The Complete John Wayne Cleaver Series: I Am Not a Serial Killer, Mr. Monster, I Don't Want to Kill You, Devil's Only Friend, Over Your Dead Body, Nothing Left to Lose

by Dan Wells

  If he bought it.

  “Father?”

  “Yes, John, yes. I think that will be fine.”

  I closed my eyes and breathed deeply. “Thank you.”

  “If you need anything else,” he said, “if you ever want to talk again, I’m always available.”

  “Thank you, Father. That’s very kind.”

  I hung up.

  * * *

  Sociopath or not, I knew it was stupid to bring up the Handyman in my first few days back with Marci. Instead we sat on the couch and watched TV, silently together, while I bit my tongue and tried not to talk about killers and corpses and holy avengers. Finally, playing poker in her room on a rainy Saturday, I couldn’t take it any longer. I set down my hand of cards.

  “We haven’t talked about the Handyman all week.”

  “Thank goodness,” she said, and pointed at my cards. “Call or fold?”

  “I’m serious,” I said. “I think I’ve cracked it.”

  She frowned. “You know who it is?”

  “No, but I think I know why she’s killing. And I think we can figure out who’s next.”

  She stared at her cards, silent for a long time. Finally she shook her head. “No, I don’t want to.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t want to get back into it. It’s too much—it’s too close. I don’t want to be responsible for another death.”

  “That’s exactly why we need to do this,” I said, “so there won’t be anymore deaths.”

  “But there will be,” she said. “We’re just two kids—we’re sixteen. We can’t stop a killer. We shouldn’t stop a killer—we should let the police do their job, and we should do ours. This isn’t a game.”

  “Do you want to know why Mr. Coleman was our fault?”

  “For the love of all that’s holy, no.”

  “Because the Handyman is punishing sinners,” I said, “and we exposed one, which made him a target. It’s not just any sinners, but sinners in positions of authority. Leaders in the community, like pastors and teachers and government officials.”

  “John…”

  “Every attack is getting worse,” I said. “Remember how Mayor Robinson had thirty-seven stab wounds in his back? Well, Coleman had sixty-four.”

  “Please stop.”

  “Sixty-four,” I repeated. “And in a week and a half our time will be up, and she’ll purge another sinner—someone important, and someone in the public eye to make sure that everyone gets the message. But now we’ve figured it out and we can find the next victim before she kills him.” I stared at her, holding her gaze intensely. She stared back. “Please, Marci—you’ve got to help me.”

  She stared back, eyes hard. I tried to guess what she was thinking. Would she go along or refuse?

  “It’s impossible,” she said. “There’s no way we can guess one specific person this creep thinks is a sinner.”

  That means she’s considering it, I thought. She’s thinking about it. I have to feed the fire.

  “It could be another pastor, or a teacher,” I said. “Maybe the principal at school.”

  Her face went white. “It could be a cop.”

  I nodded. “Anyone who’s in a position of authority is game, but only if they have some kind of shady background—not a secret, but something everyone knows about. Your dad should be totally safe.”

  She continued staring, her mouth a thin, pink line. Her eyes were shadowed by her brow, and she looked out darkly. “Sheriff Meier should be safe,” she said. “Mick Herrman, Craig Moore; they should all be fine.” I stayed silent, and she squinted her eyes. “This is why I didn’t want to do this—I don’t want to think about all the bad things people have done, and I don’t want to feel guilty when I forget about some terrible thing that gets somebody killed.”

  “What about—”

  “Ellingford,” she said suddenly, opening her eyes. “Larry Ellingford. He was an officer that got called under review two years ago for abuse of power—he was writing fraudulent speeding tickets to people he didn’t like. I don’t even know if he’s still in town. I haven’t heard anything about him in ages.”

  “That’s good,” I said. “Can you think of anyone else?”

  “Why am I doing all the work?”

  “Okay,” I said, nodding, “how about Ms. Troyer, the vice-principal? There was that whole thing last year about her fudging the results of the student-body election.”

