His body basked in the much needed hit, reveled in the high, the rush, a sensation that continued to reach new heights each time, as did the cleansing and replenishment that came with it. Like the first drop of water after days of wandering the desert.
It was incredible.
He watched the young man stiffen, his eyes widen, and knew for that brief moment, for those precious few seconds, the commingling of their energy had the nerdy young man experiencing an extraordinary high, one unlike anything he’d ever experienced in his young life before.
But it wouldn’t stay that way.
He wished it would.
It’d make things so much easier.
But the young man’s rush was gone in seconds, his high crumbling as quickly as it had risen. And when it left, the young man grabbed his temple to stop the pain, just like all the others had before him. But there was nothing he could do. The pain was the result of the explosion of blood that had built up in his brain as it rushed to feed the enormous activity that had his synapses shooting off like the Fourth of July.
And then, like the rest, he collapsed, dead before his skull even struck the sidewalk.
It was done.
“Peter!”
The shout came from behind, under the scaffolding. It was a young woman. She looked to be about the same age as the guy he’d just attacked. Pale skin, shoulder length blond hair with a few pink streaks running through it, skinny legs sticking out of skimpy shorts. A tight white Yankees T-shirt showed off a flat stomach, with an almost equally flat chest. She was probably the one the kid was talking about as he peed.
“What happened?” she cried out, staring straight into his eyes, seeing them clearly.
And then there was the flash of recognition.
She knew him.
He scoped the block, looking for anyone else. There was no one.
Just them.
The girl was still stuck on him, maybe trying to figure out how she knew him, where she’d seen him before. Probably too shocked, or maybe too drunk, to piece it together right then. But as the man glanced at the “NY” symbol on the shirt, he knew she would figure it out eventually. She wasn’t even focusing on the young man anymore, probably thinking he’d just passed out because he was drunk.
He couldn’t let her go. He couldn’t risk it. The next day was way too important.
Compartmentalize.
He didn’t pick up the slightest vibe from her. She wasn’t a match.
So he did what he had to.
He reached out and grabbed her, shock registering in her eyes as she recognized what was happening, realizing her worst fears were coming to life, knowing every neurotic worried thought her mother and father had voiced telling her to be careful, worrying when she came home late, every damn fear was happening right then. She was about to die, and there wasn’t a damn thing she could do to stop it. And she knew it. For those horrifying few seconds, she knew. Her life was going to be over before it ever really started.
He hesitated this time, though. Paused for a brief second. Somehow killing her with his hands had a different impact on him than doing it with his mind.
It felt more real. Harder to justify.
“Please,” she whimpered. “Don’t do it. Please.”
The voice was so gentle, so soft, so much like a little girl’s.
But he had no choice.
It had to be done.
He turned her around and wrapped one arm around her chest and grasped her forehead and paused, looked down at the pink streaks in her hair, wondered what her parents thought when she came home with them, if they yelled at her or just let her be who she was. He hoped it was the latter. He hoped they were accepting, supportive. He didn’t want them to regret not having been easier on her.
It would be hard enough.
Then, without further hesitation, he twisted her neck violently, snapping it.
He let go and watched her limp body fall to the ground.
It had to be done, he told himself again.
He was about to leave when he realized leaving them in that condition would be too blatant an act for anyone in-the-know to ignore. Random strokes were one thing, but a gruesome murder next to one of those strokes was something else entirely.
He had to clean it up.
He knelt down next to the young man and cradled his head in one arm, pushed the other one against his chest and, just like with the girl, twisted and snapped his neck like a toothpick, making sure it remained in the awkward position.
Then he stuffed it all into that deepest corner of his mind, never to be visited again.
Just like Dale Carnegie said to do.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
He couldn’t believe it was happening, but there it was, right on the computer screen in front of him.
Kyle was in his office working on a research article when he checked the score of the Yankees game, curious to see if Evan Hillier was going to bounce back from the poor outing the week before. The afternoon game was already in the ninth inning when he pulled up the box score, and the first thing he noticed was the zeroes. One in every column. He quickly switched to a live feed, his nerves tingling with excitement as he cursed the multicolored circle spinning around on his Macbook taking its sweet time to load the feed.
He’d never seen one live before.
But there it was, happening before his eyes as the video finally streamed in.
A perfect game.
He watched Evan Hillier wind up and deliver a first pitch fastball to the second batter in the ninth, the Tigers’ hitter smoothly swinging through the strike zone, nailing the pitch right on the barrel. The ball jumped off the bat and toward center field, then nestled into the fielder’s waiting mitt right at the warning track as Kyle held his breath.
Two more outs for history.
Kyle checked the text that had just come through. It was Eddie. “Holy crap!!! Are you watching???”
He looked up and felt the tension of the entire stadium as Hillier shook off the catcher. Twice. Not good, Kyle thought. He wondered if the catcher was going to jog to the mound, try to settle Hillier down. But he didn’t. He let him be.
