Death Notice (39 page)

It took hold of him, squeezing out the remaining word.

—
I?

As sleep draped itself over him, he realized where he was. It should have been obvious, but his addled brain prevented him from seeing it until that moment. Now it was clear.

Somehow, for reasons unknown, Henry Goll was once again in a coffin.

Nick inched higher on the bed, barely able to support himself with his elbows. His dilated pupils made it clear he was heavily drugged. Kat hoped he was as alert as he claimed to be, alert enough to help her. Because she desperately needed his help.

“When was he taken?” Nick asked.

“Ten minutes ago.”

His eyes drifted to the clock at his bedside. “That means he has about—”

Twenty minutes. Kat knew that. Twenty goddamn minutes to figure out who took him and where.

“How do we figure out where he is?” she said. “Tell me where to start.”

“We need to put ourselves in the Grim Reaper’s shoes. Remember when I told you how serial killers pick their victims?”

Kat had been terrified to discover a mere glimpse could spur a madman to strike. Now she needed to know where in Perry Hollow those glimpses occurred. If they could do that—which was a very big if—perhaps then they could identify the killer.

“He saw them,” she said. “He saw George Winnick and Troy Gunzelman and Amber Lefferts.”

And James. She couldn’t forget about that, no matter how much she wanted to. Although he was alive, thank God, and now safe at Lou van Sickle’s house, she knew the killer had seen him, too. Somewhere. At some point.

“I need to know where he saw them. And why he picked them.”

“Let’s think through the possibilities. Name all the places in Perry Hollow with heavy traffic.”

Nick seemed more awake than when Kat had entered the room, more vibrant. He even managed to sit up, although the movement knocked the photo album that had been in his lap onto the floor.

Kat bent down to retrieve it as she listed the possibilities. “Main Street, obviously. Big Joe’s. The diner. The Shop and Save.”

She put the scrapbook back onto the bed, its contents spilling across Nick’s lap. Kat saw scrawled notes, photographs, and newspaper clippings. She scanned the headlines, all of them from the
Gazette
. There was the one about her finding George
Winnick’s body on Old Mill Road, followed by coverage of his funeral.

Beneath it was an article about Art McNeil’s suicide during Troy Gunzelman’s viewing. It was accompanied by a large photograph of the funeral home, the blue sky highlighting its Victorian architecture.

“McNeil Funeral Home,” she murmured.

That was another busy place. It had seen more foot traffic than normal in the past year. So many grisly deaths. So many burials.

“What about the funerals?” Kat asked. “For George and Troy? Do you think the killer could have gone to them?”

“It’s possible,” Nick said. “Serial killers have been known to enjoy seeing their victims being buried.”

Kat thought back to both funerals. Each one had been packed, with practically the entire town turning out to pay their respects.

“I’m not talking about seeing the victims after they died,” she said. “I’m thinking the killer saw them there
before
they died.”

Nick shook his head, confounded. “I don’t understand.”

“Alma Winnick’s brother died a month before her husband did. She said that at her brother’s funeral, George was the first person to sign the condolence book.”

“And wasn’t Troy Gunzelman a pallbearer at George’s funeral?” Nick asked.

“The lead pallbearer.”

“I bet he signed the condolence book, too.”

“Amber Lefferts did the same at Troy’s viewing,” Kat added. “I watched her do it.”

As she pieced the facts together, a clearer picture began to form.

“That’s where it began,” she said. “That’s where the killer saw them.”

If the killer hadn’t known who George and Troy were, he could easily have learned their names once they signed the condolence book. Then he most likely watched them. For months. Seeing George work in the barn. Spying on Troy as he went to the gym. Passing the Lefferts’ house, where Amber was locked inside. There must have been waiting involved, too. Waiting for the perfect moment to attack. For George, it was at night in the barn, away from his wife. For Troy, it was the Fourth of July, when no one else would be in the locker room. And for Amber, it was when she was home alone.

Only one question remained unanswered, and Nick asked it.

“But who could have gone to all of those funerals?”

Art McNeil had. But he was dead himself, meaning he wasn’t the one who abducted Amber and now had Henry. But two other funeral home employees were alive and well.

“Bob McNeil and Deana Swan,” Kat said.

She turned her attention to the clippings again, scattering them to search for articles specifically about the funerals. Perhaps one of them contained a list of attendees or a photograph in which mourners were visible.

Sliding them around, she found the infamous
GRIM REAPER STRIKES AGAIN
headline. Another clipping sat on top of it, obscuring the last two words, so all Kat saw was the
GRIM REAPER
part. It was so big—and the letters so bold—that she couldn’t keep from staring at it.

“What are you looking at?” Nick asked.

Kat raised an index finger to shush him. She then placed the still-extended finger over the headline, covering the first
R
in
reaper
. The two words merged, forming a new one—
M EAPER.

Quickly, she slapped her right hand over the last four letters of the word. Now it spelled
M E.

“Sweet Jesus,” she muttered. “How did we miss this?”

She began to tear up the headline, creating one piece for
each letter. When she was finished, ten scraps of paper lay on the bed. She rearranged the letters until they spelled out a name—
MEG PARRIER.

