by Lisa Gardner
“Oh, Jesus Christ, Shep. Not all shell casings will yield prints and you know it. Now, for the last time, go home.”
“One casing wiped clean, Rainie! I’m telling you, someone else was at that scene. This proves it. Maybe Danny helped. Okay, okay? I can see that much. He got the guns, maybe he thought that he was helping a friend. But someone else pulled the trigger. You gotta help me with this, Rainie. You gotta believe me.”
“I don’t have to do any such thing.”
“What does that mean?”
Rainie looked her boss in the eye. She said crisply, “First you appoint me primary, Shep. Not even at the school yet, and you already know something’s up. Then there’s that whole confrontation with Danny. You get me to discharge my sidearm. You manage to get your prints all over the guns. Thirty seconds later most of the physical evidence is destroyed. And you made sure everyone knew it. Officer Conner screwed up the case. Danny will walk away scot-free. What the hell went down in that hallway, Shep? You want me to help you, you tell me what was really going on that afternoon.”
“Rainie, I swear to you—”
“Bullshit! Cut the crap.” Her temper went. She was suddenly bone-weary and deeply resentful of Shep. He’d made her part of this tragedy. And now he was on her back deck, begging for her help, after playing her like a fool. How dare he do that to her? Especially when she’d considered him a friend.
“You knew what was going on, Shep. You suspected Danny. Why?”
“Don’t you yell at me, Lorraine Conner. I may not be on active duty, but I’m still sheriff of this town!”
“What the fuck happened, Shep? What did you do?”
“This is no way to treat me! Didn’t I help you out all those years ago? All those questions I could’ve asked. All those questions that have still never been answered about what went down that day. I never followed up. I let sleeping dogs lie. Now it’s your turn to do the same.”
“Get off my property!”
“He’s my son! Goddammit, Rainie, he’s my son. . . .”
Shep’s shoulders suddenly convulsed. He stood on her porch, surrounded by half a dozen empty beer bottles, and wept into his hands for his child.
Jesus Christ. Rainie went into her house. She fetched two fresh bottles of beer from the fridge. Back outside, she wordlessly handed one to Shep. The other she cradled in her hands, waiting for that feeling of power, of control. It didn’t happen tonight. Jesus Christ.
After a moment Shep pulled himself together. He wiped his face with the sleeve of his shirt. He twisted off the cap of the bottle and downed half the contents in a single swallow. Then he downed the other half.
“How’d you get here, Shep?”
“Drove.”
“You’re not driving home.”
“I know.”
They stood in silence. Rainie looked up at the night sky. It was clear following this afternoon’s rain. The stars were like pinpricks of silver against black velvet. She loved this kind of night. Perfect for sitting on her deck, listening to the owls and imagining the waves crashing against the rocky shore. The inside of her house might hold all the bad memories of her childhood, but the outside held the few precious things that had been good. The land and the trees and the sky. The knowledge that no matter what happened, she was only a small part of it in the end and the stars would be here long after she was gone and the last tears had dried.
Maybe other people were overwhelmed to think of their tiny size in relation to the cosmos. She was comforted by it.
“I gave Danny the combination for the gun safe,” Shep said quietly. “He asked for it two weeks ago, and I gave it to him.”
“You went to all the trouble to get a state-of-the-art gun safe and then you gave your child the combination?”
“Sandy’s gonna kill me.”
“Shep, you’re in such a world of hurt.”
“I didn’t know! Danny said he wanted practice breaking down handguns since he’d already mastered his rifle. Hell, I was happy he was interested. You gotta understand, Rainie, guns are about all Danny and I have left. I tried football—he’s just no good. I tried basketball, baseball, soccer. The boy has no athletic ability. He just wants to read or surf the Web or some such garbage. . . . You don’t know what it’s like to be a father, Rainie, and realize one day that you got the son you always wanted and, somehow, he turned out to be his mother.”
“Did you know the pistols were missing?”
Shep was silent, which was answer enough.
“Jesus, how can you be so smart and yet so dumb?”
“Don’t you think I just got punished enough?”
“No, I think George Walker got punished enough. I think Alice Bensen’s parents got punished enough. Dammit!”
“I didn’t know, Rainie. Three days ago I checked the safe for the pistols. They still weren’t there. So I asked Danny about it. He said he hadn’t gotten them back together yet, that was all. The minute he reassembled them, he’d put them in the safe. I didn’t think about it again.”
“Until you got the call.”
“But Danny didn’t do it! I swear to you, Rainie, that boy doesn’t have a single aggressive bone in his body. Hell, if he was more like me maybe I could imagine it. But he’s his mother’s son. He wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
“What did you find when you got to the school, Shep?”
“It’s just like I said in my report. When I arrived, the building was already evacuated. Someone said they saw the shooter run from the building. Someone else said there were still wounded kids inside. So I went in. And in the computer lab I found Danny holding the revolver and semiauto—”
“Holding them? Not picking them up. Holding them.”
“He’d just picked them up—”
“Shep!”
“All right! He was holding them, dammit. Holding both guns and looking faint. The minute I said his name, he pointed them at my head.”
