Killing Me Softly (24 page)

Dawn nodded slowly. “I think both were true. I think he really did have some kind of extra…something. I also think he was clinically insane, and those two things were too twisted up to tell apart. The voices that told him how to help people seemed to be coming from the same place as the ones that told him which people to kill. He obeyed them all, without question. Believed them all to be one voice. The voice of God.”

Olivia nodded. “A person could almost feel sorry for him.”

Dawn nodded, because she
did
feel sorry for her father. And yet she also feared him. Still feared him, even though he was dead. She was terrified he would come to her again.

“And then after he died,” Olivia said, “it was you who helped solve another murder, clearing the man who'd been wrongly accused and sent to waste away in a mental ward. And some said you were only able to do that because you had a direct line to the victim.”

Rico swore under his breath. “What case—wait, are you talking about River Corbett, the guy who was in the loony bin for burning his house down with his pregnant wife inside?”

Olivia nodded slowly.

Dawn drew a breath. “It's true. I used to be able to…pick up on things other people wouldn't be able to. And maybe I did inherit that from my father, which is why it terrified me so much that I ran away from it. But it faded, maybe from lack of use. I've been trying to get the dead girls to tell me who killed them ever since I got back here. And nothing. Not a word. The gift, or curse, or whatever you want to call it, is gone. It hasn't come back. This…this was just a dream.”

“You're terrified that it wasn't, though, aren't you?”

Dawn looked up at Olivia and realized she was right.

“You know, your fear of this…gift… It could be the very thing that's keeping it from returning to you now when you need it most.”

“You think?”

“Yes, I do. So maybe it's manifesting in other ways—because your mind is just too afraid to let it operate the way it did before.”

Dawn looked thoughtful for a long moment. “It's possible, I guess. But I don't think so.”

“But Bryan doesn't agree with you, does he?” Olivia asked.

Dawn shook her head. “No. And since the killer was clearly male in my dream, he no longer believes it was you, Olivia. Not that he ever
really
believed that, anyway. Neither of us did.”

“That's a relief,” Olivia said softly.

“And that's also why he's gone back to his place, to look under the mattress for whatever the killer dropped.”

“You didn't see what it was…in the dream, I mean?” Rico asked.

“No.”

“But you saw the killer?” he went on.

“No. He wore a ski mask, and he was dressed all in black, head to toe.”

“But you saw the murder,” Olivia whispered, and she probed Dawn's eyes, sympathy in her own. “I'm so sorry. That had to be…just awful.”

“It was.”

Olivia reached across the table, clasped Dawn's hand in her own, and Dawn knew in that moment that she had nothing to fear from this woman. That she was, in fact, going to become very close to her in time.

 

It was tough being back home, Bryan thought, as he ducked under the crime-scene tape and walked in through his own front door. It was tougher than he'd thought it would be. Because even though he and Bette hadn't been in love, they had been friends. Good friends. Intimate friends. They'd shared sex when they both needed release. They'd offered comfort to each other about the lovers they'd left behind—the ones they thought they would never get over. They'd shared a lot of laughs, a lot of good times. And he'd cared about her in a very real way.

Walking back into his home now brought back, all
too clearly, the memory of finding her there in his bed. A lifeless shell with sightless eyes and nothing of the warmth of who she really was left in her. Like a slab of meat, with a face and hair attached. There'd been nothing left of her.

Someone had taken it all away. They'd had no right to do that to her. To anyone. Dammit!

He'd been careful not to tear any of the crime-scene tape. The house was smudged with fingerprint dust. Empty spaces attested to items that had been taken as evidence. His computer. Every blanket and pillow in the place. A lot of the glasses and cigarette butts and ashtrays were missing. They'd left the dip to go sour, the chips to go stale.

His photo, the one of him and Dawn, was right where he'd left it, and a big pool of warmth bubbled up inside him as he caught sight of it. But that pool had fear-fish swimming restlessly in its depths. Back and forth, and jumping every now and then to send ripples through the water, keeping it from being as clear and calm as it should have been.