The announcer’s voice was electric as he called the windup. It was a curve, a nasty one, but the hitter got enough to send a dribbler into the no-man’s land between home and the mound, then made off like a bullet toward first. Other than a straight hit, it may have been the worst possible placement. Hillier and the catcher both ran toward the ball, but it had dribbled too far away for the catcher to make a play. So Hillier grabbed it with his bare hand then spun around like a top and threw a perfect strike to the first baseman, who was already fully stretched out. The ball popped into the mitt just as the runner’s foot came crashing down on the base.
All eyes were on the ump.
The burly man raised his hand emphatically.
Out!
The crowd erupted and the twenty-nine-year-old journeyman feel good story of the year pumped his fist into his mitt. The game was straight out of a Disney movie, Kyle thought. Hillier had pitched with the Padres sporadically when he first came up, fluctuating between the majors and Triple A, his high nineties fastball getting him the repeated call-ups, but his lack of control unable to keep him there. Then he blew out his shoulder when he was twenty-five and, after making it back a year later, blew out his elbow in one of his first minor league rehab starts. When he finally made it back to the minors after taking more than a year to recuperate, his fastball only peaked at ninety and his control was still lacking. But he kept at it, jumping around in the minors and independent leagues until showing marked improvement in winter ball down in the Mexican Pacific League, where Hillier impressed one of the Yankees’ scouts enough to be invited to spring training. But even then, even though he pitched well, he started the season in the minors, only getting the call when the second Yankees starter went down early in the season. Since then he put together an amazing string of starts, especially at home where he had a perf
ect record and an ERA under one. His fastball was up in the mid-nineties again, and his control had become impeccable. Many compared his maturation to what Randy Johnson had gone through, taking years to learn to control his power pitches. They figured he would have come around even sooner if not for the double surgeries. Whatever the case, he had everyone rooting for him. But it was a feel-good story many had predicted was about to end, as his last outing was pedestrian at best. Most thought the run had ended, the bubble had burst.
But as Kyle watched the third hitter foul off Hillier’s first pitch, it was clear the bubble was well intact.
Kyle’s eyes were glued to the screen as Hillier tossed the second pitch, the batter flailing at the knee-buckling curve. His skin crawled with anticipation as the announcer didn’t utter a word, letting the anxious din of the crowd take over until Hillier entered his windup, bringing the ball to his chest, then reared back for the pitch—another curve, and another swing.
And another miss.
Perfection.
Absolutely incredible.
Kyle’s phone rang as Hillier threw his glove in the air and ran into his catcher’s waiting arms.
“Unbelievable,” Kyle answered, not even bothering to let Eddie say a word.
But it wasn’t Eddie on the other end.
“Guess you were expecting someone else?”
The voice surprised Kyle and snapped him back to the moment.
“Tom?”
“Yes. Now tell me, what the hell did you do to get those stroke victims’ records requisitioned?”
The excitement of Hillier’s perfect game quickly vanished as Kyle digested the question. “The records were pulled?”
“That’s what it says on the database.”
“By who?”
“Doesn’t say, but I’m assuming the usual suspect.”
“Police?”
“That’s my guess.”
Kyle straightened himself in his chair. “So they’re looking into it?”
“They’re doing more than that,” Tom said. “Taking the files after someone reports suspicious activity isn’t much of a big deal alone. But that’s not all that happened here.”
“It’s not?”
“No,” Tom said, “not only did they requisition the original files, but they’ve now classified them as ‘sensitive,’ and once they’re deemed sensitive they’re blocked from FOIL requests. To get hold of them you’d have to fight it out with a subpoena.”
“And that isn’t normal procedure?”
“It’s done for certain cases, but only for those where there’s really something going on.” Tom paused. “Is there something more going on here?”
Kyle felt his face freeze. “I … I don’t know,” he said. “I mean, you saw the same stats I saw. It’s weird, right?”
“Weirder than you can even imagine.”
Kyle’s brow knotted as he muted the volume on the computer. “How’s that?”
“You know those two kids they found this morning?”
“Of course,” he said. Everyone knew about it. It was all over the news. Two twenty-year-olds murdered on the Lower East Side, not too far from where Allie had collapsed. Both had their necks snapped. It had the entire city on edge, especially parents. He was glad Bree had left for sleepaway camp and was out of the city. The photos of the two victims were splashed everywhere. The young man was a sophomore at Cornell. The young woman a freshman at NYU.
“Well,” Tom said, “I looked at what was posted on the OCME’s site after the preliminary examinations were performed, and there was something odd about the guy.”
“What?”
There was a hesitation.
“What was it? What was odd?” Kyle asked.
“You’ve got to promise me you won’t say anything to anyone,” Tom said. “Not to anyone.”
“I promise.”
“I can get in a lot of trouble for this, especially since the other reports are now marked sensitive.”
“I promise,” Kyle said, standing up now and looking out his small window, focusing for no reason at all on the fleet of cabs weaving their way in and out of traffic down Lexington Avenue. “What was so odd about the guy? And how does it have anything to do with the hemorrhage deaths?”
