Killing Spree (17 page)

Gillian skimmed over a few more lines of idle chatter before the signoff: “Affectionately, Hester.”

Ruth hit the Reply key. “So—what do you want me to say to her?”

“Anything. Thank her for sending the article.”

“I already thanked her. Didn’t you read her note?”

“Thank her again. Just a line, then send it.”

“Okay,” Ruth sighed. Her fingers worked furiously over the keys:

“Is that okay?” Ruth asked, eyes on the computer monitor.

“Yes, perfect,” Gillian said impatiently. “Send it.”

Ruth hit the Send key. “Do you have any dictation for me while you’re at it?”

“Huh, no, thanks.” Gillian patted her shoulder. “But could you print up that article she sent?”

While Ruth hunted for the article, her computer let out a tonal
ping
. The e-mail icon was flagged. “That couldn’t be Hester replying
already
,” Ruth murmured. She printed the news article from Montana, and then checked her current e-mail:

“Well, that’s screwy,” Ruth muttered. “Hester’s e-mail address was working this morning….”

“I was afraid of this,” Gillian said. She pointed to the list she’d scribbled down at home. “I found out about the stabbing in New York from an article my agent
didn’t
send. Someone phoned me and hung up four times from Dianne’s place. I heard about the second murder when I called her back. Do you see what’s happening? He’s going through my friends to make sure I know about each killing.”

“Oh, no,” Ruth whispered. She rubbed her forehead. “The son of a bitch…”

“I don’t think there ever was a Hester,” Gillian said. She glanced at the news article. “See if you can dig up this article from yesterday’s
Great Falls Tribune.
”

Ruth resumed clicking away on the keyboard. “I know where you’re going with this…”

Gillian was skimming over the article “Hester” had sent to Ruth:

MUTILATED CORPSE FOUND
IN BILLINGS

Woman Makes Grisly, After-Hours

Discovery in a

Downtown Abandoned Lot

“I found something,” Ruth announced, eyes riveted to her monitor. “But it isn’t the same article.”

Gillian glanced at the story from the
Great Falls Tribune
archive. The headline and subhead were identical. But there was no description of the corpse beyond “mutilated body of an unidentified white male, approximately 25–35 years old.” None of the other details from the article “Hester” e-mailed were there.

“A newspaper reporter wouldn’t presume to call an unidentified victim a ‘drifter or hitchhiker,’” Gillian said. “He put that in to show the similarity to
Highway Hypnosis
. Obviously, he got the waitress’s name from the original article. But all the details…” She trailed off.

Ruth took “Hester’s” article from Gillian and studied it. “I kept wondering why the cops would allow them to print such an exhaustive description of what he’d done to the corpse. None of the articles I read today were this thorough.”

Gillian nodded. “No, because what you got yesterday was a first-hand account from the killer.”

Ruth drummed her fingers on the desktop. “The son of a bitch has been e-mailing back and forth with me for a month now.”

“That middle-aged, cat-loving lady in Montana just sprang from his imagination,” Gillian said. “Those e-mails, and that article he wrote, he’s good. He’s a very, very creative writer.”

“Which brings us back to that night class,” Ruth said. “But hell, I heard most of the stories from my classmates. I don’t think any of them were this polished, this
creative
.”

“He’s had two years to hone his craft.” Gillian glanced at “Hester’s” news article again. “The computer gibberish above the fake article attachment looks very real. And I’ll bet you anything we won’t be able to trace Hester’s e-mail account. He’s obviously very skilled with computers too.”

Ruth turned in her desk chair. “Do you think…” She fell silent.

“What? Go ahead.”

“I’m wondering about that e-mail you got, the one you couldn’t trace or respond to.”

Staring at her, Gillian swallowed hard. “As in, ‘Gillian, I found your husband’? That e-mail?”

Ruth just nodded. She had the saddest look on her face.

“You have to slow it down a little, Ethan,” said Dr. Pickett. Ethan’s violin teacher was a tall, gaunt man with a goatee and long, receding brown hair he kept in a ponytail. He always smelled like stale cigarettes. Small wonder, because he never made it through a fifty-minute tutorial without a cigarette break. The music rooms were little windowless boxes the size of walk-in closets. There was just enough room for a piano, a chair, and two people. The walls were padded with cushioned dark green faux leather that was perforated with big brass buttons. It did something to contain the sound, Ethan wasn’t quite sure what.

“You’re still too fast! Slow down that bow,” Dr. Pickett told him. He’d been accompanying Ethan on the piano for a Bach Concerto, but now he’d stopped playing. “You’re really wound up today. You’re going at seventy-eight rpm’s, Ethan. It’s like I’m waiting for Alvin and the Chipmunks to come in and sing the chorus.”

“Who?” Ethan asked. His violin tucked firmly under his chin, he glanced over at his tutor.

Dr. Pickett got to his feet. “Never mind. Johann is begging you from the grave to slow down. And I need a cigarette break.” He headed toward the door. “Keep playing—slowly. It’s not a race.”