He moved down the hallway and into the bedroom. The bed had been stripped, but the mattress remained. Every item from the nightstands was missing. A big hunk had been cut from his carpet right where he supposed they estimated the killer had been standing while he strangled Bette to death.

Bryan stood beside the bed and turned his head to look into the mirror across the room. If only there were some way to see what that mirror had seen, some way to
access the reflections from the mirror's recent memory, the way you could click through the memory of a computer for sites visited in the past.

The way you could sometimes still see the shape of the most recent scene after turning the television set off. The way it lingered, like an aura, fading slowly. Why couldn't mirrors work that way?

He imagined Bette seeing her own murder reflected in that mirror, probably through a veil of tears, a haze of panic. And her killer had been reflected there, too. Nightcap or his spawn. The bastard who'd taken her and turned his life upside down.

“You son of a bitch. I swear I'm going to make you pay for this.”

He heard something—some
one?
—from just outside, jerking him to attention. Apparently he had even less time than he'd thought in which to do what he'd come here to do.

He checked under the mattress. Nothing. He moved quickly but silently to the other side of the bed, then thrust a hand beneath the mattress again, feeling around. When he felt nothing, disappointment rinsed through him. He was feeling an urgency to leave. To just slip into the bathroom, out the window and be gone before whoever was outside made their way in.

But dammit, he couldn't give up. Dawn's dream had to be more than just a coincidence. It
had
to be. Because if it wasn't, then he had nothing. No hope.

He picked up the mattress and leaned it against the headboard. Tugging his penlight from a back pocket,
he flicked it on and aimed it at the area underneath. It was a platform bed, with a heavy sheet of plywood laid to support the mattress.

He frowned, leaning closer as his light reflected off something caught between the edge of the frame and the plywood. Something shiny.

He pried at it with a fingertip and slid it slowly upward. Finally it was free, and he let it fall into his palm. Straightening, eager, he opened his hand to stare down at his prize.

It was a small metal charm, the kind you found hanging from a key chain, but in this case the chain was missing. All that was left was…a tiny version of an old classic car.

He tensed as something knocked at the back door of his brain. And then he realized he was no longer alone in the room, and a surge of panic raced up his spine.

He jerked his head around, then sighed in automatic relief as he spotted Nick standing there.

“Jeez, you scared the hell out of me,” he muttered.

“Did I? Sorry about that.” Nick lifted his chin, eyes on Bryan's hand. “What you got there?”

“Damnedest thing,” Bryan said. “Dawn had a dream—she saw the killer drop something, saw Bette shove it under the mattress. I just couldn't let it go without checking.”

“Because she used to be psychic. And apparently still is.” Nick smiled and shook his head. “Who'd have figured? You found something?”

“Yeah.” Bryan was still holding the little car balanced
on his open palm. “Hey, can you get me a bag or something? We don't want to smudge any prints. There should be one in the kitchen—the drawer to the left of the sink.”

“Sure, sure. But wait, I think I've got something right here.” Nick fished around in a pocket, came out with a paper envelope and said, “This'll do for now.” He squeezed it so that it opened, and Bryan dropped the car inside.

“What is it, anyway?” Bryan asked.

“What, you don't recognize it?” Nick grinned that grin that was so typically his own, the one that crinkled his entire face, and said, “I'll bet your girlfriend would. It's a '65 T-Bird, pal. I used to have one just like it.”

Something in Bryan went ice cold. He lifted his head, looked his mentor, his hero, right in the eyes, and saw something cold there. Something he had never seen before. His mind was shuffling through hundreds of tidbits—the neighbor who'd seen an old red-and-white car at one crime scene. The metal
T
that had been found at one of the other crime scenes. The one that came from a 1965 Ford Thunderbird. And now this piece of a key chain. And Nick saying he used to have a car just like it.

“You…you did?” It was the only thing he could think of to say.

And even as Bryan frowned, trying to make sense of the impossible notion his brain was screaming at him, Nick's other hand came around in a powerful, sudden, gun-wielding arc.

“Still do,” Nick added, just before the blow fell.

Bryan felt the explosion of the impact, and then he dropped to his knees and began to topple sideways. He never felt himself hit the floor.