  “You think that’s enough?” she asked. “If the Handyman’ll kill someone for that, none of us are safe.”

  “I’m just brainstorming,” I said. “I’m trying to think of anyone I can.”

  She paused, then raised her eyebrow. “How about Curt Halsey?”

  A host of thoughts rushed to my mind, crowding each other out. If ever anyone deserved to be killed by a demon … “You mean the guy that burned down Forman’s house?”

  “Why not?” she asked. “He’s currently under suspicion of homicide—that’s a pretty big sin.”

  “He’s also in police custody,” I said. “She couldn’t get to him. Besides, it’s stretching the requirements quite a bit to call him a community leader.”

  “People think he killed Forman,” she said. “He’s getting all the hero credit that you’d be getting if the truth came out.”

  “True,” I said. “That gives us three leads: one who might have moved, one who’s only a sinner by the widest definition, and one who’s in jail. Not a very good list.”

  “But good enough for tonight,” she said, pointedly picking up her cards and fanning them out. “I’m not thinking about this anymore for now. Call or fold.”

  I looked at her and she looked back, cocking her head with a look that said, “just try to disagree with me.” I nodded, picked up my cards, and fanned them out. “Give me all your fours.”

  “Wrong game,” she said sternly, then slowly broke into a smile, and then laughed. “I count that as a fold, though. I win.” She scraped the pile of M&Ms across the carpet and into the much bigger pile by her legs. “You still have a few left—shuffle up, and I’ll take them off your hands.”

  “You’ll just share them with me anyway.”

  “Try me, punk.”

  I gathered the cards and shuffled, all the while running through names of possible victims in my head.

  * * *

  On Monday night, the phone rang during dinner. The caller ID said Jensen.

  “Hello?”

  “John,” said Marci quickly, “are you watching the news?”

  “Not at the moment.”

  “That’s fine, I don’t even know if it’s on yet.”

  “What?”

  “Can you get over here?”

  “Slow down, you’re talking in circles.”

  “William Astrup was arrested,” she said. “My dad’s radio just went off, and I heard it from the hall—he was arrested in Springdale for soliciting a prostitute.”

  I frowned. Springdale, despite its cheerful name, was the poorest neighborhood in Clayton County—a massive string of apartments that sprawled through the heart of town. It was exactly the kind of place someone would go to solicit a prostitute, but not the kind of place anyone would expect to find a community leader.

  “Who’s William Astrup?” I asked. “Is that another cop?”

  “You’re kidding me,” she said. “He’s the owner of the wood plant—he’s the richest man in the county, and the biggest employer. No one else even comes close. How can you not know that?”

  “I’m kind of amazed that you do know it,” I said. “How do you know the guy who owns the wood plant?”

  “Just get over here,” she said. “This is our next victim—it’s got to be—and I’m not telling dad about this without you.”

  She was right—this sounded like the ideal victim for the Handyman, and there were only a few days left. But as ridiculous as it sounded, I still couldn’t shake the idea that Officer Jensen might be the demon. Did I dare go and spill my whol
e plan to him? I paused, trying to analyze the situation. If he was the demon, then he had a much bigger plan I hadn’t begun to grasp yet, and embedding myself in his life was the best way to discover it. And if he wasn’t the demon, then he could save the victim while I slipped by in the dark and took the demon out.

  For just a moment I considered not telling him at all, to make absolutely sure that no one interfered with my trap for Nobody. This William Astrup would be perfect bait if he suspected nothing, and if the police stayed far away. But it was too late now—by bringing Marci into this, I’d brought in her ethics as well. She wanted the victim protected and she would make sure it happened whether I was the one to say it or not.

  “I’ll be there in a minute,” I said.

  “See ya.” We hung up, and I turned to leave.

  “Something happened to William Astrup?” Mom asked.

  “How does everybody know this guy but me?”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing,” I said. “I just need to run over to Marci’s.”

  “Can’t you finish your dinner first?”

