”

  “Actually, I just had this really strange memory.” She waves the card in the air. “It happened on my eighth birthday.”

  “What’s the memory?”

  “Mom and Dad were arguing. Here in their bedroom. The door was closed. I stopped to listen. Probably because I never really heard them go at it before.”

  “What were they arguing about?”

  Daisy’s brows come together. “Marji, I think. Do you know that name?”

  Chapter Eighteen

  I ASSURED DAISY SHE WAS probably mis­remembering, and she reluctantly dropped the whole thing. Marji. The woman from Richmond. When we got that card in the mail, Victor said he didn’t know a Marji. Either he’s lying or he didn’t remember.

  Whichever it is, I’m going to find out. Mom did nothing but lie to me. I’m not going to get caught up in that with Victor. When the time is right, I’ll ask him.

  I put that aside for now and focus on the mystery key. I scan it and spend an hour researching what it might go to. But I get nothing. Then I do some searches combining Marji’s name and my mom’s and then Marji and Richmond. But likely ­Marji’s short for something, and I don’t know her last name, so I ­basically get nowhere on that as well. Also I type blue BMW with partial plate A1B, and nothing comes back. Not that I thought it would. Maybe I should go into law enforcement, or computers, like Reggie. It’d sure make things easier on my end.

  As I go to sleep, my thoughts switch to this “big break” the news reported, and I wonder if Catalina’s task-force father has shared this information with Victor. Then I begin to think of Catalina and how I might be able to use her to my advantage.

  The next morning I go downstairs to see Victor frying bacon, slow and on low heat like Mom used to do. His expression seems distant, and I imagine he’s remembering her too.

  “You don’t have to do that just because Mom did,” I softly tell him.

  He glances up, and although he’s masking it, I see the sorrow deep in his eyes. “It’s important to keep ritual going.”

  No, it’s not, I want to say, but nod my head. I double-check the living room to make sure we’re alone and then tell him about Daisy’s memory and more importantly Marji. “We got a condolence card from a Marji.” I’m careful not to accuse him of lying. “Could they be one and the same?”

  He doesn’t look at me and instead just stares at the bacon, and I get the impression he’s trying to figure out how much to tell me. “Yes. I’m sorry I wasn’t honest with the facts. She’s a longtime friend of your mom’s. I . . .” He glances over at me. “Let’s just put it this way. I respected your mom’s relationship with her because they were childhood friends. But I didn’t care for her. I didn’t want her around the house or you kids.”

  Whoa. Okay.

  “Let’s just leave it there,” he tells me. “All right?”

  I nod, he goes back to the bacon, and my brain whirls with what he just said. Mom had a childhood friend, Marji, who lives in Richmond, and Victor didn’t like her. I want to ask him why but know he won’t say any more.

  “Mind helping?” he asks. “Mix the pancake batter for me?”

  “Sure.” I go about getting out the bowl, ingredients, and whisk, and
my brain tracks back to those two pictures he gave me. One had a dark-haired woman in it. I bet that’s Marji. But if he didn’t like her, why give me that picture? I know he wants to drop the subject, but I ask anyway.

  He lets out a patient breath. “Yes, the third person is Marji. I wanted you to have pictures of your real father and mom. That’s all. I honestly didn’t think the subject of Marji would ever come up in this household. Other than that condolence card, we haven’t heard from her in years.”

  “Okay.” I accept it and drop the subject. I can tell he’s getting irritated. He would get even more irritated if he found out Marji sent me a card as well.

  A few quiet minutes go by filled only by the sizzling of bacon and the soft voices of the news filtering in from the ­living room. I scoot in beside Victor, pour pancake mix on the flat griddle, and watch it slowly bubble. He slides the cooked bacon out and lays new pieces down.

  “Your army friend with the daughter,” I start. “Catalina?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Where does she go to school?”

  “Homeschooled. Why?”

  I’d preplanned my response and answer easily, “She and I hit it off a little, and I thought I might see if she wants to hang out.”

  And I thought I might use her for information.

  This surprises Victor in a hooray-my-daughter’s-normal way. “Wow, um, okay.”

  I hate that I’ve made him happy with a lie.

  “I’ll give you their number, and you can take things from there.”

  “Thanks.” That’s all we say about Catalina and my upcoming planned snooping of her dad.

  After breakfast I dial her number. “This is Lane, we met the other day.”

  “Yeah, hey,” she responds, as if she’d been expecting my call.

  I find this oddly comforting. “Thought we might hang out sometime.” I like to get right to the point.

  “Okay. My place or yours?”