by Chris Mooney
‘I’ve got friends everywhere these days,’ Lancaster said, and marched Darby back into the living-room. Kelly sat on the couch, her hands folded on her lap and her head bowed, looking like a woman attending church. ‘People do all sorts of things when they need a few extra bucks. Lucky for me it’s a buyer’s market.’
‘That’s what all this is about, isn’t it? Money.’
‘It’s what makes life go ’round, darlin’. Get up, Sarah, you’re not done working.’
‘The families you killed were standing in the way of the incorporation, weren’t they?’ Darby said. Her clothes were damp with sweat, her mouth and throat as dry as bone. ‘I’m guessing they wouldn’t sell their properties to the state because they were offered pennies on the dollar, and the state needs their properties to secure developers.’
‘Bingo. Hurry up, Sarah.’
‘And in order to receive government funding, the state has to find the money to pay for additional infrastructure and additional services. Money has to come from somewhere, and the state can’t raise taxes because no one living here can afford to pay more – they can hardly pay now. The only way the state can meet its costs is through money from developers.’
Lancaster grinned. ‘See, it’s not that complicated, is it, sweetheart? Now –’
‘And when the families said no, you decided to come on in and speed up the process, maybe even encourage the other holdouts. If the incorporation didn’t go through, you wouldn’t be part of the new regime, now, would you?’ ‘I don’t really want to play the question and answer game any more. Thanks to you, I’ve got a full plate today. Now keep those hands on that pretty little head of yours, or it’ll get messy.’
Lancaster let go of her collar and quickly stepped away, to her right, to gain some distance. His arm was extended, as straight as a board, and Darby could see the silencer attached to the end of what looked like a Glock. His free hand reached into a jacket pocket.
‘You staged all the murders to make them look like the work of a sexual sadist,’ Darby said. ‘You wanted everyone thinking that a deranged psychopath was running all over town, when it was really about money.’
Lancaster came back with a pair of plastic ties. In her mind’s eye Darby saw the Downes family bound to the dining-room chairs.
‘Once the families are out of the way,’ Darby said, ‘all the pieces are in place for the incorporation. When that happens, Red Hill PD goes away, and you’re the man in charge.’
Lancaster handed the plastic ties to Kelly.
‘You set up Eli Savran as your scapegoat,’ Darby said. ‘You already had him picked out before you started this. You crushed a tablet of neomycin on the floor, knowing we’d find it, and then you had Kelly tell me about a man who smelled like garbage who was possibly stalking Samantha Downes, then you followed it up by having Rita Tuttle tell us all about Timmy.’
‘Clever girl. Hands behind your back.’
‘Why’d you shoot at us last night?’
‘I’m into theatre. That, and I didn’t have a clear shot of you in the bedroom. Tie her up, Sarah.’
Darby kept her hands clasped on her head. Something nagged at her, but the thought or feeling or whatever it was had been washed away by surging tides of adrenalin. Her mind, though, was busy cataloguing all the ways the Red Hill Ripper – Lancaster – had remained several steps ahead of them: the iPad in the Downes bedroom, the audio bug she found in her hotel room, the GPS tracker on her rental and the USB spy device stuck inside the back of Williams’s office computer.
‘That was a nice trick with the pictures,’ Darby said. ‘How’d you manage to pull that off?’
Lancaster smiled, his eyes dancing with a bright and joyful light. Like every garden-variety sadist, not only did he get off on controlling a situation, he loved to showcase just how intellectually superior he was to everyone around him.
‘While you and Hoder were educating us backwoods folks on the Ripper, I slipped my hand inside my pocket and hit the send button on the burner I was carrying. Then, while the troops were enjoying your titty pics, I removed the SIM card, placed it in the spare burner I keep in my glove compartment and then left the phone on the front windshield of that fat broad who sleeps in her van.’
‘You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you?’ Darby said.
