by Joel Goldman
"Tom," I said, "Maggie Brennan has lived here for over a year. Why haven't you talked with her in all that time? Maybe she remembers something that would help you solve the case. She's had a lifetime to think about what happened. A sixty-year-old woman can be a much better witness than a ten-year-old girl, even after all these years."
He jammed the poker into the burning wood, his back to me. "Like I told missy, ask me after you find her."
"That may be too late. Why haven't you talked to her?"
He faced me, his eyes flickering, his cheeks reddening. He took a deep breath. "That woman scares me more than anyone I've ever known."
Chapter Sixty-seven
"You know what you're saying," Lucy said.
He grabbed a fresh log from a copper bin next to the fireplace and threw it onto the hot coals, watching as it cracked and burst into flames.
"I reckon that's why I've had such a hard time saying it all these years. Can't hardly believe it myself. I had it in my head that someone else would prove me right."
"What did you see that no one else saw?" I asked.
He stirred the fire again, set the poker down and wiped his hands on his pants. "I never seen anyone as cool as that little girl. Doc said she was in shock, that's why she didn't cry, but I watched her when she didn't think anyone was looking. She always had this tight little smile, like she had a secret. And then there was her hands. She had powerful little hands. Sheriff Beedles, the doctors, the DA, everybody felt so bad for her. A week after the murders, I said something to the sheriff maybe we ought to ask her if she did it since we weren't getting anywhere and he looked at me like I was a crazy
man, so after that, I shut my mouth."
"But you kept tabs on her."
He nodded. "Read the local papers where she lived. Every jurisdiction has its unsolved murders but a lot of them seemed to happen near where she lived. After she finished her schooling, she moved every two to three years, usually right after there was a run of dead bodies and no suspects."
I thought about how she had asked me if I thought there was a madman on the loose and whether I would protect her and how, when I promised I would, she had squeezed my arm and told me that she was glad and wouldn't worry. I thought about Janet Casey saying that Maggie always wore the same gray overcoat and how I had met Maggie in the elevator the day after Anne Kendall was murdered wearing a new black coat.
She'd interviewed Tom Delaney and Regina Blair and knew as much as Anthony Corliss did about their nightmares, more than enough to convince Delaney to let her into his apartment and Blair to meet her at the parking garage. Corliss must have told her about Walter Enoch stealing the mail, giving her the leverage she needed to make Enoch open the door for her. And she could have learned about Leonard Nagel and Gary Kaufman in the same way I assumed Corliss had.
The difference between her and Corliss that had kept her off my radar was the improbability of a female serial killer, though she had debunked that as well, cautioning me not to confuse the unfamiliar with the improbable. It had all been there in front of me and I had failed to see it, focusing instead on the familiar and the probable.
"I don't believe it," Lucy said. "A ten-year-old girl. I don't believe it."
"It fits," I said, summarizing everything.
Lucy shook her head. "What if the woman in Las Cruces was telling the truth about Gary Kaufman? He fits a lot better than Maggie Brennan."
"Why? Because she's a woman?" Goodell said. "I've seen figures say as many as eight percent of serial killers are women. They're called quiet killers because people have such a hard time believing that about a woman."
"No," Lucy said. "Because she was ten years old, for Christ's sake! How many ten-year-olds murder their parents?"
"Like I told you," Goodell said, "ask me after you find her."
"The address on the incident report is an RFD address," I said, getting to my feet. "How do we get there?"
My knees buckled as I spoke. Lucy grabbed my arm, keeping me upright. Goodell, one eyebrow raised, stared at me.
"You okay?" he asked.
I tried to answer but my vocal cords froze.
"He's fine," Lucy said. "He's got a movement disorder that makes him shake. It's not a big deal."
"Uh-huh," Goodell said. "You carrying a weapon?" he asked me. I nodded. "Let me have a look at it."
I straightened and reached behind my back, handing him my Glock.
"Damn popgun. You take it, Missy," he said, giving the gun to Lucy.
