The Third Victim (31 page)

“Someone from the hospital staff called. You’re ready to turn off life support—”

“I most certainly am not!”

“Bethie—”

“Is this some kind of trick of yours, Pierce? Do you think this little melodrama will force my hand? Because it won’t work. I am not killing my daughter just to convenience your schedule.”

“Bethie—” But he didn’t say anything more. She had no idea what he was talking about. He’d been set up, and he’d walked into the trap as meekly as a mouse.

Oh God, Rainie.

Quincy replaced Mandy’s hand on the sheet. He kissed her temple. His hands had started to shake.

“No changes?”

“No changes,” Bethie said stiffly.

“And Kimberly?”

“Settled back in at college, I suppose. Not that she bothers to call.”

Quincy nodded and tried not to appear too hasty as he headed for the door.

“Thanks for visiting,” Bethie called out sarcastically behind him. “Do come again.”

Quincy stopped for just a moment in the doorway. “It’s not your fault,” he said honestly. “What happened to Mandy, it was not your fault.”

“I don’t blame myself,” Bethie said thickly. “I blame you.”

Quincy headed down the hallway. The minute he was in the parking lot, he flipped open his cell phone. His first call was to his friend in the crime lab, who had received the sabot late last night.

“Did you enter it into DRUGFIRE?”

“Jeez, Quincy, nice to hear from you too.”

“I don’t have time, Kenny. Where are you with the sabot?”

“Well, if you’d bothered to check your voice mail, you’d know I worked on it all friggin’ night. The rifling matches with two other shootings, Quince. Two other
school shootings.
And both those cases are considered closed, with two kids in jail. So if these crimes are still happening . . . Get your butt to Quantico, Quincy. You’re kind of in demand.”

“I’m going back to Oregon. Fax everything to the Bakersville number as soon as you can.”

“Are you nuts? We have the same gun used in three separate school shootings in three separate cities over a ten-year span. What do you think is going to happen next?”

“He’s going to kill Rainie,” Quincy said simply. “It’s part of his game. Drive her over the edge, then attack when she’s down. And I didn’t see it coming. Shit, I didn’t see it coming, and now I’m
all the way across the fucking country
!”

And then he was off the phone and in a taxicab, where he yelled at the driver to go fast, fast,
fast,
while he thought of his daughter and all those moments in his life when he hadn’t done enough.

THIRTY-TWO
                                                                                                                                                                                                               

Saturday, May 19, 4:48
P
.
M
.

D
ANNY WAS EXHAUSTED.
Long after Rainie left, he lay on his bed, curled in a ball, staring at the same spot on the floor. He had told her everything. He shouldn’t have, but he had, and now he was drained.

She had told him that secrets made things worse. She had told him that secrets gave the man power over him. Danny didn’t know anymore. He had so many pictures in his mind. He wished he could turn off his brain and make everything go away.

This morning his hands had started trembling, and now they wouldn’t stop. This morning the cold had left him and now he was filled with a burning pain. He hated the feel of his own skin. He hated the sight of his face in the mirror. He wanted something sharp so he could slice away his fingers. Then he wouldn’t have to see them holding a gun or pulling a trigger. Then he would hurt outside the way he hurt inside, and somehow that would be more right.

He was tired. But he couldn’t sleep. He was worried about Becky. He should make himself move, do something. He didn’t know what.

Footsteps came down the corridor. One of the guides appeared. He was smiling, jolly, like a clown. “It’s that time,” he said cheerily.

Danny looked at him blankly.

“You’re going on a field trip, Mr. O’Grady. Your parents are sending you to the funny farm.” Mr. Jolly laughed at his joke.

Danny curled up more tightly on the bed.

Two men materialized behind Mr. Jolly. They wore uniforms and looked vaguely familiar to Danny. They held up shackles. If you left the walls of the detention center, you had to be shackled. There was no point in avoiding it anymore. They would take him one way or another.

Off to the funny farm. His insides burned. He wished he had something sharp.

Danny stood as ordered. He held up his arms. The younger guy did his ankles first. He didn’t make it very tight. Not as tight as the last guy had done. That guy had cut into Danny’s skin and left welts. Danny had known from the look on the man’s face that that was what he wanted.

Danny kept quiet. The younger guy had the belt around his waist now. His hands were chained in front of him to the belt. He was done.

The older man nodded. “Danny,” he said roughly, familiarly.

Danny figured he must know the man. Maybe a friend of his father’s. Good old Shep loved the brotherhood of the uniform. Couldn’t be easy to be a cop now.

The patrol officers led him out to a Cabot County police cruiser. They stuck him in the back, then climbed into the front. The two men kept looking at each other but didn’t say much.

