by Mike Omer
“Where were you working that night?” the agent continued.
“Next to Brighton Park. We have a street corner there.”
“Can you show me where it is exactly?” Martinez asked.
Crystal hesitated. That corner was her prime spot—she got the best customers there. If she showed it to him, he’d know where to send vice.
As if it were some big secret. Everyone knew where the whores of Brighton Park worked.
“Sure,” she said. “I’ll show you.”
CHAPTER 15
His house felt . . . empty.
This breakup had been the toughest for him so far. He knew it had been the right thing to do, but he hadn’t been prepared for the loneliness that followed. There was something wholesome about waking up in bed with the woman you loved, watching her lie there—her eyes closed, her face innocent, her body warm . . .
Well, maybe not warm.
It had been reassuring, leaving home and knowing that when he returned, she’d be waiting there for him. Always there, right where he left her. Completely predictable. She had been someone he could trust.
But frankly, if the spark was gone, there was no point in postponing the inevitable, right?
The next woman would be the real thing. He would be wary, choose more carefully. Though the last one had been charming and full of life, there had been a certain . . . trashiness in her. Their relationship had saved her from a slippery slope of drug abuse; he had no doubt about it. He’d always know it, and she’d always know it. Perhaps that had been the real problem that had led to their breaking up. That and the mediocre job he had done when embalming her, of course.
No, the next time would be better. He would choose better, and he would do a better job with her. She’d be perfect.
Should he look for one tonight? The relationship had only ended the night before. And he was exhausted after his sleepless night, driving her to the beach and carrying her to where she wanted to be.
For a moment that night, he had thought it might all end.
There was another couple there, snuggling on the beach. He hadn’t noticed them in the darkness, or he would have kept going, taken her to a different location. He was dragging her, her heels occasionally touching the sandy ground. He breathed hard, cursing himself for not parking closer. Once or twice he almost decided that he was far enough. But deep inside, he knew she’d want to be close to the water, watching the lake’s small waves lapping at the shore. He had almost reached his destination when the couple stood up, apparently deciding it was time to go home.
He spotted their double silhouette against the background of the moonlit water, less than twenty feet away and walking in his direction. He had only seconds. His hand slid to the knife in his pocket, heart beating hard.
He quickly devised a plan. He’d slit the man’s throat first. The woman would be easier to deal with. Maybe he could take her home and . . .
But it was too risky, and he didn’t want to drop his girl. Instead, he straightened her, put his arm around her waist, leaned his head against hers. She stood, her face buried in her hands. The couple would see what they truly were: a man consoling a heartbroken woman.
The couple went by, not sparing him a second glance, entranced with each other. He knew how it felt. It was a wonderful thing to be in love.
He dragged her on, helped her down to the sand. He was sorry he hadn’t brought her a small towel to sit on. He carefully adjusted the skirt that had slightly twisted itself on the way.
Finally satisfied, he bid her farewell, not wanting to drag this out too much, and left.
And now he missed her. Or at least he missed her presence in his home.
He needed to fill the void. Next time would be different. He would find the right one.
He would start searching tomorrow.
CHAPTER 16
Maynard, Massachusetts, Thursday, October 23, 1997
Zoe’s parents were whispering to each other again. This happened almost every day now. They had always been a family that was too loud, but now they had turned into a family of hushed conversations, of strained silences, of silent weeping.
Her mother had known the second girl who had been killed five days ago. Jackie Teller had been the daughter of a woman in her book club. Zoe’s mom had gone to Jackie’s sixteenth birthday, two years before. And now she had also gone to her funeral.
Zoe’s dad tried to act like things were normal, but it was nearly impossible. Her mom would lapse into long, trancelike stares, not hearing a word anyone said to her. She insisted the girls be driven back and forth from school. Zoe had to be home before it got dark, which meant five in the afternoon. The day before, Andrea had opened the door and run outside with her ball, and their mother had chased her, screeching at her hysterically to come inside. Andrea had burst into tears, terrified. When her mother had dragged her into the house, Zoe had hugged her, whispering reassurances in her ear.
