Ellie wished she’d tried harder to warn all the other teachers at the school. She didn’t know any of them very well. They probably would have thought she was crazy.
She wondered what kind of fatal “accident” would befall the woman he’d selected for tonight. It would have to be something involving the neck or throat again because Valerie Toomey had been strangled. Would it look like the victim had slipped in the shower and broken her neck—or possibly fallen against the shower door and severed her throat on the broken glass? Maybe he’d set it up to look like an automobile accident. He could break her neck ahead of time, place her in the driver’s seat, and push her car off a bluff. Or maybe he’d somehow even set it up to look like Isadora Duncan’s fatal car ride—her long, flowing scarf choking her to death as it snagged in the wheel of a speeding sports car. What kind of creative, sick scenario had this killer dreamed up for tonight’s “tribute”?
And how quickly would Detective Castino and Father O’Hurley accept it as another unfortunate accident?
Ellie left the laptop on and returned to the living room. With the remote, she switched off the muted TV. Then she opened the drapes. She usually kept them open anyway. For the last few hours, it had felt slightly claustrophobic in there.
In the darkened living room, she sat down on the couch and stared out the window. The night was still. Nothing was moving out there. The wet grass of the recently watered front lawn glistened in the moonlight. An old beat-up station wagon was parked across the street. It hadn’t been there when she’d last checked a half hour ago. All the lights were off in the house across the way. So, who was this new arrival?
She glanced at Nate again. In the dim light, the faint burn scar on one side of his forehead was barely noticeable. But Nate’s souvenir from the cabin explosion reminded Ellie that he was a hunted man. This tribute killer wasn’t their only concern. Someone else was out there, someone who may have murdered Kayla Kennedy and been involved in the “murder” of Nate, as well as the murders of his brother and their two girlfriends.
She heard a clanking sound—like bottles banging together in a bag. It came from the front yard. Straightening up, Ellie stared out the window. She saw a man dart behind a tree on the front lawn.
“Nate!” she whispered, reaching over and shaking him. “Someone’s outside!”
He quickly sat up. He started putting on his shoes.
Beside the same tree, Ellie glimpsed a small flame—from a match or a lighter the man was holding. The flame suddenly swelled into a flare. She realized he’d just ignited a Molotov.
“Go out the back!” Nate urged her. He reached into his bag. “Call the police!”
Ellie jumped up from the sofa, but froze for a second as she saw the man hurl the Molotov toward the front window. It smashed against the outer ledge and burst into flames.
She suddenly realized two men were out there. She didn’t recognize the second guy. But the one who had thrown the bottle was Larry Deacon, whom she’d helped put in prison two years ago. He’d served eighteen months for arson. She was almost positive it was him. But she didn’t have much time to study his face before the fire and smoke outside her window obscured her view.
Nate finally found his gun and stood up.
All at once, another Molotov smashed through the front window.
Ellie screamed at the explosion of fire and glass. With a roar, flames shot up from the carpeted floor, igniting the curtains.
“Die, you bitch!” she heard one of them shout.
Nate pushed her toward the kitchen. “Go! Get out the back way . . .”
Ellie heard glass smashing again, but it was too far off to be the front window. It must have been a Molotov that missed the house.
With the gun in his hand, Nate turned and ran to the front door. He struggled with the locks but finally got the door open and ducked outside.
Ellie heard car doors slamming and then the squeal of tires.
She hurried to the hallway closet and grabbed the fire extinguisher. She’d prepared for an attack like this. There was another extinguisher in the kitchen and another upstairs in her bedroom closet. With the extinguisher in her hands, she turned toward the living room, rapidly filling with smoke. She could feel the heat on her face. The fire seemed centered around the front window. Flames started to snake out along the carpeted floor; from the curtains, they licked the ceiling. Ellie could hear crackling. The smell was pungent.
