The First Victim

by JB Lynn

  She hadn’t been safe anywhere, except at The Garden Gate. That had been the only place she’d ever felt secure. Ginny’s friendship had never wavered and her dad had always looked out for Emily. He’d been the one who had told her that if she went away to college she could reinvent herself and start over. He’d been right. She’d taken his advice and made a life for herself.

  But now, standing here, gripping this piece of paper, she felt just like that terrified adolescent. She was afraid of an unseen monster who was just waiting in the shadows to jump out at her.

  Laurie rapped on the inside of the windshield, startling her. Raising her hands, the girl seemed to be asking, “What’s going on?”

  Emily did her best to muster a reassuring smile, though she was pretty sure it came across as more of a grimace. For a moment she considered calling Bailey and telling him about these strange notes that were freaking her out, but then she remembered that the man was getting ready to bury his father. She couldn’t in good conscious bother him with this. Not yet. If it continued though, she knew she’d have to tell him. With trembling hands, she folded the note, and shoved it into her back pocket as she did her best to swallow the remnants of the pretzel that had turned to sawdust in her mouth.

  Coming back to Lakeside Acres had been bad enough. Now things were getting worse.

  Chapter 7

  Pleasure came in increments. Anticipation was half the fun. Knowing that Emily Wright was back in that house on Lakeside Lane, just like he wanted her, was definitely pleasurable. It was proving to be easier to manipulate her than he’d even imagined.

  He’d set his plan into motion, and so far everything, absolutely everything, had fallen into place. Emily had returned to town. Now she’d returned home. He knew that the note he’d left on the windshield of the car had spooked her. He’d been watching.

  He’d seen the way her head jerked up, like a scared rabbit. She’d looked around, as though she sensed he was there, but she hadn’t seen him. It wasn’t time yet for that.

  It was still the anticipation phase. He wanted her to be on edge. His plan required her to worry. He needed her to be afraid he was out here. And that he was moving closer.

  The next move was already in play. He’d taken care of it this morning. She’d find out about it soon enough.

  Taking the girl had been easy. He knew it would be. He’d been watching her for some time, studying her routine. He’d have fun with her tonight. Tomorrow he’d leave her to be found.

  He could already anticipate Emily Wright’s panic. The pleasure was almost too much to bear. Luckily he had something to play with to keep himself entertained.

  He kissed Jackie Willet’s cheek. It was so silky soft, despite being damp from her tears. He stroked the spot he’d just kissed and she mewled weakly in protest. He slid his hand from her cheek down to her throat, letting the tip of his index finger rest on her racing pulse point.

  “Are you going to be a good little girl, Jackie?”

  She nodded wildly. He’d already taught her what happened to bad little girls, when she’d tried to kick him earlier. Now she flinched, as he traced the red welt his belt had left on her bare ass before, but she made no move to try to stop him. She was a fast learner this one.

  He cradled her closer to him, sinking deeper into the recliner where they sat, her on his lap. He pulled her tighter against him, positioning her so that she rubbed, just right, against him with every breath she took. He could feel her trembling. The friction it created was such a turn-on.

  Maybe it was because she was afraid. Maybe it was because she was cold. She was naked. First thing he’d done when he’d brought her home was to strip off her grown-up-wannabe clothes. He’d planned on dressing her up in a pair of pretty pink pajamas, but hadn’t gotten around to it yet, and now, now he wasn’t sure he would. This felt too damn good, but not as good as he’d hoped.

  Disgusted, he shoved her off him, sending her sprawling onto the floor. She crawled away to the farthest corner.

  They were never as perfect as he imagined they’d be. They had to meet specific criteria. He took his time choosing them, tracking them, watching them and waiting for them. He always thought he’d found the perfect one. That this one, whoever this one was, would be THE one.

  But they never were. They all ruined the illusion even though he gave them a chance to play their part. Some of them talked back. Some of them tried to physically fight back. Some cried the whole time. They all failed to live up to his expectations. They all had to die.

  Jackie Willet was no different than the rest. She was a crier. She’d probably gotten by her entire pathetic life with those crocodile tears. They probably worked their manipulative magic on most people. They didn’t work on him. She had to die.

  But first he’d make her pay for disappointing him.

  Pop was always telling him that patience was not a virtue he possessed. Like Pop should talk. The man had elevated immediate self-gratification to an art form. It wasn’t always the wisest choice, but damn, did it feel good.

  He’d run out of patience with Jackie Willet. She was huddled there in the corner sniveling and snuffling like some kind of wounded beast. She didn’t know what pain was. Yet.

  She had failed him. He knew now that she wasn’t his dream doll. She never had been. She never could be.

  “Come here,” he ordered.

  Jackie shook her head and shrank deeper into the corner like she thought if she could make herself small enough she could disappear and escape. That wasn’t happening.

  He walked toward her with slow, deliberate steps, reveling in the way she flinched every time his shoe scuffed against the concrete floor.

  “Someone’s been a very bad girl.”

  She was trembling so hard that he could hear her teeth clacking against each other.

  He loomed over her, waiting, willing her to look up at him. He waited for her to beg.