‘Don’t pin this on me, Missy. You were given fair warning at every turn. First the pictures, then the texts – I even had our AG call to tell you to stay away. But did you listen? Nope. A normal person would’ve packed up and left. But not you. Then you show up here and my Sarah told you to go away – she even tried to close the door on you – but you barged your way in because you’re an annoying, meddlesome bitch. What’s about to go down now is on your shoulders. Hands behind your back.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Look, I’m not going to disrespect you and say I won’t hurt you if you do what I say or any of that other bullshit,’ he said. ‘You know how this is going to go down. If you want, I can blow your brains out right here, right now. I’d prefer not to do that, because it’ll complicate things, and, like I said, I’ve already got a full plate today. You decide.’
Darby slowly lifted her hands off the top of her head. As she placed them behind her back, her gaze dropped to the thick, gold-capped pen sitting in Lancaster’s breast pocket.
Lancaster saw where she was looking. ‘You like that? It’s a Waterman Edson fountain pen.’
Darby placed the back of one hand flat against the other; then she kept squeezing her hands into fists. If Kelly tied her while her muscles were pumped full of blood, she could relax her hands afterwards and, hopefully, gain the space necessary to free them. During her SWAT training, she’d been taught various methods to free herself from plastic ties. All she needed was the time in which to do it.
‘David’s wife bought it for him for their tenth anniversary or some shit – she spent almost a grand on this stupid thing, can you believe it? I know that because David was always bragging about it. I picked it up from his bedroom nightstand, made sure the greedy bastard saw me stick it in my pocket.’
‘I know. Laurie Richards told us.’
Kelly tightened the plastic bindings against Darby’s wrists. Lancaster’s gaze had narrowed in thought.
‘Told you what?’
Darby didn’t answer. Smiled back at him.
‘You know what? I changed my mind,’ Lancaster said, and cocked the pistol’s trigger.
68
Some people believe your whole life flashes before your eyes during your final moment. Darby had the opposite experience. She didn’t remember her father taking her to her first Red Sox game, how he always smelled of cigars and aftershave; the way his big, callused hand swallowed hers. She didn’t think about the man she loved, or maybe was afraid to love, or how she wished she had spent more time away from the office, instead of devoting almost all her energy to finding people who, when you got right down to it, weren’t part of the human race – people who should be ground into chum and tossed off the side of a boat. Her final moment would be spent looking at blue-striped wallpaper and a couch covered in plastic; at a black-and-white cat that had popped its head around the corner and then disappeared.
Then the front door swung open to Barry Whitehead. He stepped inside, and his face turned almost as white as the snow stuck to his boots.
‘Jesus, Teddy, you didn’t say anything about killing a fed.’
‘She look dead to you? I need her cuffed, after what the bitch did to my face. Williams is in the kitchen. Put him in the trunk and come back here.’
Whitehead didn’t move. His face was bloodless, and he looked like he had swallowed barbed wire. He had stepped into a new script and he didn’t want a part in it.
Darby said to Whitehead: ‘He’s going to kill you, dumbass. Lancaster’s not the type to leave loose ends.’
Lancaster pistol-whipped her against the right side of her face; the gun split open her ear and pain ex
ploded in black and red clouds behind her eyes. Her hands immediately went up to protect her face, but her wrists were tied behind her back. She staggered and her knees gave out. She dropped to the floor, near the couch, falling face first into the plastic-covered cushions.
Kelly screamed. Whitehead’s hand had reached the butt of his weapon when Lancaster fired.
The round went through Whitehead’s shoulder and the wall behind him exploded in a mist of red. The patrolman’s eyes were wide, his mouth a round, wet O; he stared in helpless confusion as he tumbled against a small sideboard, knocking over the Hummel figurines that had been sitting on its top. They smashed against the floor as Kelly screamed again, her hands pressed against her cheeks, staring in horror at what was unfolding.
Darby had moved to her side. There was some give in the restraints. She was getting to her feet and trying to slide out her wrist when Lancaster turned his weapon on Kelly and fired. The round went through her forehead, and she collapsed like a puppet whose strings had been cut.
