by Tim McBain
He flushed, washed up, and waddled out of the bathroom. He didn’t stop and chat with the clerk like usual. He rushed straight past, flinging the glass door out of his way and stepping into the open.
But Novotny and the cruiser were already gone.
Chapter 78
Dark falls quickly as he moves through town. The gray day giving way to purple. The days are so short now. He can never get used to it.
It occurs to him that the memorial service will be underway already. Will likely be wrapping up very soon. The candlelight vigil the last thing left.
Funny. Right? Funny how these things work out.
He hovers a hand over the crumpled woman in the passenger’s seat. He doesn’t touch her. Doesn’t want to risk waking her. But he feels the body heat radiating from her core. Waves of warmth touching his palm.
She seems so small. Curled in a semi-fetal position. Her chest rises and falls. Breaths slow and even. Apart from that motion, he might believe her to already be gone.
He watches the road. Looks at the graveyard sloping up the hill to his right. All those stones with names etched into them. All those people dead and gone.
The final few blocks of this trip form the peak of his vulnerability. He drives in a heavily populated area. A strip of gas stations and fast food joints. It’s a stretch that’s often thick with police. And there’d be no talking his way out of this one. The evidence is a living human sitting next to him.
But it’s almost over. He’ll be in the clear in a few blocks. Out of the city limits. Knowing that it’s right there troubles him.
A clamminess seems to spread from his armpits. Sliming his chest and arms. Turning all of him strangely cool and wet like some fleshy mollusk plucked from the sea.
And then he hears it. The little whoop. The shrill cry that is unmistakable. And then another of the same. It almost sounds like the chirp of a strange bird. But no. He knows the noise.
It’s a siren. Flicked on and off quickly.
Lights twirl in the rearview mirror. Red and blue. His eyes swivel to the twinkling rectangle of glass. Stare into the reflection. Already knowing what they’ll find. Police lights.
He’s being pulled over.
Funny. Right?
He checks the bulk beneath his knee. It’s ready. And he thinks on it a second. Just a second. But there’s nothing to think about. Nothing. It’s already decided.
He slows. Eases the Prius over the strip of dirt where the asphalt ends. Juts onto the grassy shoulder. He’s so close to the edge of town. So close to where he needs to go. But it wasn’t meant to be.
He puts the car in park. Kills the engine.
Looks at the unconscious woman in the passenger seat. The crumpled doll with the skin like well-tanned leather.
“Better let me do the talking,” he says, unable to suppress a smirk from curling his lip.
He chuckles a little. The idea that this could turn into a full on fit of giggling crosses his mind. He almost thinks it will.
But it doesn’t.
Novotny sighed as he eased the cruiser onto the shoulder and stopped.
The vehicle pulling over right away made him smirk. What a fool he had been to believe that strange feeling. The killer would try to get away, wouldn’t he? And what kind of a serial killer drove a Prius, anyway? This was probably some yuppie coming home from Starbucks.
He sighed again. Wiped his hand over his eyes. His hand fumbled for the radio microphone, but it hesitated upon grabbing it, not quite lifting. Any other day, he would call the plate in and have dispatch check for outstanding warrants before he approached the vehicle. He wasn’t one of the antsy cops who feared death in every encounter, but it was just smart to know who you were dealing with.
He released the mic, spindly fingers peeling away from it like spider legs. Not today. He wouldn’t bother calling it in. He’d let the guy off with a warning and be done with the whole embarrassing situation as quickly as possible.
He popped the door and stepped out of the vehicle.
McAdoo took a few steps into the parking lot in disbelief. His partner had left him. He’d actually left him in the bathroom stall at the damn Shell Station. What the hell?
He felt like a little kid who couldn’t find his parents in the grocery store. Alone. Paranoid. Right on the edge of panic.
His feet scuffed against the cement, and then the sound changed when he moved onto the asphalt. He walked toward the empty parking spot. He blinked a few times, part of him hoping the car would magically reappear there just past the pumps. It didn’t.
His fingers pressed into the flesh of his forehead. What the hell was he supposed to do? He had his radio on him, but if he called it in or even tried to reach Novotny with it, someone would surely hear. He’d be a laughingstock. Officer McPoopypants or something dumb like that. McAdoo-doo. What a nightmare.
As he stepped into the empty parking spot, a twinkle caught his eye in the distance. Police lights. It was the cruiser. He squinted, gazing down at the scene, not able to make out much aside from the car itself.
It was hard to judge the distance in the fading light, but he figured it must be about a quarter of a mile. He looked both directions. Time for a hike, he supposed. He could use the exercise.
Goddamn Novotny. What was he thinking leaving him behind like this?
Then again, at least he didn’t feel like a lost puppy anymore. No, he was going to be fine. Everything would be back to normal in five minutes.
Chapter 79
The pastor from the Worthingtons’ church returned to the stage and read another psalm, one that began, “Like a deer that longs for running streams, my soul longs for you, my God.”
Several hundred “Amens” reflected off the walls and ceilings in a tremulous echoing pattern when he finished.