Ellie held her breath as she pulled the pin to unlock the extinguisher’s discharge lever. Bracing herself, she stepped forward and aimed the hose nozzle at the floor, where the flames were the worst. She squeezed the lever, and the CO2 shot out with a loud hiss. Trying to keep her hands steady, she swept the vapor stream back and forth over the fire. Between the smoke and the plumes from the carbon dioxide, she couldn’t see much. But to her relief, she could no longer see any flames or sparks either. Still, Ellie kept squeezing the lever just to make certain the fire was out. Finally, she let the canister slip out of her hands and fall to the floor. It made a muffled, hollow thud.
Nate staggered back inside. He plopped the gun down on the hallway table, took her by the arms, and led her toward the kitchen, almost carrying her. She was surprised at his strength. He stood her by the kitchen counter and then looked her over—apparently to make sure she was all right. He started coughing and turned away to make a beeline to the back door. He unlocked and opened it.
Dazed, Ellie braced a hand on the counter. She watched him move over to the kitchen windows and open them.
“Front lawn’s wet,” he gasped. “The fire didn’t last out there. Are you okay?”
He didn’t wait for her to answer. Brushing past her, he hurried back into the front hallway and checked the living room. “You’ve put it out. You’re good . . .”
Ellie’s heart was still pounding. “Thanks,” she started to say, but then she choked on the word and went into a coughing fit.
“You okay?” Nate asked again.
She nodded, but covered her mouth as her coughing subsided.
He hovered by her for another moment. Then he turned and started searching around. He seemed to find what he was looking for—a pen and a pad of paper at the end of the counter. “I saw them,” he said, scribbling on the pad. “They were two white guys, late twenties . . .”
“I know one of them, Larry Deacon,” Ellie said, getting her breath back. She cleared her throat. “I helped put him in jail.”
“The two of them took off in a station wagon, a Chrysler, early two-thousand-something, I think, license plate N-F-B, nine-something . . .” Nate was still hunched over the counter, writing. “You need to call the police now. I’m sorry, but I can’t be here when they arrive . . .”
He handed her the piece of paper with his scribbling on it. “I can’t risk any contact with the cops. I’ve managed to avoid them for the last two years, and I’d like to keep it that way. Plus it won’t be good for you if anyone knew I was here. Your neighbor across the street came outside, but I don’t think he saw me. I’m pretty sure he’s called nine-one-one by now. You need to call them, too. I’m sorry. I wish I could stick around, but I can’t . . .”
Ellie nodded. “It’s okay. Go . . .”
He quickly kissed her on the cheek. Pulling away, he rushed into the hallway again and, moments later, came back with his revolver and overnight bag. He handed the gun to her. “Here, you should hold on to this until the police arrive . . .”
Then he bolted out the back door.
Ellie realized he was probably right about her neighbor calling the police.
In the distance, she heard the sirens.
At least they would be there for one teacher tonight.
Thursday, September 24, 2:36 A.M.
Ellie applied a few more pieces of duct tape to secure the flattened cardboard box and the Hefty bag that covered her broken window. One of the cops—a stocky, baby-faced young guy with red hair—had stuck around to help her tape everything in pl
ace. He must have felt sorry for her. Or maybe he’d been flirting with her. She really couldn’t tell anymore, it had been so long. But he’d helped her clean up the place a little. He’d left about five minutes ago.
Nate was right about a neighbor phoning the police. In fact, two neighbors had already called 911 before Ellie finally contacted them. The police and the fire department showed up two minutes after Nate had slipped out the back door.
While the police were there, Ellie offered each of them Cokes, coffee, and water. She’d also asked the young cop if they’d had any reports of a fellow teacher at Our Lady of the Cove who had been involved in an accident. He had no idea what she was talking about. She made up some explanation about having a weird premonition and left it at that.
The damage to her living room wasn’t as bad as Ellie had first thought. Right now, it was a mess. She needed a new window—including a sill and frame, new curtains, and a new living room carpet. The entire room would need to be repainted. And there was irreparable smoke and water damage to an occasional chair she’d never liked that much. She’d gotten off easy.