But Lancaster thought Darby wasn’t a problem. Her hands were tied behind her back, and he had to deal with a more immediate problem: Whitehead, who had managed to remove his side-arm. The patrolman lay sideways on the floor, his shoulder gushing blood from a severed artery. He clicked off the safety just as Lancaster fired a round into his stomach.
Lancaster was about to charge forward, most likely to plant a final round into the patrolman’s skull. Darby saw her opportunity: she swung her leg and felt it connect with his shin. He tripped, and his forward momentum knocked him off balance. He pinwheeled, and by the time he had tumbled against the floor she was already on her feet and moving.
Lancaster had landed face first on the carpet. But he wasn’t injured, and he could attack. He threw himself on to his side, pointed the Glock at the couch and fired. Darby, who had already placed herself behind him, kicked Lancaster in the back of his head. She heard a crunching sound and his arm faltered. She raised her foot and brought the heel crashing down on his temple and he went limp.
She was about to kick him again when a voice said, If you kill him, you’ll never know what happened to Nicky Hubbard.
Darby kicked his gun across the floor. Her head was pounding, her stomach roiling; she gulped in air, trying to clear her head, trying to keep the sour mash of breakfast from coming up. The room smelled of cordite and blood, and she could hear Williams moaning in the kitchen. She sat on the floor, leaning back against the carpet and working her cuffed hands over her rump and the back of her legs.
Her wrists were still bound, but her hands were in front of her now. Kneeling, she found Lancaster’s handcuffs, then she pulled his hands behind his back and cuffed him. She got to her feet, dizzy and nauseous, and entered the kitchen.
Ray Williams’s head bobbed up, and he made a sick, wheezing sound.
‘Give me a minute and I’ll have you outta there,’ she panted, and removed a knife from the butcher’s block next to the stove.
Darby sat at the breakfast nook where Sally Kelly had served tea to her yesterday and propped her arms on the table. Because of the way her hands were bound, it took her a moment to angle the blade correctly so she could saw through the plastic without slitting a wrist in the process.
It was slow going. Her hands were not steady, shaky from the adrenalin, and the pounding in her head made it difficult to concentrate.
Finally, her hands were free. Darby made quick work of Williams’s bindings. He slumped back against the chair as his fingers scratched at the duct tape plastered across his mouth. She helped him to peel it off.
‘My ribs,’ Williams wheezed. ‘I think he broke them.’
He needed to stand to reduce the pressure and strain. Darby threw his heavy arm around her shoulder, and when she helped him to his feet he locked her in a chokehold.
To perform a standing rear-chokehold correctly, you need to wrap one arm around the victim’s throat. You place your other hand squarely on the back of the head and, gripping the hair, push the head forward while cutting off the airway. All it takes is five pounds of pressure; it takes more force to crack an egg. Almost always, the victim is immediately subdued.
But Darby McCormick is no ordinary victim. She’s a cop and, like me, she has not only been trained in the art of the chokehold, she knows how to break out of one. She knows to sink her chin against the crook of my elbow and hold on to my arm while she crouches forward. She knows she needs to wrap one of her legs around the back of my calf to trap my leg, then turn a sharp 180 degrees to break out of the hold – and she needs to do it fast, because the blood flow to her brain has already been cut by 13 per cent.
Which is why I immediately launch myself backwards while I hold on to her, squeezing. I pull her out of the kitchen and into the hall, where I press my back against the wall. Now she has no way to free herself. She’s trapped, thrashing against my chest, using her elbows to deliver sharp blows against my ribs. But my ribs are fine; I lied to get her to help me up so I could easily grab her.
Six seconds later, her vision fails.
In eight seconds her frontal cortex shuts down.
Nine seconds in, and she slumps in my arms, completely unconscious. I could keep squeezing and kill her right now and be done with it all; or I could take advantage of this tremendous blessing.
I release my grip and carry her into the living-room. Not wanting to cause any further trauma to her face, I lay her down against the couch. Her face will heal in time, and then she’ll look as radiant and beautiful as the day when she stepped inside the entryway of the Downes home. God willing, we’ll have plenty of adventures together, she and I.