Halloween was next week, and pretty much everyone knew there would be no trick-or-treating this year.
And now, in the living room, her parents whispered but stopped instantly when Zoe walked into the room.
“Hey, Dad. You didn’t throw away the paper, right?” she said.
“No.” He smiled at her. “It’s on the kitchen table.”
“Great, thanks,” she said and quickly turned away.
“What does she need the paper for?” she heard her mother ask.
“Some sort of school project,” her dad said. “She needs to keep the weather forecast page or something; I don’t know.”
She took the paper, went to her room, and closed the door. Then, heart pounding, she read the headline on the second page: “Police Report Progress in Hartley Murder.”
She glanced momentarily at Beth Hartley’s familiar portrait. They always used the same picture: Beth smiling, looking a bit goofy as she stared sideways at the camera. Would Beth have approved of this picture being plastered in the newspaper over and over again? Zoe doubted it. But Beth was dead. And after what she’d suffered, Zoe didn’t think Beth would have cared much about a bad picture, anyway.
Her eyes scanned the article quickly. Like most of the articles about the two murders, it was frustratingly lacking in detail. What progress had been made? Did they have a suspect or suspects in custody? Did they know why Beth had been killed?
The police just said they had made progress. When asked if they thought Jackie Teller had been killed by the same person, the cops said they were still investigating all possibilities.
Jackie Teller had been found dead in Durant Pond. She had gone walking with her dog in the evening, and when she hadn’t returned an hour later, her mother had gone out to look for her and afterward called the police. The dog had come home a few hours later, its leash still attached. Jackie had been found by a search party that same night. She had been naked, her body lying in the shallow water of the pond, her hands tied behind her back. Zoe knew all this because Roy, Heather’s nineteen-year-old brother, had been part of the search party. He had come back home, shaken to the core, and blurted the entire story before their parents could whisk Heather out of earshot.
Two young women found naked, dead. Everyone was terrified. It was a small town’s worst nightmare. Zoe’s dad had driven to the supermarket the evening before, and he said the streets had been completely empty. Maynard had become a ghost town at night, its residents hiding in their homes.
Thoughts of the killer still roaming free in the streets chilled Zoe’s heart, but it fascinated her too. She had always loved reading thrillers and mysteries, and this was a thriller that had come to life just next door. She couldn’t stop thinking about it, trying to piece it all together from the meager facts she knew and the rumors she’d heard.
She took out the scrapbook from under the bed and opened it to the next free page. Then she carefully cut the article from the paper. She leaned her back against the door, prepared to shove the paper and scrapbook under the bed if her parent
s suddenly barged in. She taped the article into the scrapbook and read it again.
Progress. What could that mean? Were they about to arrest the killer? The man who grabbed women at night, stripping them and killing them? The monster?
That was the papers’ favorite word when mentioning the killer. A monster on the loose. A monster preying on helpless women. A monster hiding in Maynard.
But Zoe realized the horrifying truth. This wasn’t a monster. This wasn’t some sort of alien or a scaly creature rising from the sewers. Much worse. It was a man. A guy walking Maynard’s streets, probably living there. Maybe he had even gone to Zoe’s school when he was younger. Maybe she’d seen him yesterday on her way to school. Maybe her dad had met him in the supermarket. He might have been at Jackie Teller’s funeral, by her mother’s side, the killing of the girl still fresh in his mind.
Every stranger she met on the street brought the same question. Could it be him? She found herself staring at people intently, trying to see the flicker of guilt in their eyes. Two days before, she’d noticed the school janitor had a scratch on his throat—a scratch he could have gotten from a young woman, desperately fighting for her life. Trembling, she had gone to the bathroom and stayed there for almost ten minutes, trying to calm down.
She flipped through her scrapbook, pausing here and there, and then turned to the end, where she had taped a small map of Maynard. She had marked two locations on the map: Durant Pond and the White Pond Road Bridge.