  “No.” I went down the stairs and out the side door, then drove quickly to Marci’s house. Her father was walking out to his squad car right as I pulled up, with Marci close on his heels.

  “Here he is,” she was saying as I stepped out of the car. “Just listen to him.”

  “Make it quick,” he said, turning to look at me. “Apparently you’ve got something to tell me about the Handyman?”

  “Yes,” I said, stumbling over my own thoughts as I tried to get them in order. “You need to … I mean…” I wasn’t ready to explain all of this yet—I liked to take my time and plan things, not rush into them blindly. “She’s going to try to kill William Astrup.”

  Officer Jensen narrowed his eyes. “What makes you say that?”

  “Because she’s targeting community leaders she thinks have done wrong,” I said. “The Handyman is a holy avenger—it’s not a very common serial killer profile but I promise you it’s true in this case. She’s trying to save us, or teach us, or cleanse us, or whatever, and a rich, powerful guy like Astrup getting arrested is exactly what she’s looking for.”

  “Wait—how did you know about…” He studied me for a second, then growled under his breath and turned to Marci. “Marci Elizabeth Jensen, have you been eavesdropping again?”

  “I didn’t try to hear it, it’s just loud.”

  “I have told you a hundred times that you are not allowed to interfere with my job. This is very serious—if word of this arrest gets out—”

  “Word is going to get out no matter what you do,” I said. “Astrup is too important, and people are going to find out, and then the Handyman is going to try to kill him. Late Wednesday night, if he sticks to his pattern—that’s only two days away. You have to trust me. He fits the profile exactly.”

  “If he fits a profile,” Officer Jensen said, “the FBI will already know about it.”

  “Then no one will think you’re weird when you suggest protecting him,” I said. “Listen, the Handyman probably lies awake at night praying for someone as important as William Astrup to make a mistake this big. Killing him is exactly the message she is trying to send, and if she cut out Coleman’s eyes for porn I don’t have to tell you what she’ll cut off of Astrup for solicitation.”

  “Ew,” said Marci.

  “You know about the eyes too?” said Officer Jensen sternly, turning to Marci again.

  “You told me that one yourself!”

  “Look,” I said, “I know you have no reason to trust us, but…” I stopped suddenly, unsure of what to say next. If he leaves Astrup defenseless I’ll be able to see exactly what the demon does to him, and how. If I’m lucky I’ll spot a weakness and find a way to kill Nobody right there, on the spot, with no more waiting and no more speculation. But I didn’t want Marci to think I was backing down. “You know he’s probably going to post bail right away, so you won’t be able to hold him anyway, but you could send him some guards or something. Maybe. I don’t know.” What am I really doing here? I have to learn more about Nobody, and yet I’m sabotaging my best chance just to save one criminal’s life. Or am I doing it because I’m afraid of what Marci will think of me?

  What’s really important here?

  Officer Jensen looked at me again, eyes intense. I could tell he was thinking about it.

  “What about the prostitute?” he asked. “Aren’t you worried about her?”

  “The Handyman doesn’t care about her,” I said. “Only the authority figure.”

  He paused again. “I can’t just walk in there and tell them my daughter and her boyfriend cracked the Handyman case.”

  “Then tell them you did it,” said Marci, “but just tell them.”

  No! He almost said no, and you ruined it!

  He looked back and forth between Marci and me, then sighed. “Fine, I’ll tell them, but I won’t guarantee anything. And in return,” he pointed at us sternly, “you two will keep absolutely quiet about this, and you will stop ‘accidentally overhearing’ my radio, and you will keep out of this permanently. Am I clear?”

  “Loud and clear,” said Marci, nodding. We stepped up onto the curb, and Officer Jensen got into his car. He gave us one last look before driving away, and Marci waved as he left.

  “Thanks for coming,” she said, patting me twice on the chest before turning toward the house. I turned with her, silently cursing that we’d managed to convince him, and we walked slowly to the front steps. “I’m so glad to be rid of this.”

  “Yeah,” I said, already trying to think of my next move. I needed to find a way to watch Astrup, to see who contacted him and how they reacted to the police. But how could I get close enough?