She smiled and slipped the gun into her jacket pocket.
"Hey," I said, my voice restored.
"Don't hey me," Goodell said. "I'm not riding with anyone shaking and carrying at the same time."
"Who said anything about you riding anywhere?" I asked.
"You got as much chance finding the Brennan place in the dark as I do waking up next to Angelina Jolie."
He disappeared again, this time coming back wearing a parka and carrying a shotgun and a box of shells. "Winchester Speed Pump," he said, loading the gun. "The cure for an old man's bad aim. Let's go."
"What about your grandson?" Lucy asked. "You can't leave him here alone. His father will kick your ass."
"Right you are, missy." He turned to Simon. "Did you use to be a cop, too?"
"No. I stick to computers."
"Then you're elected. My grandson likes video games. Don't let him beat you. He can't stand that."
"No way am I staying here on babysitting duty."
Goodell racked the slide on his shotgun and took a step toward Simon who backed away.
"Someone has to stay," Lucy said. "Jack, Tom, and me, this is what we do."
Simon dropped his chin to his chest, reached into his pocket for his car keys, giving them to Lucy who kissed him on the cheek.
"We won't be gone long," she said.
Lucy drove, taking directions from Goodell. The interstate gave way to a state highway that took us onto a county road hard packed with snow and ice, our headlights the only illumination, the countryside invisible in the darkness, no cars coming from the opposite direction to show us what lay ahead. The road was unmarked, turnoffs impossible to see until we were on top of them. Goodell had been right. We'd have been lost on our own.
"Less than half a mile," he said as we rounded a curve on the road. "It'll be on your right, just past the tree line. Start slowing down or we'll miss it sure as hell."
Lucy eased off the gas, the sound of tires crunching snow breaking the silence. The headlights bounced off the tree line, bare branches glistening with ice. Goodell pointed to the trees with one hand, touching Lucy on her arm with the other.
"Here," he said.
The entrance to the farm was a narrow opening in a tangled hedgerow, branches scraping against the side of the car as we passed through. There was no way to make out the path of the drive except for a set of tire tracks that ran ahead of us. The ground opened up on either side, a rolling expanse gradually climbing toward the farmhouse.
A Chevy Suburban was parked in front of the house. Lucy aimed our headlights at the Suburban as I got out and circled it. The doors were locked. I cupped my hands against the glass to get a look inside but the glare from the headlights blinded me.
"Kill the lights," I said.
Lucy and Goodell got out of Simon's car, Lucy popping the trunk and finding a long-handled flashlight. Goodell took a slender Maglite from his coat pocket. They shined their lights inside the Suburban.
"There's some dark spots on the backseat. Could be blood but I can't tell for sure," Lucy said.
The house stood on a rise facing north, trees framing it on both sides, tall branches towering over the roofline from the back, the outline of a small barn visible on the far side of the trees to the east. There were no lights on that we could see.
I borrowed Lucy's flashlight, running the wide beam across the worn clapboard siding where scattered patches of bare wood mixed with the remains of faded paint. The foundation ha
d settled on the west side, giving the sagging porch a funhouse tilt, the second step missing in the set of four leading from the drive to the porch.
I handed the flashlight back to Lucy and looked at Goodell. He was a statue, clutching the shotgun across his body, his breath coming in short, icy puffs, his eyes darting and watering.
"How old are you, Tom?"
"Eighty-two, next month."
"It passes you by, doesn't it?"
He heaved a sigh. "More like it runs you over."
I took out my cell phone. "I'm going to call a KCPD homicide detective named Quincy Carter. You give him the license plate on the Suburban so he can trace it. Then tell him how to get here and stay on the line to make sure he doesn't get lost. We wouldn't have found this place without your help and he won't either."
He nodded, handing me his shotgun. "Can't miss with this even if you're doing the jitterbug. You'll want this too," he said, passing me his Maglite.
"Thanks."
Carter answered on the first ring.
"Where are you?" he asked.
"Out in the country. How'd you do with Frank Gentry?"
