Death Notice (17 page)

Despite being cheered on by Lisa Gunzelman, Jasper’s first attempt missed the dunk tank’s target by several feet. His second and third tries also fell short, prompting a disappointed groan from the growing crowd.

The scene was a far cry from the last time the town had gathered together. That was in March, for George Winnick’s funeral. Most of Perry Hollow had shown up, forming a black-clad wall of support around his widow. Lisa Gunzelman was there, accompanied by her son, Troy, who was the lead pallbearer. So were Deana Swan and her brother, who wrote about it for the
Gazette.
Amber Lefferts’s father said a prayer and Art and Bob McNeil directed everything with the utmost precision. Even the freshly exonerated Lucas Hatcher showed up, although it was only to roll away the plastic grass that surrounded the lip of the grave.

Standing among the mourners that frigid day, Kat couldn’t have predicted such a spirited atmosphere would exist four months later. But George’s murder had only rattled the town temporarily. Now, everything was mostly back to normal.

A serial killer’s confession had that kind of effect.

“Come on, folks,” Lisa Gunzelman called, raising her voice and hefting the baseballs. “Step right up and dunk the chief!”

A few more people lined up to have a go, but none of them hit the target. When only five minutes remained of her tour of duty, Kat began to think she would escape unscathed. After that,
she would meet up with James, who was swimming at Jeremy’s house, have a hamburger dinner, and watch the town’s fireworks. All in all, it would be a great day. If she managed to stay dry, of course.

Kat glanced down at the tank’s unchlorinated water twelve inches beneath her sandals. It was dank and murky, like tub water after a bath. And although it was still hot as blazes, she didn’t want to be cooled off in that swill.

“How’s it going in there?”

Kat lifted her head to see Deputy Carl Bauersox. “Aren’t you supposed to be working crowd control?”

“I am,” he said. “The crowd is right here.”

He was right. The majority of the street fair’s attendees were now gathered around the tank, just waiting to see her get soaked. Sensing an opportunity, Lisa thrust three balls at the deputy.

“Would you care to try?”

“I can’t,” Carl said.

Lisa sweetened the deal. “It’s on the house.”

The deputy looked to Kat, who told him he would be forgiven in the unlikely event he managed to dunk her. After more coaxing from Lisa, Carl relented, pitching exactly the way you’d expect from a squat, sunburnt cop—badly. The first ball was way off the mark, not even coming within striking distance of the target.

“I was just warming up,” he explained feebly.

Kat laughed. “Sure you were.”

Her laughter stopped when Carl’s second pitch actually hit the target, producing an excited cheer from the bystanders. Fortunately for Kat, the throw wasn’t hard enough, and the ball bounced off the target’s edge.

Inspired by the near miss, Carl raised his right arm. He
pulled back. He released the final ball. The crowd cheered as the baseball made a beeline toward the target, smacking it perfectly in the bull’s-eye. The impact created a whacking sound that echoed up the street. The target lurched backward.

Beneath Kat, something clicked. It was the platform, flying out from under her.

Then, before she could even squeal with surprise, Kat dropped into the water.

On what was supposed to be a quiet day at the office, Henry found himself surrounded by noise. As usual, there was opera. His selection was Wagner, with all its accompanying bombast. But interrupting the music was another sound—firecrackers. A group of kids had gathered in the parking lot next to the newsroom and were now setting them off in an unceasing series of bangs. Humming beneath it all was the constant murmur of the crowd on Main Street enjoying the Fourth of July street fair. All three noises merged into a cacophony that gave Henry a mild headache. And just when he thought it couldn’t get any noisier, his phone rang.

Henry turned off the music and waited for a break in the firecrackers before answering.

“Obituary department.”

“Henry?”

The caller was Deana Swan, who sounded more than a little surprised to be talking to him.

“I didn’t think you’d be working today,” she said.

“I had to.”

That was a lie. Henry could have taken the day off along with most of the other
Gazette
staff. But he opted to work, frankly because he had nothing better to do with his day.

“I guess you’re on the clock, too,” he said.

“Not for long. I’m leaving in a minute. I just called to say we have no more obituaries coming today.”

Henry thanked her. “That means I can leave, too.”

“Glad I could be the bearer of good news. Are you going to watch the fireworks tonight?”

“No. I have other plans.”

That, too, was a lie. Sort of. He did have plans, although they consisted of going back to his apartment, opening a bottle of Syrah, and reading some John Updike.

“That’s too bad,” Deana said. “I was about to ask if you wanted to join me.”

It was an invitation Henry had been dreading for the past four months. Every time he spoke to Deana, he thought of the evening in the funeral home when he had quickly rejected her offer of a date. And during every phone call, he expected her to bring it up again. She hadn’t, until now.

“Thank you for the offer,” he told her. “I’d take you up on it if I didn’t have those other plans.”

Henry knew she saw through the lie completely. And when Deana hung up, he felt guilty about turning her down again. But it really was for the best. He didn’t want to cause her—or himself—any more pain than necessary.

Instead of leaving immediately, he lingered in his office. The firecracker gang had dispersed, providing enough quiet to let Henry listen to his opera in peace. Dimming the office lights, he cranked up the volume on his computer. Then he leaned back in his chair and listened to the music sweep over him.