Still, she felt vulnerable and shaky—like it might happen again at any minute. She was also exhausted.
When her phone rang, Ellie almost jumped out of her skin.
Setting down the roll of duct tape, she hurried into the kitchen and grabbed the phone off the café table. The caller ID read Jensen, Nick.
She touched the phone screen. “Where are you?” she asked.
She hadn’t seen Nate’s car parked down the street when she’d walked the Good Samaritan cop to her front door. She’d figured Nate must have quietly driven away during all the police activity.
“I’m still in the neighborhood,” he said. “I kept coming back to check if the police were still there. Do you know if they got the guys yet?”
“Yes, thank God,” she sighed.
The Highwood police had caught Larry Deacon and his accomplice speeding down Waukegan Avenue. They’d found all the ingredients for making Molotov cocktails in the backseat of their 2005 Chrysler station wagon. Larry, like many of the guys she’d helped put away, was no criminal mastermind—not even very adept at pitching, it turned out. Ellie was scheduled to come into the station and identify the dim duo in a lineup at ten in the morning.
“It looks like the last patrol car pulled away a few minutes ago,” Nate said.
“You can see that from where you are now?”
“Yeah, and I don’t think you should be alone. Would you like me to come over?”
Ellie paused. “No, that’s okay. I’ve got your gun.”
There was silence on the other end.
She laughed. “I’m kidding. Yes, Nate. Yes, please, come over.”
“Be there in a minute,” he said.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Thursday, September 24, 11:40 A.M.
Ellie felt as if she were trespassing as she cut through the campus. She hadn’t dared to use her parking space in the teachers’ lot, and parked on Maple Hill Road instead. She kept thinking someone would spot her and call campus security to escort her off the premises—probably by that same short, swaggering, gun-chewing security guard who had watched her clean out her office yesterday.
She’d slept with Nate last night, just slept—she in a T-shirt and sweatpants, he in his underwear. They’d both been so exhausted, but it had felt right falling asleep in his arms.
When Ellie had awoken, he was already dressed and down in the kitchen making coffee. In the harsh light of morning, the charred, ravaged living room was a depressing sight. At least the coffee smell sort of covered up the odor of burnt, damp carpeting.
They ate breakfast together and listened to a live audio feed of local police dispatches on her laptop. There was nothing about a teacher from Our Lady of the Cove dying from a suicide or some bizarre accident.
In the middle of breakfast, the police called to remind her that she was needed at the station at ten. Then Ellie was on the phone with her insurance company for twenty minutes.
Nate wanted to go home and put on a tie and blazer to look respectable for Vivien Houghton this morning. He decided to leave by the back door—in case any of the neighbors were watching the house. He still had to keep a low profile, and her burnt-out front window seemed to be the neighborhood curiosity. At the kitchen door, he gave her a kiss on the lips—their first.
It was a surprise that left Ellie a little breathless. His lips were soft, and he was gentle about it. Then he was out the door.
There was no time for Ellie to think about the kiss or what it meant. She had to leave for the Lake Forest Police Station.
She positively identified Larry Deacon as the man who threw an incendiary device through her window. His accomplice was identified as Brent Mayhew of Oak Park. An American Family Preservationist member, he had a prior arrest for assault and two DUIs. His ex-wife had also recently sworn out a complaint on him for failure to pay child support.
Ellie spent at least an hour at the police station, answering questions and signing forms. While there, she confided in a forty-something, kind-faced cop: “I know it sounds crazy, but before all this happened last night, I was kind of nervous anyway because it was the fiftieth anniversary of when the Immaculate Conception Killer murdered a teacher from Blessed Heart of Mary College. You haven’t gotten any reports in this morning about a murder or fatal accident or anything like that involving a teacher from the university in Delmar, have you?”
The policeman did an expert job of pretending her inquiry wasn’t completely ludicrous. He even checked with the front desk before telling her no, she was the only teacher from Our Lady of the Cove who had had an “incident” last night.