"Like you thought we would. He's clean. He can account for every second of every day for his entire life."
"I'm glad. Tell him I'm sorry for putting you on him."
"You can tell him. We found cars registered to Corliss and Maggie Brennan parked in a lot a block north of the Art Gallery and I heard back from the handwriting expert. Gary Kaufman wrote the list of initials you found in Corliss's desk. I'm thinking that drunken old woman was right about him and her cat."
"Maybe. You have a line on him yet?"
"He's in the wind but I'm betting if we find him we'll find his wife and Maggie Brennan. Though I have to tell you, at the rate we're going, it doesn't look good."
"What's he drive?"
"A Chevy Suburban," Carter said.
I stared at the Suburban and the house. "You're right, it doesn't look good."
"What are you doing out in the country?"
"I'm going to let a friend of mine explain that to you," I said and handed the phone to Goodell.
"Listen up, detective. This is Sheriff Tom Goodell, retired."
I turned to Lucy. "Check out the barn. Then take a look around the back of the house. If there's a door, come in that way. I'll meet you inside."
She marched away, holding the Glock at her side, aiming her flashlight into the darkness. I racked the slide on the shotgun and stepped over the missing stair.
Chapter Sixty-eight
Fifty years later, the door was still unlocked, opening without complaint, the top edge clanging against a bell hanging from a rod bolted to the wall, loud enough to tell anyone inside that they had company. A gust of wind followed me across the threshold, the icy air biting the back of my neck.
I swept the entryway with the Maglite, holding the shotgun level, my finger on the trigger. A chandelier missing half its lightbulbs hung from the ceiling. A wall switch made a hollow click without turning anything on.
The entryway opened into rooms on my left and right, pieces of broken furniture littering the floors. A rat ignored me, chewing on the remnants of an upholstered chair. A hallway ran from the entry to the back of the house, a steep flight of stairs breaking into the middle of the hall on the right.
I stood at the foot of the stairs, listening, the only sound coming from the roof as it groaned against the wind. I shined the Maglite up the stairs, the beam bouncing off warped hardwood and peeling wallpaper. The first stair creaked under my weight, as did the second and third. I stopped, waiting for a sign or sound of life, starting again when no one called out, asking who's there or begging me to hurry.
There was a closed door at the top of the stairs. I opened it a fraction, enough to taste the bitter, coppery smell of blood. I raised the shotgun, eased back on the trigger, steadying the stock under my arm, dropped to one knee, and shoved the door open.
Janet Casey and Gary Kaufman lay side-by-side in a four-poster bed, naked, bound, gagged, and dead, their throats cut, their torsos slit open, their intestines gleaming under my flashlight. I stood and leaned against the wall as tremors ripped through me, muscle spasms snapping me at the waist, twisting me to the floor. Using the shotgun as a crutch, I got to my feet and stumbled into the hall.
A dim light shone from beneath a door at the other end of the hall. I staggered toward it, aiming the barrel chest high, and kicked the door off its hinge, stepping into another bedroom. Double-wide French doors on the back wall leading to a balcony swayed open in the wind.
Maggie Brennan stood on the far side of a double bed wearing a nightgown soaked in crimson, her bloody arms hanging at her sides, her hands empty.
"What took you so long?" she asked me.
"Don't move."
A shaded lamp on a nightstand next to a rumpled bed provided the only light. Her gray overcoat lay on the bed, pockmarked with dark stains I was certain were remnants of Anne Kendall's blood. A throw rug was piled in the center of the hardwood floor, three narrow planks, their bent nails aimed at the ceiling, lay alongside the rug, leaving a six-inch by twelve-inch hole in the floor. She took a step toward me.
"I said, don't move."
"I won't."
Her voice was quiet and cold, her face flat, her expression resigned but unafraid. I knelt next to the hole, catching glimpses of a thick book punctured by a bullet, a jeweled tennis bracelet, a severed finger and ear, a knife flecked with flesh and blood, and a single sheet of pink stationery in familiar handwriting, the first words reading Dear Daddy, I'm so sorry. I shook again as my heart slammed against my chest. She took another step.