He remained that way for a good ten minutes, stirring only when he heard a slight click from the fax machine. Turning toward it, he spotted a single white page purring out of the machine.

A late obituary. Deana had been mistaken.

Sighing, Henry turned the music off once again. He flicked on the lamp at his desk, grabbed the still-warm fax, and read it.

Troy Gunzelman, 17, of Perry Hollow, Pa., died at
6:30
P.M.
on July 4.

Henry checked his watch and saw it was exactly six o’clock. Cold dread seeped into his body so quickly it felt like he was being dipped into icy water. He had hoped to never see a fax like that again. And after four months, he had come to believe he wouldn’t.

But now a second one had arrived. Gripping it, Henry read it again and again, searching for some way in which it was different from the one sent for George Winnick. He found nothing. It was written in the same style. Exactly the same.

It was happening again.

Henry reached for the phone and furiously dialed the police station. When Louella van Sickle answered, he cut right to the chase.

“This is Henry Goll at the
Gazette.
I need to talk to Chief Campbell immediately.”

“She’s at the street fair, Henry,” the dispatcher said. “I think she still might be in the PTA’s dunk tank. I can leave a message.”

If Kat was at the festival, that meant she’d be on Main Street. Henry would rather take his chances looking for her himself than leaving a message that might not be returned for hours.

“No,” Henry said. “I’ll find her.”

He hung up, snatched the fax on his way out of the office, and ran down the back stairs. Soon he was pushing through the
door, bursting outside onto a Main Street filled with people. They laughed and shopped and ate, completely unaware of what was about to happen.

But Henry knew. And he had to make sure Kat knew, too. He scanned the street until he saw the dunk tank a block away. If Lou van Sickle was correct, the chief would be there. And, with any luck, Henry wouldn’t be too late.

Emerging from the water, Kat saw Henry Goll running up Main Street. He stopped in front of the dunk tank, catching his breath next to Carl. It was the first time Kat had seen him since March, and his presence immediately worried her.

“Henry?” she said, standing waist-deep in the tepid water. “What are you doing here?”

That’s when Kat saw the piece of paper folded in his hand. It told her everything she needed to know about his sudden appearance on Main Street. The only thing she didn’t know was whose name the page contained.

The dunk tank was still surrounded by people. The crowd had grown right before her dip into the water, and they pushed closer after she emerged, eager to see her sopping wet and humiliated. So far, none of them had noticed the paper in Henry’s hand. Before any of them got the chance, she gestured for him to leave the area immediately.

Carl caught on and pulled Henry away from the crowd while Kat scrambled up the ladder leading out of the tank. Once she was free of the water, she grabbed a towel and hopped out of the booth.

“Chief,” Carl called. “Over here!”

Water still pouring off her body, Kat allowed herself a moment of silence. It was brief—an indulgent second of calm before the storm about to take place. When the second passed, she sprang into action.

“Who’s it for?” she asked as she approached Henry.

“Someone named Troy Gunzelman.”

Kat inhaled sharply. Troy’s mother stood on the other side of the booth, probably within earshot. This was bad. Horribly so.

“Are you sure?”

She desperately wanted it to be a hoax. It was possible, after all. Maybe word had leaked out about George Winnick’s faxed death notice and one of Troy’s friends was trying to put one over on the police. Hell, maybe it was Troy himself.

Henry held out the page and Kat snatched it without a word. The moisture from her fingers seeped into the paper as she read the lone sentence typed across it.

Troy Gunzelman, 17, of Perry Hollow, Pa., died at
6:30
P.M.
on July 4.

The death notice wasn’t a copycat. It was worded exactly like the one for George Winnick. Eyes moving to the time stamp in the upper left-hand corner, Kat saw the fax had been sent at six. Five minutes ago.

“His mother is right over there,” Kat said. “We need to ask her where Troy is.”

It wasn’t a great plan, but it was the only one she could think of. Besides, maybe Lisa would tell them that Troy wasn’t alone or that he was in a public place. Hopefully, he was on Main Street at that very minute, lost in a crowd of people so heavy that the killer couldn’t reach him.

Trying to keep things calm and inconspicuous, Kat tapped Lisa Gunzelman on the shoulder and led her behind the dunk tank.

“Do you know where Troy is right now?”

Lisa’s eyes widened slightly as they swept over Kat, Henry, and Carl. Being a mother herself, Kat knew that if she had been asked such a question, the first thing she’d do was offer one of her own. Mrs. Gunzelman was no different.

“Is something wrong?”

Not wanting to lie, Kat evaded the question. “We just need to locate him.”

“Is he in trouble?”

He might be,
Kat thought.
He might be dead. Or dying. Or having his lips sewn together at this very moment.
Instead, she said, “It’s very important that we talk to him.”

“He’s at the high school,” Lisa said. “He went there to lift weights.”

“Even in the summer?”

“Every day. Coach’s orders. He has his own keys so he can go and get in shape for the fall.”

“Does Troy have a cell phone?”

Lisa nodded and recited the number. Carl whipped out his own phone, dialing furiously. Pressing the cell to his ear, he waited.

“There’s no answer.”

“Keep calling,” Kat ordered. “If he answers, tell him to lock himself inside until I get there.”

She sprinted the two blocks to the station, water still trailing after her. She had just reached the Crown Vic when she heard a voice behind her.