“And that doesn’t tell you anything?”
“He was panicked, Rainie! Frightened and, ah hell, he’d been crying. I swear to you, there were tears on his cheeks. For chrissakes, this is Danny. Danny who used to wear your deputy’s badge. Danny who liked to play under the desks. Danny who always wanted to sit by you at dinner—”
“Shut up! I don’t want to hear it anymore.”
Rainie walked away from him. She stood at the edge of her deck, her arms wrapped tight around her middle for warmth. In the distance, she saw a flicker of light, as if the moon had caught a piece of glass. It troubled her, and she was trying to focus in on the source, when the trees rustled abruptly and a large bird took flight.
“If Danny’s involved,” Shep said from behind her, “it’s only because someone else got him into it. He’s been . . . troubled lately. And maybe he’s impressionable. At thirteen all young boys are impressionable.”
“We know about the lockers, Shep. And we know about Charlie Kenyon. The Danny in my mind is a sweet little boy, and just yesterday morning I would’ve agreed with you, but I’m not sure anymore. There is a lot more to him than meets the eye. And these kids . . . they’re always somebody’s sons, Shep. They’re always somebody’s children.”
Shep’s head fell forward. Rainie had told him the truth with the best of intentions, but she couldn’t stand to see him look so defeated.
She offered quietly, “We’re trying to learn more from the school computers. Maybe if we can find a record of him talking to someone on-line . . . hooking up with an outside influence . . . I don’t know.”
“Good, good.” Shep’s voice had picked up. “That’s the thing. Find out who really did all this.”
“You really want to know what happened, Shep, let us talk to Danny. The FBI agent, Quincy, he’s a trained psychologist and an expert in mass murderers. He’ll know how to handle Danny. He’ll get to the bottom of this.”
“No.”
“Shep, you want me to help Danny, but you don’t. Make up your mind.”
“No i
nterviewing him! He’s confused right now. Maybe he even wants to take credit for things—some kids are like that, you know. But I don’t want my kid spending the rest of his life in prison because he felt a need to brag.”
“What about Becky? She might have seen something—”
“The doctors say she’s in shock.”
“Quincy’s an expert.”
“Since when did you start thinking so much of an outsider? Wait a minute. That’s where you’ve been, isn’t it? You went out with the fed!”
“Well, tie stones to my feet and drown me in a river.”
“That’s not funny.”
“Shep, if you want answers, give me some help. At least let Quincy interview Becky.”
“Our lawyer will never go for it.”
“It’s not his call.”
“I can’t. I don’t—I gotta talk to Sandy first. Let me talk to Sandy.”
“Thank you, Shep,” Rainie said seriously. “Sandy has a good head on her shoulders. She’ll do the right thing.”
Shep, however, didn’t look convinced. He said wearily, “I got a son in juvenile detention for murder. I have a daughter sleeping in closets, and I have neighbors spray-painting Baby Killer on my garage. The right thing? I don’t know what that is anymore. I already heard from the mayor that we’re not allowed to attend any of the funerals. He thinks it’ll upset people too much. For God’s sake, this is my town, Rainie. I know George Walker. I used to bowl with Alice’s uncle. Now—now it’s come down to this.”
Rainie didn’t say anything. She didn’t have the words to comfort him.
“Someone else pulled that trigger,” Shep said tiredly, stubbornly. “Mark my words. And you gotta help me prove it, because a state detective and a federal agent aren’t going to care. They don’t live here. They don’t know Danny the way we do. So it’s just you and me. The way it was fourteen years ago. Just you and me again.”
“You didn’t do me any favors fourteen years ago, Shep.”
Shep’s gaze simply fell to the deck.
Rainie sighed. She moved over to the deck railing and dumped out her bottle of beer. She said what she needed to say, soft, so no one could hear.
Shep didn’t pry. He knew better after all these years.
After a moment she turned back to him. “Come on, Shep. I’ll drive you home.”
CROUCHED BEHIND A DENSE cover of trees, the man finally released his breath. It had been no good. She always ducked her head when she spoke, so even with the binoculars he couldn’t see clearly enough. Maybe if he brought a video camera one night. He could record her actions, then play them back for someone who specialized in lip-reading. An expert might be able to see enough.
But that would be sharing. He didn’t want to share. Rainie was special. His.
He planned to keep it that way.
The man rocked back on his heels, pursing his lips as he considered his options. His head was buzzing a bit. He’d stayed in the bar long enough to have two beers, even though he shouldn’t have. But Ruddy-Face had still been standing there, looking down at him all stern and tough. It had punched buttons better left alone and he’d found he couldn’t back down. So he’d stayed, drinking down beer he couldn’t taste and feeling that measured, hateful stare.
Then he’d simply started to laugh. The whole thing was too damn funny for words. Old men thinking war would be good for kids. Give ’em a Hitler and they won’t have to kill one another.
The man had started to laugh, and he was still laughing when he left the bar, watching old Ruddy-Face shake his head. Fuck Ruddy-Face. Fuck ’em all. If only they knew . . .