Would there be a third?
For some reason, the streetlights weren’t working. Zoe paced quickly down the street, regretting her decision not to call her dad to pick her up from Heather’s. The night’s darkness surrounded her, chilling, suffocating. The wind blew through the trees, leaves rustling around her the only sound except for the fast tapping of her footsteps. She hugged herself, shivering. It was cold, and the icy air crawled into her collar, the ground freezing her soles. She couldn’t wait to get home.
One of her shoelaces was loose, but she didn’t want to stop in the dark street and tie it again. She hastened her pace a bit more. It wasn’t far now. Why weren’t the lights working? She shivered, the black shadow of a tree blocking what little moonlight there was.
She could hear something behind her. Footsteps. Another pair of feet, walking briskly down the street. Getting closer. The hard, labored breathing of a man intermingled with the sound of rapid pacing. She was almost home. If she screamed, people would come to help. It was probably nothing, just a man out for a brisk stroll.
He was getting closer, and she found herself hurrying, then running, panicking, sucking in large gulps of icy-cold air that chilled her lungs. Someone whimpered in fright. It was her. Behind her, the man was running as well. He didn’t shout at her to stop, didn’t call her name—he simply ran, his breathing heavier than before, almost like a growl, a snarl.
How many footsteps to her home? Thirty? Fifty? Tears of fear ran down her cheeks, and she glanced backward, saw his shadow—wide, tall, dark—his eyes predatory, narrowing, gleaming in the blackness of the night.
There was nothing to do but scream. “Help! Someone!” Her voice sounded strained, broken, not as loud as she’d wanted. No doors opened, no windows. No one came out of their houses to help her, and the man who chased her was upon her, grabbing her by the shirt. The collar choked her as she struggled onward, and he pulled her back, dragging her to a clump of bushes, throwing her to the ground, out of sight, helpless. A knife in his hand, he tore at her clothes, his eyes full of wildness and lust and hate . . .
Her hand jolted, trying to stop her attacker, and she woke up, a scream lodged in her throat. She lay in the darkness, breathing hard, her heart pounding, feeling constricted in her chest. Slowly, recognition seeped in. She was in her bedroom, just one door away from her parents’ room. The night was cold, and she had thrown the blanket off at some point. She picked it up from the floor, trembling, not sure whether from the chill or the nightmare. She fumbled at her light switch and turned it on, squinting in the sudden glare.
Andrea was asleep on the bedroom floor, and the light made her sister shift in her sleep. Zoe quickly turned it off. It was the second night she’d found Andrea asleep in her room. Supposedly, her kid sister knew nothing about what was going on, but she could feel everyone’s fear, and she knew she couldn’t go outside to play anymore. She could obviously sense something was wrong.
Zoe curled up in her blanket, afraid to go back to sleep. The dream still lingered in her mind. It felt so vivid. Was that how Jackie Teller felt before she died? Or Beth?
No. For them, it had probably been worse. And there had been no waking up afterward.
“Zoe?” Her sister’s sleepy voice broke the silence in the room.
“Yeah?” Zoe tried to keep her voice steady.
“Was Jackie old?”
“What?”
“Jackie. The woman that Mom knew. Was she very old?”
Zoe wondered what Andrea had overheard and how much of it she understood. She was only five.
“No,” she said. “She wasn’t old.”
“But Mommy told Daddy Jackie died. And only old people die, right? Really old people.”
Zoe lay on her back, staring at the ceiling, remaining silent.
“Was Jackie old?” her sister persisted. This wasn’t going to go away.
“No, but . . . this wasn’t supposed to happen.”
“But she died, right?”
“Yes. She died.”
“Do you think I might die? I don’t want to die.” A frightened sob. “Mommy said only really old people die. Older than Grandma.”
“Yeah, don’t worry, Ray-Ray,” Zoe heard herself say. “Only old people die.”