  She raised her red, tear-filled eyes to his. She licked her lips nervously before whispering, “Please…I…I’ll be a good girl.”

  He pounced. Grabbing her armpits and lifting her a couple of feet in the air, he brought her face level with his. Before she could kick out at him, he slammed her against the wall. The sound of flesh meeting concrete was music to his ears. He liked it so much that he did it again.

  She was crying in earnest now, big heaving sobs that shook her to her core. Whiny little bitch.

  Holding her tight against the wall, he leaned in, pressing his chest into her torso. He angled his head so that he could better hear her struggle for breath as he crushed her ribcage. Little gasps, like the goldfish he’d had as a kid had made every time he’d taken it out of the water. How he’d loved watching that little fish gasping for breath, fighting for its pathetic life.

  He pinned her to the wall with his body weight so that his hands were free to do what he wanted to her. What he wanted to do to Emily.

  Jolting awake from yet another nightmare involving her abduction, Emily sat straight up in bed. It was dark. It was silent, yet she covered her ears, trying to shut out his voice calling for her. Her lungs burned, terror having stolen her breath. She took in desperate, greedy gulps of air. Her teeth were chattering, almost drowned out by the throbbing of her pulse.

  Fumbling for the lamp, she knocked something to the floor. It crashed against the wood, rumbling as it rolled under the bed. The crash spooked her even further, and she rolled back into a ball and began rocking again, but she kept her eyes open. Finally she managed to turn the lamp on.

  The light illuminated reality. The room, her childhood bedroom, came into focus. She blinked, thinking for a moment she was still stuck in her macabre dreamworld, but then she remembered that Mark Castle had driven her and Laurie “home.” Pretty much everything in the house had been updated since she’d last been here, replaced with fresh paint and new furnishings, but when she’d stepped into her old bedroom, it had been like unlocking a time capsule. Nothing had been changed. Same furnitu
re, same linens, even the same posters hung on the wall.

  It was as though she’d never left, but she barely even remembered the person she’d been when she’d last lived here. Shaking off the mental cobwebs, she swung her legs off the bed, leaving her feet hovering inches above the hardwood floor. She paused there a moment, trying to catch her breath while rubbing at her thigh, trying to erase the phantom pain that accompanied the nightmare.

  She had hoped that the worst of the nightmares were far behind her. She’d worked hard to overcome them, locking the memories away in a box in the back of her mind. They were a thing of the past. They hadn’t ruled her nights for years. At least they hadn’t until she returned home. Events had conspired to drag her back home, and retracing her steps had her feeling more like a terrified sixteen-year-old girl instead of a woman of thirty-one.

  The T-shirt she slept in was drenched with sweat. She shivered, suddenly chilled, as the slick sheen of perspiration soaking her evaporated into the cool night air. A balled-up sweatshirt was crammed against the bed’s headboard. Taking a deep breath and holding it, she pulled the sweatshirt over her head, punching her arms through the sleeves. She blew out the breath she’d been holding in a slow steady stream. Rubbing her arms, she attempted to banish the goose bumps that now covered her body instead of bedclothes.

  “Get a grip, Em.” Her whispered words seemed to echo off the walls of the silent room. She searched for comfort beneath her pillow. She panicked for a moment when she didn’t find it right away. It had to be there. She swept her palm, sandwiched between the pillow and mattress, across the smooth sheet again. She found it. Wrapping her fingers around the handle helped to restore her sense of equilibrium, quieting her pounding pulse and rinsing away the metallic bitterness fear had left on her tongue. She pulled a kitchen paring knife from its hiding place beneath the pillow and admired it. The heft of the handle felt solid in her palm. The lamplight glinted off the short, narrow, sharp blade. She slipped it into the pocket of her sweatshirt.

  She hopped out of bed, the floor cool against her bare feet. She had to move. She had to get away. She didn’t want to go back to sleep where her dreams could torture her.

  Making her way to the doorway, she ran a finger down the row of three tarnished brass deadbolts that locked the entry. They brought her a measure of peace, a sense of security. She’d installed them when she was sixteen.

  The fifteen-year-old locks scraped apart with the slightest protest. Double-checking that the paring knife was still in her pocket, she edged down the hallway, peering into the darkened shadows of each room she passed. She slid her hand along the wall to find her way.

  She paused at the doorway of Laurie’s room. She could hear her little sister’s even snoring. Apparently nothing woke the girl. Emily had slept the same way when she was that age, tumbling into bed at night and being pleasantly surprised by the rising sun each morning. What she wouldn’t give to get a peaceful night’s sleep like that now. She leaned in the doorway for a long time, standing guard over the sister she barely knew.

  Finally, convinced that there was no imminent threat to Laurie’s safety, she slipped past her sister’s room and headed toward the stairs. Remembering the start she’d had earlier when the floorboard creaked louder than a ghost’s shriek, she was careful not to step on the third step as she crept downstairs. The well-worn path of the walnut banister was smooth and warm beneath her palm. It was solid and familiar.

  She reached the bottom of the stairs. The ceramic tile was so much colder on the soles of her feet than the wood of the steps that she hopscotched across the foyer to check the alarm system of the house. She hated herself for checking. She knew she was being paranoid. She knew she was being ridiculous, but she couldn’t help it. She’d double-checked it herself before retiring for the evening.