“H
e should have been back by now.”

Dawn scanned the living room, as restless as the storm now raging outside. Thunder pounded the skies with an unending fury. Every flash of lightning, every howl of the wind and every single crack of a falling tree limb seemed like an omen of doom.

Rico had finished checking the area and was now in the kitchen, cooking something that smelled great and included bacon, while Olivia was upstairs having a shower. Dawn had decided to pass the time by reading, so she'd been sitting by the fire with Nick's book, devouring it and trying not to look up at the clock every time she turned a page. It shouldn't have been as hard as it was to stay focused. The book was a page turner. But despite that, it was tough to focus on anything other than the fact that the man she loved was out there, somewhere, looking for evidence against a crazed killer, while the entire Shadow Falls Police Department was trying to hunt him down and put him behind bars.

Time and pages passed. The accounts of the murders gave her chills, and after experiencing one so personally—even if it had been just a dream—she finally couldn't handle reading any longer. She tucked the jacket flap between the pages to hold her place, but before she closed the book she noticed the author photo on the jacket and smiled slightly.

Nick, sixteen years younger, had been a real hottie. No beer belly back then. Dark hair, piercing eyes and a sensual, full mouth. He knew it, too. He was one hundred percent the cocky, full-of-himself supercop, leaning on the front fender of a car. He looked as if he belonged in a cop show on TV. She frowned at the car, which caught her interest, as cars usually did. It was clearly a classic—a Ford, she thought—but it was tough to tell more with just that tiny bit of fender and part of one headlight visible.

Sighing, she closed the book and then looked up at the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Olivia, back in her nightgown and a fluffy robe, padding down to join her. “He's not back yet?”

“No. And it's getting close to nine.” Dawn glanced at the clock on the wall.

“It's eight-twenty,” Olivia said. “Give him until nine, hon. You said you would.”

“I said I'd give him until eight,” Dawn corrected her. “He added that extra hour.”

“Still…”

“I think I should at least call him.”

“What if he's trying to keep from being discovered at
the crime scene, or is creeping around watching someone suspicious? You want to give him away by ringing his phone?”

“If he's creeping or watching, he should know enough to put the damn phone on vibrate.” Dawn rolled her eyes and resumed pacing. “He
does
know enough. He's a cop.” Setting the book on the coffee table, next to a boxful of evidence and a huge stack of files from the original series of murders, she sat down on the sofa and reached for a telephone that looked as if it was left over from the fifties. She picked up the heavy handset and poked a finger into the dial, then went still. “Shit.”

“What's wrong?”

“No dial tone.” She set the handset down, and looked at the tall windows and the rain that pelted them from the gloom beyond. “Must be the storm.”

“I'll get my cell phone.”

“No, there's no point. No signal out here. The only place we've had service so far is in a rowboat out in the middle of the lake.”

“Well, we're sure not going out on the lake in
this,
” Olivia said. And then she smiled. “Is that where you were when I called you?”

“Yeah. Fishing.” A warmth flooded Dawn's belly, and she went soft inside. “It was nice.”

“You two…you have a history, I guess.”

Dawn nodded. “I walked out on him. Ran out, really.”

“Why?”

Lowering her head, Dawn said, “To get away from
the ‘gift' my father passed on to me—the ghosts who were constantly trying to talk to me—and the memory of my father, all of it. And it worked. I got rid of them. But in the process, I lost the best thing I'll ever have. And I still don't know if I can ever get it back again.”

Olivia lifted her brows. “Well, from the sounds coming from that bedroom last night, I think you already have.”

Dawn pressed her hands to her cheeks. “Oh, God, you heard us?”

“Don't be embarrassed. I think it's fantastic. You two are good together.”

“But we're
not
together.”

“No?”

Dawn shook her head sadly. “He still wants me. Physically. But sex isn't love. He loved me once, though.”

Olivia tipped her head to one side. “But you don't believe he still does?”

“No.”