Danny didn’t ask any questions. He didn’t know why he was going to the funny farm or for how long or what happened when he got there. He still didn’t ask any questions. He just wished he had something sharp. Cut away his fingers. Never have to gaze at his hands anymore.
Miss Avalon, Miss Avalon, Miss Avalon.

“Run, Danny, run!”

The car started moving. The older man studied Danny in the rearview mirror. Danny didn’t like his look. He hunched his shoulders and tried to be small.

Ten minutes later the older man said to the younger man, “What do you think?”

“I guess it’s as good a spot as any.”

“Hey, you,” the older man said to Danny. “Hold on, kid.”

Suddenly, the car swerved. One minute they were on the road, the next the car went bouncing down the embankment. Danny thought the man would try to brake. Instead he hit the gas.
Boom.

The impact slammed Danny forward into the divider. He blinked his eyes. It took several seconds more for the dust to clear. When he finally had his senses together, he realized the patrol car was smashed against a tree. Steam came from beneath the hood. The two cops looked bleary, and the younger one had blood on his forehead.

“Shit,” the kid cop murmured, touching the cut and wincing. “Shit, that’s gotta be authentic.”

“Get out,” the older man was saying. His lip was bleeding and his cheek appeared bruised. He spoke with more urgency. “For God’s sake, kid, grab the keys and get the hell out of the car. Didn’t your dad tell you anything?”

Danny finally realized that the back door had opened. Had one of them done it, or was it from the crash? He couldn’t remember how things had happened, and already his feet were moving, though through no will of his own.

He got out of the car. Both cops were moaning. Someone squawked over the radio. They pretended to moan louder while the older one pointed at the keys dangling from his utility belt.

Danny took the keys and undid his shackles. Now he saw another police car coming, except this one wasn’t from Cabot County. It was from Bakersville, and Danny knew immediately who was climbing out of the front seat.

Danny threw the keys into the grass. He leapt forward, catching the older cop by surprise, and grabbed his sidearm.

The man’s eyes turned white with fear. He started to babble; Danny didn’t stick around to hear. The fog had lifted. He had no more doubt in his mind.

He ran. Straight into the ravine, crashing through the underbrush. He heard the cops yell and his father yell.
“Wait, wait, we’re just trying to help.” “Son, please . . .”

Danny ran faster.

He had a gun now, and he knew exactly what he had to do next.

He was
smart.

AT A LITTLE AFTER
five-thirty in the evening, Principal Steven VanderZanden turned his car up the rounded driveway to his house. Abigail was sitting beside him, holding his hand. Ever since the shooting, she’d had a need to touch him. She stroked his cheek more often, cajoled him out of his recliner onto the love seat, slept with her body pressed up against his.

It had been years since she’d been so affectionate, and right after the shooting Steven hadn’t known how to feel about that. His sadness and guilt over Melissa left him needy, grateful for the contact. And yet the nicer his wife was, the worse he felt.

Today he had realized he needed to tell his wife the truth. Just get it all out in the open. Then see what she did to him.

Except this morning his wife had suggested that they drive to the beach, get away for a little bit. The days had been long since the shootings, so many people who needed his guidance and so many doubts to keep him up late at night. It would be months before he sorted through the aftermath. Months before he understood his role as a principal and guardian of students again.

His wife wore a new sundress she’d apparently bought yesterday at Sears. The bright blue made her eyes vivid, and he found himself watching her, noting the way she smiled. She was flirting with him, he’d realized finally. Gently, subtly, in order to give him plenty of space.

And he found himself thinking about other times, when the marriage was new and they thought nothing of spending hours giggling on the sofa. He thought of the way he’d always appreciated his wife’s common sense and how she made him feel strong, when he’d spent his whole life as a five-foot-eight runt who was never the hero on the football field. He remembered the way he liked his wife, particularly in the days before Melissa Avalon had arrived in Bakersville and stunned him with her smile.

By five this afternoon he had made his decision. He’d made a mistake, an error in ego and judgment. He hoped his wife would never have to learn how much he’d hurt her. And now he just wanted his old life back.

They approached the house.

The first sign of trouble was just a flicker of movement out of the corner of Steven’s eye. The next minute the back window of the car exploded in a hail of glass.

“Oh my God,” Abigail cried.

“Duck!” Steven yelled.

He floored the gas pedal on instinct and overshot the driveway. The car tumbled down the side of the hill and came to a halt in a tangle of underbrush. He fought for reverse. No such luck. He tried to shoot forward. They were stuck.

Another gunshot. The side window exploded.