“And now, to complete this portion of the service, the First United Methodist Church Choir will perform ‘The Water is Wide.’ At the conclusion of the piece, the family is inviting everyone to join them in a candlelight procession to the State Street Cemetery. Candles will be distributed at the doors as you exit.”
He started to walk away from the microphone, but a woman in the front row approached the stage and said something Violet couldn’t hear from this distance.
Reverend Smith bent toward the woman, listened intently, and then hurried back to the mike. The choir members had already started to fan out across the stage.
“My apologies,” Reverend Smith said. “I’ve been reminded that we have some folks with physical limitations who might struggle with the walk to the vigil. If you’d prefer to drive there, you are more than welcome. There is ample parking available on and around the cemetery grounds.”
He clapped his hands together and vacated the stage. In the silence before the choir began, Luck leaned in.
“I was just thinking how strange it is,” he whispered, “that both of our careers are likely to be made on this investigation.”
She turned to look at him, thinking it an odd thing to say under the circumstances.
When she didn’t respond, he shrugged.
“I don’t know. Just something that occurred to me when I was avoiding the reporters earlier. It’s like… now I’m a little bit famous or something. Everywhere I go, people know me from the press conferences. It’s kinda surreal.”
“I guess I never thought about it that way,” Violet said.
She shifted in her seat. The room suddenly felt a little stifling. Like the crowd was sucking up all the fresh air in the place.
He wasn’t wrong. Even so, she didn’t like it. She supposed one might make the case that it was “looking at the bright side.” But she didn’t care to try to look at the bright side in the case of four murdered young women.
It reminded her a little too much of the placating words after Zara’s death. Something that sleazeball of a prosecutor had said.
“A real tragedy,” he’d said, smoothing his $2,000 suit and flashing a mouthful of overbleached te
eth. Too quickly, he added, “But hey, we’re gonna nail the guy to the wall with this.”
The trill of the piano signaled the end of the choral performance. Applause filled the room. Violet squeezed her eyelids shut against a wave of claustrophobia. Or was it agoraphobia, since she was in the midst of a crowd? She didn’t know. All she did know was that she wanted out of this place. Luck touched her shoulder. When she opened her eyes, she saw that people were already leaving their seats, choking the aisles as they waited their turn to leave.
“You OK?” he asked.
She nodded.
It was time to go. And not a moment too soon.
Chapter 80
He watches the cop exit his cruiser in the side mirror. The hatted head the most discernible part of the silhouette gliding toward him.
That smirk pulls on his lip again. He pushes it flat.
He’s thought about this possibility so many times. Worried about it. And yet he finds himself utterly calm now that it’s here. Almost amused.
The policeman knocks on the window. The clean-shaven face just there on the other side of the glass. He’d look like a Ken doll in a cop costume except his nose is too big. One of those big, bony Eastern European snouts.
He hesitates a moment and presses the button. The glass barrier between them sliding away.
“Good evening, officer. What seems to be the problem?”
His voice sounds so confident. So calm and assertive. It is nothing like the meek character he played with the baby carrier a short while ago.
“Can I get your driver’s license, registration, and proof of insurance? I pulled you over because you were going a little fast back there. The speed limit is only 25 until you get past Spring Street. You were hitting it a couple of blocks early.”
He digs in his wallet. Gets one of the licenses out. Hands it over.
“I’ll have to dig a second for the other stuff.”
“Not a problem.”
The cop held the license in front of him. Hands fumbling at his belt for the flashlight to get a better look. Something passes over the officer’s face. A quirk of the brow. Like maybe he’s noticed the girl in the passenger seat.
But it’s too late.
Because this is it. The moment he’s daydreamed over and over.
He plucks the Ruger from under his leg. Aims and fires. The muzzle flashing and popping. Jerking his arm a little.
The first shot bursts a small red cloud from the officer’s chest. Knocks him back a step.
He fires again.
The second bullet mangles that huge nose. Opens a red hole in the middle of his face. He doesn’t dwell on the wounds. He watches the eyes. Watches the light drain from them.
It’s so fast. From the first shot to death transpires before the cop can even click on his flashlight.
The Maglite slips from his fingers. Clatters to the ground a beat before the officer does. It busts open. The D batteries spilling out and rolling away.
The cop bends at the knees. Buckles. And then he tips forward. Splatting face first. His face slaps the asphalt. The sound somehow soft. Like a chicken breast flopping on a cutting board.
He steps out. Looks down to make sure the officer is dead. Holding his breath to listen for any sound.
Nothing.
No rise and fall of the chest. No strange suction sounds of the breath rasping in and out of that fresh hole in his face.
It’s done. Good.
The .22 isn’t powerful enough to push out a fist-sized wad of brain from a gaping exit wound. But it was easy to conceal. And at close range like this, it did the job.
He stoops to the ground. Scanning. Grabs the fake ID.
Police chatter chirps from the walkie-talkie in the cop’s belt. Startles him. Makes him jump.
Then he crouches and takes that as well. He wouldn’t have thought of it if the thing didn’t speak to him. Now he could listen in.
And then he’s back in the car. Shifting gears. Speeding off. Up the hill. Around the bend. The twirling lights disappear from that rectangle of glass hanging above him where they’ve shimmered for so long. And it’s all gone. All back behind him like everything else he’s done.