“Well, don't be so sure. He's made himself a fugitive—and somehow I just don't think he's the type to run from justice, innocent or not. He's a cop, and by all accounts, he loves being a cop. Seems to me he'd be more apt to stick it out, do the whole thing by the book and face the consequences. I think he took off to protect you. Not himself.”

Dawn looked at her. “I think so, too. But that doesn't mean he loves me.”

“If it doesn't, then I really don't know what does.” Olivia sighed and nodded. “Besides, I see the way he
looks at you. Trust me on this, you two are going to be fine.”

“I hope you're right, and if we both get through this in one piece, maybe we'll still have a shot. God, what am I going to do until nine?”

“I suggest we just make some hot cocoa and keep each other company until he gets back,” Olivia said almost cheerfully. “And he will. He'll be back any minute now.”

Again Dawn looked at the clock. “If he's not back soon, I'm going out looking for him.”

“Okay, okay, and if you do, my intrepid bodyguard and his arsenal and I will go with you.”

Dawn smiled. “I'm really sorry we caused trouble for you, Olivia. I really am.”

Olivia just nodded and pulled her robe more tightly around her as she headed to the kitchen to make the promised cocoa.

 

Bryan's first sensation was of pain in his head, and then, gradually, his awareness spread out from there. His head was leaning over to one side, resting on something hard. He was sitting upright, his legs out in front of him, his backside on a hard floor, and his hands…

His hands were cuffed behind his back.

He lifted his head slowly, blinked his eyes open, tugged at his wrists to confirm what he already knew. And then his vision came slowly into focus on the gleaming machine only a few feet away from him. He was in a garage with an immaculate 1965 Ford Thunderbird. It
was red and white, its chrome and shiny paint bearing not so much as a speck of dust or a smudge of dirt.

He could hear a storm raging outside but couldn't see any flashes of lightning. And as he looked around, he saw that the windows were shuttered, the garage locked up tight. And it wasn't the garage at Nick's house. Bryan had been inside his garage many times. They'd shared beers, worked on cars together. Nick definitely had a garage, but this wasn't it.

Damn, how could Nick do this?

“Hey, you're awake. Good. I wanted tell you how sorry I am about all of this before—well, you know.”

He turned slightly in the direction of Nick's voice.

“You?” Bryan whispered. “No…God, Nick.
You're
the Nightcap Strangler?”

Nick came closer, across the concrete floor, and hunkered down in front of him. Nick Di Marco. God, he was the one. He was the Strangler. How could it be? Bryan just couldn't believe it.

“Not me, really. It's him. Nightcap. He's…” Nick gestured toward his forehead. “He's in here, but he's not me. You know?”

“No,” Bryan said. “I don't have a fuckin' clue, Nick. Or are you setting yourself up for an insanity defense?”

“I won't need to.” Nick sighed. “It's hard to explain. But still, he says we don't have any choice here, and even though I've tried and tried, I just can't see any other option.”

“Any other option besides what?” Bryan asked.
“You going to kill me, Nick? You're gonna
kill
me?
Me,
Nick?”

The older man nodded. “It's not like I'm happy about it. But I have to. You're my protégé. You were familiar with every aspect of the case, even stuff only I knew. That's what I'll tell them, anyway. You're the only one who could have pulled off a string of copycat crimes this convincing.”

“So you're going to frame me and
then
kill me?”

Nick nodded again. “Yeah. I got a fresh one just down the block. Took her last night. I'll position your body there, say I caught you in the act, had no choice but to fire my weapon. The press will find it ironic. My own protégé, my own biggest case, and I end up being the one to take you down. Hell, I bet I'll get another book out of this one. Maybe they'll make a sequel to the movie. Maybe get De Niro again, huh?”

“What time did you kill her?”

“Doesn't matter. Doesn't matter at all, Kendall.”

“Sure it does. Dawn knows what time I left. She'll alibi me and shoot your story all to hell.”

He shrugged. “Yeah, but she's in love with you. And she's got no credibility, anyway. She's been helping you run from the police, hiding you, aiding and abetting and all that.” He shook his head. “There'll be enough evidence at the scene to make it clear she's lying to protect you.”