Steven looked at his wife of fifteen years. He thought he knew what was going on. There would be no escape. Melissa had warned him.

He said quietly, “Run, Abigail. Run as fast as you can.”

And then he got out and prepared to meet his fate.

IN THE ATTIC OF
city hall, Sanders was restless again. Six-thirty. Christ, for how long could one woman take care of her yard? That was a local for you. Perfectly good as long as the case was exciting. Once it got down to the grunt work, bailed out through the closest window.

He grumbled some more, strolling around the tiny attic and rolling out the knots in his neck. Luke Hayes had checked in briefly, but he was now back in the main office of the sheriff’s department, writing up the day’s worth of paperwork under Sanders’s orders. Sanders didn’t know how they generally did things around here, but in cross-jurisdictional investigations you needed up-to-date written reports or things fell through the cracks.

Speaking of which.

Sanders picked up Rainie’s mail from the California school. Since she wasn’t here, he’d just have to take matters into his own hands.

He opened the flat envelope and began to skim the contents.

“Oh shit,” he said thirty seconds later. “Oh
shit
!”

And then, in the corner of the room, the police scanner crackled to life with the first reports of gunfire.

THIRTY-THREE
                                                                                                                                                                                                               

Saturday, May 19, 7:51
P
.
M
.

H
ELLO, RICHARD.
”

Rainie stood on her back deck in the gathering gloom. It was late, nearly eight o’clock. She’d stopped on her way back from Cabot to grab a sandwich and turn things over in her mind. She hadn’t eaten much, but things had become clearer to her. Why the shadowy figure of a man on her back deck? Why some stranger spouting off about her mother in a Seaside bar? Why the shotgun on her sofa? Because, somewhere along the line, this had become about her.

And having found her, the killer would not magically go away. Quincy was right. He wasn’t done yet.

Rainie had parked her car at the bottom of her driveway. She’d already known who she was looking for. When Danny had finally, brokenly uttered the name, she’d realized she wasn’t even surprised.

She had carefully made her way up through the woods to the back of her house. Her efforts were not disappointed. Mann sat calmly on her back deck with her mother’s shotgun cradled in his arms.

She boarded the stairs, then leveled her 9-millimeter at his chest.

“Hello, Lorraine,” he said conversationally. “Hope you don’t mind, but I’m tired of foreplay.”

“Fine. Stand up and I’ll shoot you.”

“Lorraine.” He gave her a chiding look. “Didn’t you learn anything fourteen years ago?”

“Yes,” she said honestly. “Don’t wait so long. And confess sooner—it does a body good.”

Richard Mann grinned at her charmingly. He wore black jeans and a black turtleneck, making him harder to distinguish in the falling night. His brown hair was different. He’d bleached it blond and touched up his eyebrows and lashes. The effect was startling—from conservative young professional to aspiring rock star. Rainie understood what that meant. Richard wasn’t planning on continuing his starring role as Bakers-ville’s school counselor. In fact, he was merely attending to one last loose end before he rode off into the sunset.

“I went under your deck,” Richard said. “Why did you move him?”

“I had my reasons.”

“You visited Danny today, didn’t you? Surely by now you know you can talk to me. In fact, I’m probably the only person in town who can truly understand.”

“You’re a sick, twisted bastard, Richard. I’m a cop. There’s nothing you understand.”

He laughed with genuine amusement. “You honestly believe that, don’t you, Rainie? How clever. You’ve manipulated your conscience into allowing yourself to live. But I’m curious. This beer thing. I’ve been watch-ing you for months now, and I just have to know. When you dump the beer over your deck railing, what is it you say?”

“None of your business.”

“And once again you disappoint. I had such aspirations for you in the beginning, but then you became prickly and dull. I’m not sure I like you anymore.”

“It’s probably the gun,” she told him. “Stand up and surrender. We’ll see if that improves your feelings at all.”

He smiled. “No, thank you. I’m more comfortable the way things are. I’m good at my job, you have to admit that. A good school counselor should be able to lead and inspire. And boy, did I lead and inspire. You should’ve seen Melissa’s face at the end. She really hadn’t a clue.”

“Is that why you came here? To gloat?”

“You know why I came here.”

“I’m not as easy to manipulate as a thirteen-year-old boy,” Rainie said stiffly.

Richard stood abruptly. “No. You’re even easier.”

He took a step forward.

“Stop or I’ll shoot.”

He threw the shotgun aside. “But, Lorraine, I’m an unarmed man.”

“Don’t call me that!”

He took another step forward. “You know you want to do it. Killing gets in the blood. Hard the first time, so much easier after that. I’ve read it releases powerful chemicals in the brain. No other high quite like it. Believe me, I know.”