They had known all along it was a fake. But all of them had failed to see the significance behind it.

Nick read the name with astonishment. “It’s an anagram?”

“Yes,” Kat said. “For Grim Reaper.”

And knowing that was the key to understanding everything else. It was a jolt of realization that left Kat feeling stupid for not seeing it sooner.

“I know,” she said. “I know who the killer is.”

At some point between bouts of consciousness, Henry had been removed from the coffin. He woke up free of its walls. When he moved his fingers, he still felt wood, but it was now smoother.

Why he was lifted from the coffin, Henry didn’t know. His current location also remained a mystery. Had he been able to open his eyes, he could have looked for himself. But each eyelid was still heavy and unwieldy.

Once again, he relied on his other senses, hoping they could tell him where he was and, more important, what was going to happen to him.

His ears no longer detected the sound of a vehicle; nor did Henry experience the insistent motion he felt earlier. He was no longer traveling. He had reached his final destination.

To his right, Henry heard the clomping of shoes on wood. Footsteps. Coming closer.

Soon, someone stood next to him, breathing lightly. Although his own eyes were closed, Henry sensed the other person’s probing gaze. It left him feeling exposed and violated. The person was studying him.

Henry tried to speak but discovered it was impossible. His jaws felt rusted shut and just as heavy as his eyelids. His
tongue was a parched fish flopping in his mouth. He managed only a meager grunt before giving up.

“You’re awake,” the person said. “Excellent.”

Whoever it was bent over him and placed a length of rope across his chest. It tightened, forcing his arms against his sides. Henry attempted to move them but couldn’t. The rope was taut, knotted, unbreakable. The person did the same thing to Henry’s waist, then to his legs, binding them together just above the knees.

Henry’s heart quickened as panic weaseled into his brain, burning away the haze that lingered there. His mind rolled into action again, his thoughts coming into focus.

I’m trapped,
was his first thought. It was followed closely by,
I’m about to die.

Henry’s renewed mental capability soon spread to the rest of his body. His strength increased, allowing him to buck uselessly against the wooden flat he lay upon. The rust fell away from his jaws. His tongue stopped flopping. He could speak.

And the word he chose to say was “No.”

Some of the weight lifted from his eyelids. Using complete concentration, he was able to open them, the strain causing his lashes to flutter. He pushed on, willing his eyes to open completely.

When they did, he saw a figure wearing surgical scrubs and latex gloves. A mask sheathed his face, covering his nose and mouth. A paper cap covered his head. Wrapped around his waist and chest was a black rubber apron.

Seeing Henry’s open eyes, the figure yanked the mask down and gave him a bemused smile.

It was Martin Swan.

“Hello, Henry,” he said. “Glad I could catch you before you left town.”

Kat and Nick made half a dozen calls between them. To Gloria Ambrose. To Tony Vasquez. To the state police and the county sheriff and Carl.

“Go to Martin Swan’s house,” Kat told her deputy. “Go there now.”

It was the same thing she and Nick had told everyone they reached. Carl was the only one to ask questions.

“What about crowd control?” he said. “People are still going crazy down here.”

He was talking to her on his cell phone in the middle of Main Street. The confusion in his voice was clear even through the spotty reception and panicked background noise.

“This is more important,” Kat said. “Just go. Now.”

“You haven’t told me why.”

“Because Martin Swan is the Grim Reaper.”

Kat was certain of it. The proof was spread across Nick’s bed. Martin had written about George’s and Troy’s funerals, which meant he had attended both. Alma Winnick mentioned her brother’s funeral had also been in the
Gazette
. Martin covered that one, too.

But more damning than his byline was the nickname he had given the killer in print. Grim Reaper, which when scrambled spelled Meg Parrier. Only Kat had come across that name after George’s murder, before the Grim Reaper nickname was coined in the paper. That meant Martin Swan had it in mind long before he made his first kill.

“What about you?” Carl asked. “Where will you be?”

“I’m at the hospital. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

When Kat hung up, she caught Nick staring at her.

“You shouldn’t go to Martin’s house,” he said.

“But I have to. He has Henry.”

“Then Gloria and the rest will find him there.”

There was a distance in his voice, the result of more than just medication. He was still thinking. Kat saw it in his eyes.

“You don’t think he’s there, do you?”

Nick shook his head. “He needs more seclusion than that. Think of the space required. And the noise it would make. He used a different location.”

“Then where?” Desperation had seeped into her voice. The clock was ticking and time was running out for Henry Goll. “Help me figure out where it is.”

“I am,” Nick said. “Again, we need to think like him and look at the clues.”

“He barely left any clues,” Kat said, exasperated.

Her entire body twitched, yearning to escape the hospital room and join the others at Martin’s house. But Nick insisted on being methodical.

“He left animals at the scene,” he said. “What were they stuffed with?”

Kat thought back to Caleb Fisher’s basement. He used prefabricated molds on his animals. The ones Martin left behind had been stuffed the old-fashioned way.

“Sawdust.”

“Which begs the question why. Why not rags? Or hay? Or paper?”

“Because it was the only thing readily available.”