  “Marci,” her mom called from the doorway, “phone’s for you.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Rachel again.”

  “Oh my gosh,” Marci muttered, then she shouted back, “just tell her I’m busy, and I’ll call her later.”

  Mrs. Jensen faded back into the house, and Marci shook her head. “That girl will not leave me alone! ‘What are you wearing to the dance?’ ‘Who are you going with?’ ‘Can we go in a group?’ ‘What diet should I use so I can fit my dress?’ She’s driving me crazy.”

  I wasn’t paying much attention, too preoccupied with my plans, but I nodded and tried to look like I was listening. “She’s going to a dance? Cool.” The victims are all killed without a fight, usually inside their own homes, which means they let the killer in of their own free will. That usually means the killer is someone they know, but with this many victims, it has to be something else. Whatever disguise or cover Nobody is using is apparently nonthreatening, and somehow familiar to everyone she killed.

  “Yes, there’s a dance,” said Marci, enunciating each syllable. “The homecoming dance—you may have heard of it? A little social gathering this Friday?”

  “Oh yeah, the homecoming thing. There are posters at school and stuff.” I’ve been assuming that Nobody can change her face and body, like Crowley did, but Crowley could only do it by killing someone—by literally stealing their bodies. The Handyman doesn’t steal bodies, and the few parts he does steal he just destroys later on. How is it disguising itself?

  “Rachel’s going with Brad,” said Marci, “and we’re kind of hoping to go in a group, though I don’t have a date yet.”

  This pulled me out of my thoughts. “You don’t? But you’re, like … It seems like someone would have asked you weeks ago.”

  Marci was staring at me, her mouth wide open, as if she didn’t know what to say. I realized I’d said something stupid and tried to cover it up.

  “I mean, you’re … amazing,” I said. “Everyone loves you—you have more friends than anyone I think I’ve ever met. How could no one have asked you yet?”

  “As … a matter of fact,” she said, fumbling slightly with her words, “five people have asked me. Five. And I’ve said no to a
ll of them.”

  “You don’t want to go?”

  “No, I’d kind of like to go, actually.”

  I looked at her, eyes wide, awaiting an explanation. Girls are so weird. She looked back for a moment, then rolled her eyes and looked up at the twilit sky. “Do I have to do everything myself?”

  And that’s when it finally hit me: she wanted me to ask her.

  “I…”

  “Yes?” she said, turning back to face me. “Something you want to say?”

  “Are you…”

  “Something finally clicking in that remarkably thick head of yours?”

  “Wait.”

  “Oh, I’ve been waiting.”

  “Do you actually want to…” I trailed off.

  “… go…,” she prompted.

  “… go … to the homecoming dance…”

  “… with…,” she said.

  “… me?” I finished.

  “I am astonished at the level of meddling it took to make that happen.”

  “I’m confused,” I said.

  “Obviously. Let me explain: first, yes, I would love to go to homecoming with you, thank you so much for asking. Second, what in the hell is your problem?”

  “What?”

  “You’re over here for hours every day, you obviously like me, I obviously like you, and frankly we don’t spend enough time apart for you to even have time to ask anyone else to the dance, let alone flirt enough to make asking a possibility. How long would you have waited if I hadn’t forced the issue?”

  “I … I’m not really a dance kind of guy.”

  “You mean never?” she asked. “Here I was, waiting all this time, and you weren’t even thinking about it?”

  “I’m … sorry?”

  “You are without a doubt the weirdest guy I have ever met.”

  I took a breath. “But that’s just the thing,” I said. “I am the weirdest guy you’ve ever met. I’m like the opposite of you. You have lots of friends, I have no friends; you’re beautiful, I’m weird looking; you’re popular and interesting and fun, and I … work in a mortuary. I’m obsessed with death and I study serial killers for fun. Guys like me don’t go to dances, and when we do, we don’t go with girls like you.” I didn’t think I had to actually explain how messed-up I was—couldn’t people tell just by looking at me?