That was when she’d decided to head to the campus to find out for sure whether or not the tribute killer had struck again.
Ellie kept her head down as she ducked into Emery Hall. She headed up to the bursar’s office and waved at her friend, Jeanne, sitting at her desk behind the counter. Jeanne looked surprised to see her. She quickly glanced over at her two coworkers in the office. As far as Ellie could tell, they hadn’t spotted her yet.
Jeanne hurried up to the counter. “Well, nice to see you,” she whispered. “But what the hell are you doing here?”
Ellie smiled, but winced a bit, too. “Asking you for a favor, Jeanne.”
“That’s aiding and abetting the enemy. You’re persona non grata around here, honey.” Jeanne peeked over her shoulder for a moment and then faced Ellie again. “If it’s any consolation, the general consensus around here is that you got a raw deal. What can I do for you, Ellie?”
“Thanks, Jeanne,” she said in a hushed voice. With the counter between them, Ellie leaned in closer to her. “Is there a way to find out if any teachers—besides me—didn’t show up for work today?”
* * *
Our Lady of the Rosary Nursing and Rehabilitation Center was a sprawling two-story, redbrick building with white shutters. The double-door front entrance looked impressive with its four-columned portico.
But the inside was depressing. The kitchen staff must have been frying some cut-rate frozen fish for lunch. The greasy, acrid smell hit Nate the moment he stepped inside the facility. At the front desk, by a statue of Mary, a sour-faced receptionist told him that Vivien Houghton was probably in the dayroom—down the hall. She made Nate print and sign his name on a visitor’s check-in sheet on a clipboard. She didn’t ask to see his ID, so he signed in as Sidney Falco, Tony Curtis’s character in Sweet Smell of Success. The receptionist wrote the name on a label that said VISITOR across the top. Nate stuck the label to his blazer.
The long hallway had handrails on both sides—and a color scheme that was popular in 1990: beige, hunter green, and mauve. Nate didn’t peek inside any of the rooms as he passed the open doors. Parked outside several of them were patients slouched in wheelchairs, many of them asleep. They all looked like they’d been waiting for someone who had forgotten to take them somewhere. A fe
w of the patients were in pajamas and robes, and others had been dressed hastily in a combination of street clothes and nightwear—so one old woman wore a pretty cardigan with her nightgown, and an eighty-something gentleman with a walker had on a food-stained V-neck T-shirt and a loud pair of checkered golf pants he must have bought in the pro shop back in 1979.
Nate found the dayroom at the end of the hallway. It was a large space with big windows looking out at the parking lot. One entire wall had bookshelves crammed with books. There was also a gas fireplace with a mantel made of cheap fake wood. The tables and chairs all looked like they were made of that same laminate material. And again, the color scheme was beige, hunter green, and mauve—only it looked more faded, like everything had been dusted with a fine coat of baby powder. All the framed prints on the walls were of Jesus, Mary, or some saint. The tabletop decorations were crucifixes or vases with plastic flowers. The syrupy music piped over the sound system must have been Nurse Ratched’s playlist from One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest.
About a dozen people were using the room—including two old ladies, each with a set of visitors. A few wheelchairs had been temporarily abandoned by their occupants, who were seated nearby in comfy-looking chairs, reading, working crossword puzzles, or dozing. Two elderly women played cards at a table in the corner. And at another table—over by the window, an emaciated blond woman sat alone in front of a jigsaw puzzle. She was very neatly dressed in a navy blue skirt and lavender blouse. A four-prong cane stood beside her chair. She didn’t seem to fit in with this crowd at all. She looked like she belonged in some posh country-club type of rest home instead.
Nate had a feeling he’d found the Bonners’ former housekeeper.
She didn’t look up as he approached her. She seemed focused on her puzzle. The box for the jigsaw puzzle was on the spare chair: one thousand pieces of Van Gogh’s Café Terrace at Night. She’d already put together all the outside pieces.
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