He left the door open a bit. Ethan could hear someone tinkling a piano down the hall, and another person singing. Sometimes, Dr. Pickett took as long as twenty minutes for his cigarette breaks. But he never seemed to miss anything. Whenever he returned to the little room, he would tell Ethan what he’d been doing right or when he’d screwed up—and he was usually on target. It was like he had the place bugged or something.

Ethan kept playing his violin. He tried to slow down, which was difficult, because he was so keyed up. Dr. Pickett was right about that. Ethan couldn’t help it. Just two periods ago, he’d watched his nemesis, Tate Barringer, get the crap beaten out of him. Ethan wasn’t a sadistic person, but it had been pretty damn wonderful to see.

It was all over school too—in record time. After the last period, on his way to the music wing, Ethan didn’t have to avoid Tate in the hallways. In fact, he’d heard that Tate had been taken to the hospital with a broken nose and a cracked rib. Tate’s buddy had been sent home with an ice pack on his crotch. At least, those were the stories going around. Ethan was stopped in the corridor several times. Did he know the guy who pounded the shit out of Tate Barringer? Was the guy a senior? Was it true that Tate was now in a coma? Had he hired a hood to beat up Tate? It seemed like everyone wanted to ask him about the incident. And not one person who stopped him in the hallway called him a fag.

Despite his stolen victory, Ethan couldn’t shake an underlying feeling that he would somehow get in deep trouble for what had happened. Giddy and guilty, it was a weird combination—that didn’t go well with Bach.

He tried to concentrate and slow down, almost dragging his bow across the strings.

“Hey, waddaya know, dude? It’s you.”

Ethan stopped playing, and turned toward the door.

The “mystery man” who had rescued him from Tate now stood in the doorway of the little rehearsal room. He was still wearing his brown leather jacket—along with a slightly goofy, crooked smile. “Damn, you really know how to play the shit out of that thing,” he muttered.

“Thank you…I think,” Ethan replied. He lowered his violin and bow.

The young man leaned against the doorway frame. “Looks like you got cleaned up okay.”

Ethan smiled and nodded shyly. “Thanks to you.”

“The prick had it coming. Am I right or am I right?”

Ethan nodded again.

“I’m Joe, by the way. Joe Pagani.”

“Ethan Tanner. Are you—um, a new student here?”

Joe nodded. “I’m a senior. Just started yesterday. Still getting a feel for the dump.”

“I thought you might even be in college. You look older.”

“Yeah, I know. Before moving here, I lived in Portland, and my friends always had me buy the beer for parties. I practically never got carded. I was shaving by the time I was in eighth grade.”

“Wow, cool,” Ethan murmured. He was just starting to get armpit hair—finally. “I thought you might have gotten into some trouble.”

“For buying beer? Hell, no. I told you, they never carded me—”

“No, for beating up that guy today.”

“Oh, that.” Joe shrugged. “Not yet. Why? Were you planning to turn me in or something?”

“Oh, God, no. I’m grateful. That guy’s a real jerk.”

“So what are you doing tomorrow, Ethan?”

“Tomorrow? Huh, well, I have to go to this football game. There’s a charter bus to Ballard. We’re all supposed to go.”

“They’re making you go on a Saturday? That totally sucks.”

“The freshman team is playing.” Ethan rolled his eyes. “It’s a required ‘school spirit’ thing. My best friend is one of the star players.”

“Really?” Joe squinted at him. “If your best friend is such a hotshot jock, why is he letting this asshole harass you?”

Ethan looked down at the tiled floor. “Well, I guess he
used to
be my best friend. Anyway, I have to go see him play against Ballard tomorrow.”

“Listen, why don’t you take this bus to Ballard, then blow off the game. I’ll meet you there, and we can hang out. You can show me around.”

Ethan grimaced a bit. “Well, I don’t know. I—”

“C’mon, don’t wuss out on me. I’m dying of boredom. Plus—you owe me, right?”

Ethan let out an uncertain laugh. “I’m just a freshman. Why do you want to hang out with me?”

“Because you’re the first person I’ve met at this school who isn’t an asshole. So—what time is the big game? I’ll meet you there. We’ll hang out, then I’ll get you back to the bus before they load up again.”

“The game is at one o’clock. I think we’re supposed to be there at twelve-thirty.”

Joe smiled and winked at him. “Then I’ll see you at twelve-thirty, dude.”

“Okay,” Ethan managed to say. He felt a little short of breath.

Joe turned away and glanced down the corridor. “Hey, I’m looking for the bathroom,” he said to someone in the hallway. “Is it around here?”

Ethan heard Dr. Pickett muttering something. Between the pianist and the singer down the hall, Ethan couldn’t make out what his tutor had said. But Joe nodded. “Thanks a lot,” he replied. Then he headed in the other direction.

Dr. Pickett stepped back into the tiny room. He smelled of cold air and fresh cigarette smoke. He frowned at Ethan. “Was that a friend of yours?”

“No, I don’t know him,” Ethan heard himself lie. “Some guy looking for the bathroom.”