“Freeze!”

“Come on, Lorraine. Just pull the trigger. You’ve been talking to Danny, you know how good it feels. You hate me. You hate me for manipulating the boy. You hate me for helping him kill those girls. You hate me for putting him in your dreams. Yeah, I’ve watched you sleep. I know it’s all back in your mind. So pull the trigger, Lorraine. Do it one more sweet, satisfying time. Remember the power. Celebrate your rage.”

“Goddammit.” She dropped the handgun to his kneecap, and when he took another step toward her, she fired.

And the automatic weapon uttered a hollow little click.

Richard laughed. He picked up her mother’s shotgun, holding it loosely in his arms. “Keeping a gun in a shoe box in your closet? You don’t even make my life that difficult.”

Rainie was still staring at her Beretta. “How? I just cleaned it, loaded it . . .”

“The firing pin. Filed it down a fraction of an inch, just enough so it can’t hit the firing cap. That was the night you woke up, but I was already outside by then.” He held up the shotgun to her gaze. “You removed the firing pin. I know, I checked. Take it from me—too obvious. Never do a lot, Lorraine, if just a little will get you by. It’s grand deceptions that always come back to haunt you.”

“I wouldn’t be polishing up your lectures just yet,” Rainie countered. She let the 9-millimeter fall from her fingers, then eased back, trying to giving herself more time for her next move. Her ankle holster. She’d kept the .22 locked in a box in the trunk of her police cruiser. She couldn’t believe he’d been able to get to that. “You’re not doing too well this time. The clean shot to the forehead for Melissa Avalon—”

“Have done it three times now. Always the information teacher, always a single shot to the forehead. No one’s ever put the pieces together. Once a mass murderer is in custody, who starts comparing his work to other homicides? Ask your friend Quincy. Shooting rampages are considered one-off crimes.”

“But we knew you were involved—”

“Please, the sabot was a calling card. Sooner or later I needed someone to pay attention in order to have any fun. For God’s sake, I gave you No Lava. I even invited you to personally visit my office so you could stare at the window I used to exit the building and rendezvous with Danny outside. You could’ve at least considered the possibility.”

“We did. It seemed far-fetched.”

“Yes, well, cops have singularly linear minds,” Richard conceded with a shrug. “It’s where you go wrong. Violence is a creative act. It requires patience and care. I’ve been nursing Danny O’Grady along for over a year, you know. Slowly making him feel comfortable on-line. Letting him know his feelings of rage and inadequacy are common and acceptable. Then it was easy. Met him in person. Showed him I’m a legitimate guy—his own school counselor, in fact. How can you doubt what the school counselor is telling you? ‘You need to stand up for yourself, Danny. Show everyone, including your father, who’s boss.’

“Of course, I never mentioned Melissa Avalon. I left that as a last-minute surprise. He just had to bring the guns and his backbone; I’d help him take a stand. When we walked into the side entrance of the school, the boy was shaking like a leaf. But you should’ve seen the look of determination on his face. Man, I was proud. Ironically enough, I kind of felt like a father. And then I walked into the computer lab and drew down on pretty Melissa Avalon.”

Richard’s voice lowered. He leaned forward conspiratorially. “The trick is to hesitate,” he confided. “Let the kid apprise the situation. Let him understand he has the chance to intervene. And then, while he’s still shocked and dazed and trying to find his conscience,
bam!
Pull the trigger. Down goes the precious little teacher. And the kid is all yours. He didn’t stand up for good. Now he’s gotta be evil. I told the boy to let it rip, and he bawled like a baby, but he didn’t disappoint. Not bad shooting, really, considering he was too frightened to leave the doorway of the computer room. Shep might be a decent teacher after all—at least when it comes to guns.”

Mann rocked back on his heels. He sighed and finished up contentedly, “Danny killed himself two little girls. And as soon as everyone left the building in a wave of mass confusion, I calmly exited stage right. Piece of cake, just like the times before.”

“Not quite. Becky saw you.”

Mann merely shrugged. “Guess she tried to play hero and find her brother. Bad break for her, when she ran down the hall and discovered her own brother and school counselor holding the proverbial smoking guns. But not so bad for me. I simply threatened to kill Danny if Becky talked, and threatened to kill Becky if Danny talked. Voilà. If people would raise children who were
more
callous, my job might actually be difficult. Without a guilty conscience, of course, there is very little to manipulate.”

“And is that why you created Dave Duncan, some stranger running around Seaside? More need to manipulate?”