But I have to act quickly.
I push her hands behind her back and secure her wrists with the steel handcuffs from my belt. Sally Kelly has a pair of decorative Christmas dish-rags hanging from the stove handle. I retrieve them and stuff one in Darby’s mouth. The other I use as a makeshift blindfold.
Then I notice Teddy Lancaster is watching me. His eyes are open, blinking; he either can’t or won’t move. A deep, gurgling sound escapes his bloody lips as I pick up his silenced Glock. He tries to raise a hand, about to speak, when I park a round into his brainpan, the gunshot as loud as a balloon popping. I toss the nine on the floor and my head throbs in what feels like hundreds of different places. It’s difficult to concentrate, and the floor doesn’t feel stable underneath my boots.
The burner is still tucked inside my jacket pocket. I take it out and call Sarah as I step into the bathroom off the hall. The window facing me is dark; night has fallen. Another blessing.
‘I was getting worried,’ she says.
‘You still parked down the street?’ I’ve asked Sarah to shadow me, to stick close by, in case we need to run together.
‘I’m still there, like you asked,’ Sarah says. ‘What’s wrong with your voice?’
I yank down a pink bath towel hanging on a rack. ‘Teddy hit me in the face with a billy club and split my lips open.’
‘Teddy who?’
‘I’ll explain later,’ I say, and march back towards the living-room. ‘I need you to come here. Now.’
‘There’s a police car parked in the driveway. I’m looking at it through the binoculars.’
‘They’re all dead. Hurry – and bring my kit. Make sure no one sees you.’
I hang up, not knowing why I said that last part, as Kelly, like everyone else who lives in Red Hill, doesn’t have any nearby neighbours. The advantage of hunting in a town like this instead of a city is that you don’t have to worry as much about potential witnesses.
But I’ve never hunted in Red Hill or in any of the other nearby towns. I’ve always abducted my women either from out of state or from someplace very far away from Red Hill, which is how I’ve managed to hunt all these years without getting caught. When the Red Hill Ripper started killing here, though, I saw it as an opportunity to take women closer to home – women like Tricia Lamont – and blame it on the Red Hill Ripper.<
br />
Is there time to take Tricia today? I’ve never had two women at once. The possibilities are … No. No, I’m being greedy. The McCormick bitch is my prize.
Darby moans as I use the towel to tie her ankles together. The knot won’t hold for long, but it will prevent her from kicking. I sit next to her and use my weight to pin her face and chest against the back of the couch. I pat down her pockets but I don’t find her satellite phone. Did she leave it out in the patrol car? No, there it is, lying on the bloodied carpet.
Darby has come back to life; I can feel the muscles in her back tensing just as Sarah’s SUV pulls into the driveway. Seconds later, the front door opens. Sarah no longer flinches or pales at the sight of the blood and carnage; she’s seen it before, many, many times. The small black leather case is gripped in her gloved hand.
‘Don’t come inside,’ I say. I don’t want her footprints to be discovered inside the house. ‘Just toss me the kit.’
Sarah is staring at Lancaster’s body.
‘That’s Teddy,’ I say. ‘Teddy Lancaster. He’s the Red Hill Ripper.’
‘So he’s the one who recorded you inside the bed-room?’
I nod. ‘The video was on Savran’s MacBook, along with all the others. The laptop is now at the bottom of the river. Now toss –’
‘What if he made copies?’
‘One thing at a time, Sarah. Now hurry up and toss me the kit.’
She does. I use my teeth to unzip it, then take out a preloaded syringe. Sarah watches me with a strange mixture of anger, fear and, I think, jealousy, as I sink the needle into Darby’s neck and inject her with Etorphine. The opioid is several thousand times more potent than morphine, and I need only a small amount to send her off into the valley of sweet dreams.
‘You said this wasn’t about her.’
‘It isn’t,’ I say. ‘It just worked out this way. You got the latex gloves in your pocket, like I asked?’
Sarah nods. Looks disappointed. Hurt.