I forced myself to my feet and aimed the shotgun at her chest. "Don't make me tell you again."
I choked on the words, my breath coming hard. She stayed where she was, watching me until the tremors passed.
"Souvenirs," she said. "If you think about it at all, it's the one really stupid thing I did. Especially taking your daughter's letter. But Milo Harper sent the e-mail about you and then I found the letter and it made such sense, it seemed so orderly. Then, when you walked into Anthony's office last week, I knew you were the one."
"What one?"
"The man in my nightmare, the one that would kill me."
"Your aunt said you dreamt that you would die the same way as your parents did. A man didn't kill them. You did."
"You can't blame me, can you? What was I supposed to say? That I dreamed of killing them again? They'd have put me away. I told the sheriff that a man had come and murdered my parents so my dream had to match the story. You know the funny thing about it?"
"There can't be one."
"Ironic then. That became my nightmare. I kill my parents and, afterward, a man comes to kill me. I assume you saw Janet and Gary. We've done our parts. I trust that you will do yours."
"What happened to you? Did your parents abuse you?"
She laughed. "That would make it easier, wouldn't it? You might almost forgive me or at least feel badly for me."
"Did they?"
"No. They couldn't have loved me more and I couldn't have felt it less. I realized that I was different when I was very young and my mother would hug me and I felt nothing. I started experimenting, trying to feel something, anything. I'd do something good and get nothing out of it. So I tried more intense experiments. We lived on a farm and there were always plenty of small animals around. That was no better but at least it was interesting. Killing my parents settled it for me though it was years before I understood why I have no emotions. There's something missing in my brain, in the ventromedial frontal cortex and the amygdala."
"That's a poor excuse."
"I'm a scientist and scientists don't make excuses. We explain the physical world."
"By killing people? What were they to you? Lab rats?"
"Not in the way you imagine, but in my world, yes. The study of trauma will only take us so far in understanding the brain. The real lessons
come in controlling and observing the moment of death. Most of my subjects were tortured and tormented long before I chose them."
"How did you choose them?"
"The ones who'd been traumatized when they were young produced the best nightmares. Milo Harper asked Anthony for some good examples and Anthony let me choose them. I put them to a better use than he would have with his silly lucid dreaming nonsense."
"So you killed them in the name of science?"
"You mock me, but, no. Not all. Some were in the name of necessity, like Anthony Corliss. He told me that Gary suspected I was the killer. Gary even made a list with Tom Delaney, Regina Blair, Walter Enoch, and Anne Kendall's initials and gave it to Anthony as if that was somehow proof. I assured Anthony that Gary was more likely the killer after what he'd done to that poor woman's cat. Anthony suggested the four of us meet at the Art Gallery to clear the air. I brought my gun, knife, duct tape, and rope. The rest, as they say, is commentary."
"How many others were there?"
"Let's just say that it's a statistically significant sample of the weak and pathetic." She raised her hands. "And this house is the biggest and best souvenir of them all. This is where it began and this is where it will end."
She turned and walked out to the end of the balcony, her hands on the waist high wooden rail.
"It's over. Come inside."
She ignored me, rising up and down on her toes as if readying to jump. I crossed the space between us, the shotgun under my right arm, and reached for her shoulder. She whirled around, holding a knife in her right hand that must have been laying on the top of the rail, hidden from me, driving it toward my chest in a short, powerful stroke.
I dropped the shotgun, grabbing her wrist with both hands, the blade slicing through my jacket, piercing my chest. She clawed my face with her left hand as my grip slid along her right arm, slick with blood. Spinning again, she broke the grip of one of my hands and pressed her back into me, jerking the knife downward toward my side, jamming it in my thigh. I held on to her wrist with one hand, forcing the knife out of my leg, using my knee to separate us and pushing my other hand against the small of her back, trying to pin her against the rail when the wood snapped and she plunged to the ground.