Back in the mists.
His hands shake. It takes him a second to realize that it’s not from the vibration of the steering wheel. It’s adrenaline. Stimulation.
Chapter 81
McAdoo was about halfway to the cruiser when the shots rang out. He watched the bursts of light from the rounds, his legs doing a little stutter-step beneath him, his lungs pulsing in his chest with a dry gasp.
And then he took off running.
Heat flushed his face as he moved. His fleshy cheeks bouncing wads of warmth.
Shots fired. What the fuck?
He unsheathed his gun as he got near the car. No fumbling. No stumbling. Not this time.
And then he saw the figure sprawled on the ground. It was Novotny. He lay along that white line at the edge of the road, his feet dangling across the lip where the asphalt gave way to dirt. Blood pooled around his neck and torso. Too much blood.
Was he…
Could he be…
McAdoo approached in what felt like slow motion, the gun at the end of the outstretched arms wobbling before him, though he sensed no immediate danger. The perpetrator was long gone by now. The threat removed from this situation entirely.
He couldn’t quite make out the details of his fallen ally. Not yet. And in some way that made it feel like anything was possible. Until he knew for sure, anything was possible.
The face sharpened into focus at last. Most of Novotny’s nose had been blown off. A strange hole occupied his face, segmented down the middle by an intact shard of septum. The flat face somehow reminded McAdoo of a serpent.
He lowered the gun, watching that motionless figure on the ground. The whole world was still now, the sky blackening all around.
The sprawled figure coughed, and McAdoo’s shoulders jerked.
Jesus Christ. He was still alive.
He rushed to his partner’s side. Holstered his weapon. Knelt.
“I’m here, Novo.”
“He has a girl. Another one.”
Novotny looked at nothing as he spoke. Eyes staring off into space like some glass-eyed doll. He spoke with a lisp, his mouth sounding mushy, his tone lifeless.
McAdoo realized that his partner had never seemed so weak before. So fragile. Before this, the idea of Novotny dying had never crossed his mind as an actual possibility. He was this strong, decisive man. Novotny wasn’t the one who was supposed to die. The bumbling fat idiot was.
“Gotta get you to the hospital, buddy,” McAdoo said. “Let me call it in real quick.”
McAdoo brought his radio to his lips.
“No time now. Just listen. The orange parking pass. It’s for the airport. Little plane on it and shit.”
“Hey, don’t say that. There’s still time, man. I’m not gonna let you… You’re gonna make it.”
“Little silver plane. Like chrome. Plane.”
Random syllables now gargled out of that mushy mouth. McAdoo watched his friend fade some, eyelids going droopy. Novotny veered toward unconsciousness. Toward the end. And all at once, time snapped back from slow motion to the fast speed the hectic scene called for.
McAdoo jabbered into the radio. His head going hot and dizzy. Hot and dizzy. Everything blurring together into scenes his short term memory couldn’t sequence correctly. He was going into shock. And it felt like he was skipping in time. Arriving in the middle of situations, unable to remember how he’d gotten to them.
He screamed at the lifeless body. Sometimes asking if he’d call the plates in, asking what kind of car it was. Sometimes bellowing things that maybe didn’t make sense at all. He didn’t know for sure. He couldn’t focus long enough to put the fractured bits together.
The dizziness swelled into wooziness. The world spiraling around him a bit. Almost like he was hitting that last stage of drunkenne
ss where just sitting upright and not drooling became quite the chore.
And he couldn’t remember what he’d said when he called it in. Had he even called it in for real? It seemed like something that had happened, but he couldn’t call the concrete memory to mind at all. When he reached for things in his thoughts, he found nothing but the heat and that nauseating swirl of the world beginning to spiral again.
Novotny’s gibberish had cut out, and now he would no longer speak when addressed. McAdoo knew that much for sure. He must be passed out. That’s all it was. He had passed out, but they’d fix him up soon. The doctors would patch him right up. All the king’s horses and all the king’s men.
He pressed a hand to his partner’s forehead. And the flesh had gone chilly. Cold and damp. Already. Just a few minutes at most laid out here in the road. It was like touching that dead frog they dissected in high school biology. A slimy, cold thing. He recalled the feel of pressing the scalpel into its pale belly. Its skin tore as much as it sliced. Fibrous. Almost papery.
And then the heat took hold in his skull. All the way.
When the ambulance and backup arrived, they had to pry the corpse from McAdoo’s arms. The surviving officer’s face was smeared with the dead man’s blood, and he was bawling like a wounded child.
Chapter 82
Night had fallen by the time they reached the doors. Darger could see the inky purple of the night sky through the windows as they waited in line. At the doorway, a pair of high school aged girls held out pre-lit candles for those who hadn’t brought their own.
“Thank you,” Darger said as she took a candle from the girl closest. The top was fitted with a small white cup that acted as a drip catcher and a baffle against the wind.
Behind her, Loshak and Luck followed suit, each taking a candle in hand.
There was another girl behind the first two, who had apparently been tasked with candle-lighting duty.
“Hurry up, Millie!” one of the girl’s said.
The one named Millie fumbled frantically with the lighter in her hand.