“Surprised you haven’t figured it out already,” Tom said.
And just as the words came out of Tom’s mouth, Kyle did figure it out.
“Holy shit,” he said. “The guy had a ruptured aneurysm, didn’t he?”
“He did according to the preliminary report.”
“The girl, too?”
“No,” Tom said. “Just the broken neck. But after I saw that the guy had the brain hemorrhage I was curious, so I went back to the other reports, the ones I told you about before. And that’s when I found out they’d been marked sensitive and I couldn’t get access to them.”
“Jesus,” Kyle said, sitting back down. “What do you think it is?”
“No clue.”
“Is there any way you can find out why they requisitioned the files? What they’re investigating?”
“No,” Tom said. “I’m not even sure they are investigating. I’m just assuming they are because the files were marked sensitive. But it might not have even been the NYPD who did that.”
“Who else could it be?”
“Any number of agencies. And it doesn’t just have to be at the city level. Could be at the state level, or maybe the Feds. Any one of them.”
“Are you going to talk to the police about it?” Kyle asked.
“Me? Why would I? Are you?”
“You think I should?”
“I don’t see why you would. She passed out, right? You didn’t see anything happen, did you?”
Kyle hadn’t told Tom about the man in the alley, or the texts. “No, I didn’t.”
“So what would you say?”
“Nothing, I guess.”
There was silence between them, some undefined level of discomfort. Kyle felt it, but couldn’t quite put his finger on it. It was as if Tom knew he was holding something back.
“Can you let me know if you hear anything?” Kyle asked.
“Sure,” Tom said. “And you do the same.”
Kyle said he would, then hung up. He’d barely ended the call when his BlackBerry started ringing again. He looked at the caller ID.
Liam.
It was almost as if the man had a sixth sense and knew about the conversation he’d just had. Kyle let his voicemail pick it up. He needed to think, to sort things out and figure out what the hell was going on. The coincidence was too much. Should he go to the police? And if he did, what could he say that they didn’t already know?
But he already knew the answer to that question.
The man.
They didn’t know about the man in the alley. His being there had to be more than a coincidence.
He leaned back in his chair, wondering how to attack the problem as he watched the Yankees silently continue to celebrate Hillier’s perfect game. He heard a slight knock on his door, and looked up to find standing in the doorway one of the last people he expected to see. Someone he’d never met before in his life, but still knew who she was instantly. It was as if he were staring at Allie twenty years in the future. The resemblance was uncanny.
But it wasn’t Allie standing there, it was the woman he’d hoped and prayed he’d never have to meet.
Her mother.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The woman’s long hair was pulled back, revealing a perfectly smooth forehead, something Kyle assumed was the handiwork of a Botox treatment. Not that she needed it. Just like Allie, she had bright, captivating green eyes that sparkled, and soft skin that had probably gone through every top-of-the-line moisturizer on the market.
“Kyle Vine?” she hesitantly asked as she stood in the doorway.
Kyle nodded.
“I’m Nicki Shelton,” she said, holding the door slightly open but not having entered. “Allie Shelton’s
mother.”
Kyle stood up. “Yes. Of course,” he said. “The resemblance is hard to miss.”
She smiled, but it was a strained and tired effort, and it was then Kyle noticed the slight bags under her eyes the makeup couldn’t hide. She probably hadn’t slept much since Allie had slipped into a coma. Probably barely even left the hospital.
“Hope you don’t mind me coming here like this,” she said. “But when I realized how close I was to the school, I felt I had to come by.” She quickly scanned the small office, her eyes catching the photos of Bree before lingering on the crooked What About Bob? poster hanging on the far wall.
All Kyle could think of was the texts. That she knew about them. That she probably wanted to rip his heart out.
“I thought it better to thank you for what you’re doing in person.”
Thank him?
“And since I was over at the temple anyway,” she nodded toward the window in the direction of the iconic Park East Synagogue just around the block, “I thought I’d stop by.”
Kyle arched his brow. “Thank me?” he asked, still standing in front of his desk, not even having shown the good manners to ask her in.
“Right. For helping us,” she said. “Liam told me how the two of you have been trying to get to the bottom of what happened to Allie.”
Kyle didn’t know where to start. Didn’t know whether to tell her he wasn’t even sure what the hell her brother was talking about, or that the man’s quirky behavior and bizarre theories seemed borderline delusional.
“Please,” he said, motioning for her to enter his office, “have a seat.”
She sat in the same wobbly chair her brother had a few days earlier.
“How’s Allie doing?” The question was a reflexive one, an icebreaker. The type one feels compelled to start off with even when they already know the answer.
“No change,” she said.
“And how are you holding up?”
“Praying for the best,” she said, pursing her lips and swallowing back her emotions as her eyes became glassy, “and not thinking about the worst.”
He gave her a soft, comforting gaze, letting her know without words that he felt her pain. Then he eased her back toward more comfortable ground, away from the discussion that had her on the verge of breaking down in front of him. “I take it you’re a member of the synagogue?”
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