  All the indicator lights were green. The alarm system was active and armed.

  “Nothing to worry about,” she muttered. Even to her own ears she didn’t sound convinced.

  She shuffled toward the Big Room. She’d avoided setting foot in it since she’d returned home. Emily had always called it “The Big Room” because, running the entire length of the house, it was simply the biggest room in the house. Her father had called it his office and, even though it offered the best views of the lake, no one else had been allowed to enter unless invited. Being summoned there had always meant that she was about to be lectured, or punished or both.

  She sidled into the room, fumbling to find the light switch. She braced herself before turning the light on. She shielded her eyes, blinking furiously against the bright light. Then she squeezed her eyes shut to block out what she could see.

  It’s just a room, she told herself. Keep breathing. Open your eyes.

  She opened them.

  Anxious to get her bare feet off the cold floor, Emily hurried to her father’s old, overstuffed armchair and settled into it, without bothering to brush it off first. She knew that her imprint would remain there when she left. It pleased her to know she was making her mark. Curling her feet under her, she noticed that the chair still smelled like her father’s beloved Cuban cigars.

  She wondered what the important people in the photographs would think if they knew that the well-respected Family Dynamics expert had barely spoken to his own daughter for twelve years. During Emily’s formative years, Doctor Donald Wright had built his reputation as a miracle worker psychotherapist to New York City’s elite at his office in Manhattan. He’d only come out here, to the “lake house” as he’d called it, on weekends, leaving Emily and her mother alone in peace for the rest of the week, at least during the school year.

  He’d spent most of every July and August in Lakeside Acres, causing them to tiptoe on eggshells for two months out of the year. While she’d loved her father and had been desperate to achieve his approval, Emily had been the only kid she’d known who actually looked forward to the start of school, since the beginning of classes signaled the end of his tension-laden prolonged visit. For the rest of the year he only came up on occasional weekends.

  The memory reminded her of the last time she’d been in this very room. He’d come out for her high-school graduation and made a big public show of how proud he was of her. Wearing her cap and gown, she stood in the school’s parking lot while her father handed her a dozen red roses and insisted on taking a million pictures. Afterward she’d come into this room, uninvited, to make her announcement. “I’m not coming back here, Dad. I’m getting away.”

  Engrossed in a book he was reading, he hadn’t even spared her a glance. She could still hear the criticism in his voice. “Running away from a problem never helped anyone. You need to toughen up.”

  All these years later, the dismissive insult still cut deep, and before she could stop them, two big, fat tears spilled down her cheeks.

  She’d wanted her father to love her unconditionally; instead he only tolerated her when she put on a brave face. She’d needed him to help her feel safe, but all he did was ridicule her fears.

  Shaking her head in disgust, Emily turned her attention away from the books and her father’s stony countenance to the oversized bay window. It was too dark to see out. All she could see was her own sad reflection looking back at her from the glass.

  He sat watching her from across the lake. Emily Wright.

  She’d turned on the lights. Through his binoculars he watched as she curled into a chair, wiping away tears. The woman was always crying.

  “Buck up, Dollface, you ain’t seen nothing yet.”

  As though she’d heard him, she looked out the window, right at him.

  Instinctively he ducked down before realizing that there was no way she could see him through the cover of the dark night.

  Raising the binoculars again, he adjusted them so that he could focus on her face. She was upset, that much was clear.

  He smiled.

  Could she sense him here? Watching. Waiting. That he was so close?

  Soon.
/>   He’d have her soon.

  But he’d have to wait a little while longer. He wanted to make sure she knew he was coming for her. It had been a long time since she’d been played with. He’d waited too long to rush this.

  The game was about to begin.

  It was time to get to work. He put down the binoculars and turned his attention to Jackie.

  They were so much easier when they were like this. Quiet. Compliant. Dead.

  He closed Jackie Willet’s unseeing eyes, brushing his palm gently over her face like she was made of porcelain.

  He picked up her limp, naked body and carried it into the next room to clean her. Turning on Shirley Temple singing “The Good Ship Lollipop,” he began to hum.

  He laid her out on the metal table and bathed her body with slow, deliberate movements. Rinsing the sponge he used often, he wiped away the dirt and grime, the blood and tears, the semen and the secretions. When she was finally clean, she became the perfect canvas.

  Now his fun began.

  He shaved her first, using a straight razor and water. He didn’t use any cream or lather because he loved the sound the blade made scraping across the skin. He timed the scrapes so that they kept rhythm with the music. He shaved under her arms, her pubic hair and her legs, until she was as smooth as a china doll. It was time to insert the toy surprise.

  The lollipops were laid out on a special shelf, sorted by color. He hadn’t been able to decide what flavor Jackie was, so he picked up an assortment. Not like Emily. He already knew Emily was cherry.

  After he was done, he dressed her in a pair of pink baby-doll pajamas, wrapping her in lace and flowers and innocence.

  He did her hair next. Brushing it until it gleamed, curling it into perfect ringlets with a curling iron, taking care not to singe her soft cheeks.