The first time the man had picked a town for one of his projects, he hadn’t been anxious. More like curious about what he could do. He’d had a vision. It started as a dream late at night, a way to pass the hours when he was alone and no one cared. Then it took over his waking hours. It became an obsession, a fierce, burning need gnawing away at his gut.
Show the old man. Show up the old man. Fucking show up the old fucking man. He’d head out to the cemetery, guzzling hundred-dollar bottles of the fucker’s precious brandy and feeling the fury beat like a drum in his veins. You think I’m weak? You think I’m dumb?
Well, let me show you. . . .
The first time he’d been very careful. No ties between himself and the community. He’d selected the town by computer, researched it by computer, approached the players by computer. When it had finally been necessary to conduct some on-site activities, he’d worn disguises and used only cash. The three Ps of a successful mission: Patience, Planning, and Precautions. See, I was listening, you old fuck.
In the end, it had been easy. Screams and smoke and blood. Beautiful, fantastical death.
Not a tremor in his hand, not a care in the world.
But then it had been over. Police came, investigated, arrested, moved on. Case closed. He returned to everyday life, visited the cemetery again, guzzled another bottle of brandy.
Who’s weak now, old man? Who isn’t feelin’ very smart?
And then . . .
Nothing. Story faded from the news. Town got on with things. People moved on with life. And he was alone again, feeling his power, knowing the things he knew, and . . . bored.
Time for a second strike. Raise the stakes, prove his point, elevate the game.
He picked the next town more carefully, spent longer reconning in the area, studying the rhythms of life. Still lots of patience and planning. Still many, many precautions. Computers were a wonderful tool.
Then one day everything was in place. Screams and smoke and blood. Beautiful, fantastical death. This time he lingered afterward—from a ways away, of course, using binoculars—but still he lingered, adding an extra zing.
Cops arrived on scene. Dull, unimaginative small-town yokels. Saw what he wanted them to see, thought what he wanted them to think. Made their arrest, felt good about themselves.
In fact, everything went so well, the man decided not to go home right away. He hit upon the hotel plan—in a separate city, of course, though frankly he wasn’t convinced even that precaution was necessary. He rented a car, drove back into town. Hung out in the local bars and listened to the local folks talk. He had so much fun, he even went to the funerals and watched the mothers cry.
Who’s smart now, you old fuck?
Five days later it was all over and done. Reporters packed their bags. Lawyers worked out some deal. He returned to the ordinary world of his “acceptable life,” and eventually this film also faded from his mind.
He needed something more. His plans worked, but the thrill was lacking. From what he could tell, he was too smart (Hear that, old man?). He could make the cops dance on a pinhead and they’d fucking thank him for the floor space.
He needed a place more challenging, a target more riveting, and an opponent more worthy. He needed to expand the playing field.
Bakersville had come to him like a goddamn wet dream.
The perfect place, the perfect target, and the perfect cast of Keystone Kops hot on his trail.
Finally, he was having some fun.
Big, burly Shep, crying over his son. Smart, pretty Officer Conner, worrying about her town. And now Supervisory Special Agent Pierce Quincy. Quantico’s best of the best.
Finally, he had a game worth playing. Which was good, because as far as he was concerned he was no longer producing a single-act play. This game was just beginning.
Do you remember what it felt like when you pulled the trigger, Officer Conner? Do you still dream about the wet sound of your mother’s exploding head?
Someday I want to hear all about it.
But not tonight. Tonight he had to drive to Portland. He still had work to do.
THE FIRST TIME Becky O’Grady fell asleep, she dreamed she stood up to the monster in her school. She planted her feet in the hall. She yelled, “Bad, bad monster. Leave my brother alone! Don’t you hurt my friends!”
The monster was ashamed. He crawled
away. Then Alice and Sally hugged her and cried. Pretty Miss Avalon kissed her on the cheek and told her she was very brave. Everyone was happy, including her mommy and daddy, who never fought again, and Danny, who gave her a kitty.
The second time Becky fell asleep, she dreamed she stood up to the monster and he bit off her head.
At five in the morning, Becky O’Grady crawled to the hall closet and piled coats on top of her shoulders. But she knew it wouldn’t do any good.
The monster was coming. She had not saved Danny, and she and the monster both knew it. Soon he would come for her. Soon it would be her turn.
Becky whimpered for her mother. But mostly she cried for Danny, because when he had needed her most, she had not saved him.
FIFTEEN
Thursday, May 17, 7:50 A.M.
SANDY STOOD AT THE kitchen sink, washing the same flower-bordered plate over and over again. Outside, the sun was shining. She had cracked the window to let in the fresh morning air, and now she could hear the sounds of her neighborhood preparing for a new day. Somewhere down the street a lawn was being mowed. Probably Mr. McCabe. He was a retired school principal who took religious care of his yard. In June, people drove in from miles around just to admire his roses.
A dog barked three or four houses over. Then came the sounds of a mother yelling for her child. Andy? Anthony? Maybe Andrea, the Simpsons’ four-year-old daughter. Last Halloween she’d dressed up as a cowboy—not a cowgirl, she’d told everyone, a cowboy. Sandy really liked the child, even if she insisted on calling her Mrs. O’Grady, which made Sandy feel old.