“Older than Grandma?”
“Yeah, older than Grandma.”
“So I won’t die?”
“Only when you’re really old, Ray-Ray.”
“And will you die?”
“Yeah, but only when I’m really old. Go to sleep, Ray-Ray.”
“Can I sleep in your bed?”
“Sure,” Zoe said, partly relieved. “Come on.”
Her sister leaped into the bed, nearly killing Zoe with a knee to the stomach. Andrea snuggled against Zoe as she tried to catch her breath.
It seemed to take only seconds before her sister’s gentle breathing steadied. Zoe stayed awake, feeling as if she would never sleep again.
Her math teacher was sick Friday morning, and Zoe suddenly had two free blocks until the next class. Heather suggested they cut school and get some hot chocolate. Zoe was happy with the idea at first, but then a different, haunting thought popped into her mind.
She could go to Durant Pond.
There was no real danger. It was morning; there would probably be joggers there or people walking their dogs. She just wanted to have a look. And her parents would never know.
She didn’t have her bicycle with her. Dad had driven her to school that morning, but her house wasn’t far away. She could sneak out, get her bicycle, and ride to the pond. Take a quick look and then go back home, leave the bicycle, and get back to school on time for the next class.
She knew it was a strange thing to do, but the more the idea blossomed in her mind, the more she had to do it. She didn’t know why, but she just couldn’t let it go. She remembered how reassuring it had been to go to the White Pond Road Bridge. Maybe if she finally saw Durant Pond, she could stop thinking about Jackie Teller naked, hands tied behind her back, struggling for her life.
Zoe and Heather left the school premises, walking briskly toward Main Street. Though they had two hours, the nearest café was almost a mile away, and they had to hurry. A couple of seniors stood on the other side of the street. When they spotted the girls, they began catcalling Heather, whistling and jeering. Heather hugged her chest, embarrassed. She was always self-conscious about the way her breasts looked when she was walking fast.
“Idiots,” Zoe muttered as they walked out of earshot.
Heather was beet red. “Yeah.”
They reached Main Street, but when they got to the café, Zoe paused.
“Listen, I . . .” She hesitated. “I have to go do something.”
“What are you talking about?” Heather asked.
Through the café’s window, Zoe spotted a few girls from their math class and nearly changed her mind. It was a cold day, and some hot chocolate sounded great.
“I forgot my English notebook at home,” she lied. “I’ll just run and get it.”
“Get it later. We have more than an hour.”
“I’ll do it real quick. Go on—I’ll join you.”
Heather shrugged. “Sure, whatever,” she said and walked into the café. The smell of baked goods filled Zoe’s nose as the door closed behind her friend, and she felt like a moron.
Just a quick visit to the pond, get it out of her system, and she’d still have time to join Heather.
She half walked, half ran to her home and grabbed her bicycle. From there, it was just a fifteen-minute ride to the Durant Pond trail. She pedaled furiously, the cold wind whipping her face. She quickly got to Summer Street, breathing hard, fighting the gentle slope upward.
A woman glanced at her as she whizzed past, and Zoe had a moment of panic. Did that woman recognize her? Would she tell her mom? She convinced herself that she hadn’t been recognized, that it was just a stranger. But Summer Street was one of the busiest streets in Maynard. If she stayed on it, someone would spot her.
She swerved right on Brooks Street and followed the small streets and avenues that took her to the Durant Pond trail, hidden from prying eyes. Heart beating from exertion and nervousness, she got on the trail.
The trees around the pond were mostly bare, the ground carpeted with brown leaves that crinkled as her bicycle wheels ran over them. Her heart was beating hard with the effort and the thrill, knowing that her parents would be horrified if they knew where she was.
Jackie Teller had walked this trail only a few days before, holding a leash. What had happened then? Had she heard a noise? Had someone approached her—perhaps even someone she knew? Had he attacked her immediately, or had he talked to her first? Asked her about her dog, mentioned the weather?