Mann smiled wolfishly. “Come on, Rainie. A murder has been committed—what do the brilliant cops do? They line up the locals. Now before, that was my whole advantage. I had no apparent ties to what happened, so no one ever thought to even question me. But that got boring. This time I became a local—quite nicely, if I do say so myself. But now I will be subject to questioning, and I kind of stole an identity, which might come up if somebody pushes too hard. How to cover? I know. I’ll create some out-of-town stranger for you to chase. Clever and ironic. Someday I’m gonna have to write a book.”

“Not to burst your bubble, Richard, but if you’re so good, why do I know you’re the shooter? And Danny’s admitted that you are. For that matter, I’ve already called and left messages for the others about you. Face it, the jig is up.” Rainie was lying about having left messages for Sanders and Luke, but Mann didn’t seem to care.

“They aren’t coming, Lorraine. Don’t you understand that yet? Your hero Quincy is rushing into the arms of his ex-wife. And your friends Detective Sanders and Officer Hayes are dealing with another shooting across town. Or didn’t you hear? It seems that someone sent Daniel Avalon a copy of a private tape his daughter made of her and her new lover, in flagrante delicto. I guess it was a little much for Mr. Avalon. He looked up good old Principal VanderZanden. He brought his favorite shotgun.” Richard covered his lips delicately. “Oops. It’s just you and me, Lorraine. Let’s talk.”

“Why? You had your fun. What do I have to do with anything?”

“Tell me how it felt that afternoon. Tell me how much you enjoyed killing the man who shot your mother.”

“Go to hell.”

“It felt great, didn’t it? You don’t like to admit it, but it gave you a secret thrill. And you like to relive it, don’t you, Lorraine? Every time you step onto your back deck. Every time you raise your beer in a silent toast to the man you blew away.”

“Richard, I changed my mind.” Rainie sat down on a nearby bench. She watched him still. “I will tell you what I say each time I dump out a beer.”

“What?” He was honestly breathless.

“I toast my mother.” Her fingers trailed down to her ankle.

“You tell her off? You send her a giant, postmortem fuck you? Oh, I like that. I do the same thing once a year.”

“No.” Her hand closed around the small handle of her gun. “I don’t tell her, Fuck you. She tried to stop him, you asshole. She was slow to believe, but she finally told him a few choice words. And then he blew off her head. So no, I don’t tell her, Fuck you. I tell her I’m sorry. I tell her I should’ve killed him sooner. And then I tell him I hope it’s hot enough down there in hell.”

She whipped out her .22. “Bye-bye, Richard.”

“Too late, Rainie. Danny’s right behind you.”

Rainie heard a board creak. She turned reflexively, saw Danny’s shocked, pale face. Too late she realized her mistake. She tried to turn back around. She squeezed off one wild, desperate shot.

Then Richard savagely slammed her mother’s shotgun into the side of her head.

RICHARD STEPPED FORWARD QUICKLY
. He leveled the unfirable shotgun at Danny and said, “Gimme the gun.”

Danny looked at Rainie’s crumpled form. The boy handed over his firearm.

Richard smiled. Like candy from a baby. He tucked the gun in the back waistband of his jeans and left Rainie’s shotgun on the deck. “Your daddy sprung you, didn’t he?”

The boy didn’t say a word. He simply gazed hungrily at Richard’s gun. Richard wasn’t worried, however. Danny was too browbeaten by his father to ever do something bold. That had been half the fun.

Now Richard bent over and, with some difficulty, hefted Rainie onto his shoulder.

“You squealed on me, didn’t you, Danny? Didn’t I tell you that smart boys don’t squeal? Smart boys stay quiet, if they want to keep their families safe.”

Danny remained wordless.

“Well, there’s only one thing to do now,” Richard said with a sigh. “We’re going to have to kill your sister. Rules, Danny. Just ask my old man. You gotta live by the rules.”

QUINCY
’
S FLIGHT DIDN
’
T
touch down in Portland until nine
P
.
M
. Luke met him at the gate and started briefing him as they both half-walked, half-jogged to his illegally parked car.

“Her neighbor reported hearing a gunshot a little after eight
P
.
M
.,” Luke was saying. “Frankly, we didn’t get that call until nearly nine
P
.
M
.”

“Why so late?”

“Because we had our hands full with another shooting, and dispatch got confused. Daniel Avalon had disappeared as of yesterday afternoon. Today he surfaced in Bakersville, trying to blow off Steven Vander-Zanden’s head.”

“Casualties?”

“Not yet. VanderZanden ended up bruised and battered, but fortunately Avalon’s a lousy shot. On the other hand, VanderZanden’s wife figured out what it was about from all the cursing and swearing. I don’t know yet how VanderZanden will fare with her.”