“Yeah? Too bad we had company stay over with us at the cabin last night, pal.” Bryan met Nick's eyes and smiled. “The chief might not believe Dawn all by
herself, but he's damn well gonna believe Rico and Olivia. I even woke Rico before I left. We checked the time together, so they'd know how long to wait before getting worried. Before sending help. They know when I left, Nick. So if you killed another woman last night, I'm solidly covered. In fact, this murder will be the one that clears me of all of them. You stupid son of a bitch, you've fucked yourself.”

Nick closed his eyes. It seemed as if he was experiencing some kind of pain—or ecstasy. Bryan couldn't tell which.

“You might as well just let me go, Nick. It's over. You put in all this work setting me up, and then you made one huge mistake and undid it all. It's over. You can see that, can't you?”

Nick stood still, eyes closed, head tipped back. A small smile began to appear on his lips.

“Look, Nick, just get out of town. Get out of the country. I'll play dumb until you've had enough time to get clear, okay? Isn't that the best way to handle this? Isn't that the easiest way? You don't have to kill me. You don't have to hurt anyone ever again.”

“I do, though. I do.” It was a whisper.

“No, man. You don't. You controlled it for sixteen years. You said it in the book, and you were right and everyone else was wrong. You were
right,
man. You proved it—a serial killer
can
stop killing. He can control it. You stopped. You held it in check.”

“I did. But then…it came back.” His smile grew into a replica of his usual, but there was something way off
about his eyes. “I told you,” he said, but the voice was off, too. Not quite Nick's. “I told you we'd have to kill her. Last of all, best of all, that's what I said. And you kept arguing with me. You kept saying you weren't going to do that, that you liked Dawn.” He tipped his head back and laughed and laughed and laughed, and in between the gusts of laughter, he coughed out more words. “And now…now…we have—
ah-ha-ha
—no choice.”

“Shit, Nick, stop it. You're freaking me out, okay?”

Nick kept on laughing, a staccato percussion from deep in his chest, utterly devoid of joy. “You
should
be freaking out.” He shook his head, then suddenly bent down, gripped Bryan by the front of his shirt and pulled him to his feet. Then he opened the car door and shoved him in, so that Bryan fell across the backseat, unable to catch himself. Nick shoved Bryan's feet inside, and Bryan could feel the man he'd thought of as a friend tying his ankles together before he let go and slammed the door. Then he got behind the wheel and started the engine. It didn't purr, it growled, deep and powerful and somehow very dark.

Bryan struggled into an upright position, turning as best he could to look out the rear windshield, and saw the garage door rising behind them, revealing the pouring rain beyond. Then Nick hit the headlights, and Bryan swung his head to the front again, still trying to get a handle on where the hell they were so he could
lead the police back here later—on the off chance he survived.

His gaze fell onto the rear wall of the garage, which was completely covered in photographs. They looked as if they'd been decoupaged onto the wall with some sort of polyurethane. Rows and rows of photographs, all of young women. Young, beautiful women. Some matched the photos of Nightcap's victims, but there were others, too. There were women he'd never seen before.

God, how many? Bryan tried to count as the car began backing up. He only got to thirty before he couldn't see anymore, because his gaze was stuck on one.

The photo drew his eyes, gleaming more than all the others, because the coating was shinier—still wet, Bryan thought. And then he felt the life sucked out of him as if by an oversize vacuum.

That photo was of Dawn.

Nick put the car in Reverse and backed it out of the garage into the rain, then hit a button, and the door began closing again. As they backed onto the road, then started moving forward, the wipers beating at high speed, Bryan looked at the building. A storage unit in the middle of hundreds just like it. And as they drove he saw a sign. EZ RENT Storage Units: 555-9EZ-RENT.

 

They were sipping cocoa. Olivia was searching through the contents of the evidence box, fingering one
item after another, while Dawn pored over the evidence list and police reports yet again. Five minutes to nine. Five more minutes, and then they could go after Bryan. God, why wasn't he walking in that door? She tried to tell herself that he might have found a clue that led him to another and maybe another, and that he would have phoned if the phone weren't out. But she wasn't buying it. Something was wrong.