Next to Die Page 23

  When it’s over, he trails behind her a ways – not too far back – and then moves a little closer as the rest of the moviegoers disperse through the parking lot, everyone headed to their vehicles. He’s parked just a few spots away from her.

  He’s nervous as he walks, not because he’s scared, but it’s starting to get exciting. Things are in motion; this is it. Don’t be overeager.

  She senses him behind her and glances over her shoulder. Not bad-looking for an older black lady, if you go for that sort of thing. She’s skinny, not much to her.

  “Did you like it?” he asks.

  She slows but does not stop. She’s not quite sure what to make of him; she’s been around the block once or twice, for sure, so she’s going to be skeptical. He’s factored that in.

  “I thought it was pretty good,” he said, “like, the end was good. Not something I’d usually see, you know, but – there’s not much for choices today, you know?”

  “Yeah,” she says tentatively, “it was good. Have a nice night…”

  She turns away and keeps moving, maybe a little bit faster now. She’s almost to her car. He gives the parking lot a quick look-over. Good thing she didn’t park too close to where there’s still a congestion of cars. Back where they are, it’s emptied out quite a bit.

  “I guess you don’t recognize me, huh?”

  She stops when she gets to her car, and he stops at his. When she looks back at him again, he tries not to smile, but just look friendly, polite. Harmless. He knows he has a face that can be off-putting if he’s not concentrating.

  But, if he practices, uses his facial muscles in just the right combination, then he looks rather pleasant, even charming, despite his size, which he knows can intimidate people. So, he slouches.

  She scowls now, curiosity overcoming her concern.

  “You mean from the movie theater?”

  He knows that she knows that’s not what he meant. He can see her hunting for it and then – there – boom – she gets the look: Her eyes acquire that mixture of pity and pride. Pity for him, pride for herself with what she thinks she recognizes.

  He’s got her.

  He reels her in further, carefully laying out the whole story. It’s a short version and the words are flowing; a recital he worked out over the past few weeks, and by the end of it she’s completely absorbed.

  He tells her where he’s been, what he’s been doing – and in the telling he can see that emotion really swimming in her eyes now – another self-aggrandizing bodhisattva thinking she’s saving the world.

  But it works so well – God damn, how he plays her like a fiddle. Doesn’t matter how street-smart she is, everyone is a sucker for a baby mouse. You play it timid, you play to their emotions, to their pride, and they’re putty in your hands.

  It’s not hard, then, after he’s casually opened the passenger door, to get her to have a look at this thing he wants to show her; not only has her skepticism receded, it’s really gone altogether. She leans in with a bemused smile on her face and he takes one last look around – there’s just a chatty couple getting into their SUV several rows away, not paying any attention – then makes his move.

  It’s calming, actually. Like the moment the whistle blows and the wrestling match begins. The nerves and sense of excitement dissipate as he leans in after her, wraps himself around her face and neck.

  She screams, but it’s muffled by his big arms. She kicks a little, and she flails – one arm strikes the dashboard of his car, the other reaches around behind her, gets a fistful of his shirt – and then she jerks back and her head clips him in the lip. He tastes blood – like metal; copper. But he’s big and can apply a lot of pressure, and within twenty seconds the struggle is over. She’s asleep. Unconscious.

  Not dead yet, not cut across the throat – that’s for later.

  He props her up in the seat, puts her legs in, and shuts the door. Moves around to his side of the car and casts another look over the parking lot. The SUV is driving away. A trio of other people have just arrived, are getting out of their car, on their way in for the next showing, maybe. If anybody happens to glance over, it just looks like a man in his car and a woman asleep in the seat beside him.

  They’ve got a ways to go now; it’s going to be a long night.

  * * *

  She’d screamed when she saw the knife, but by then it was too late, no one around to hear her.

  It was good to remember – good practice for his mind, because his thoughts sometimes had gaps. Like a record skipping, he got mentally stuck.

  Clay put his mental needle back on the vinyl and continued cruising through the twilight, feeling invigorated. He decided that not only was hikers and cops discovering the body okay – it was another blessing in disguise, really; an opportunity.

  There was no reason to be secretive about this. With Harriet, he’d left her right out in the open, right in front of DSS. Though it hadn’t gone perfectly – he needed a venue that he could control, something he could set up so there would be no mistakes, and there would be no ambiguity about what he was accomplishing with his final target. At least, not to his witness. The cops may continue to fumble around and fuck it up, but Bobbi Noelle would know. And she was the perfect one to observe because she was just like Alison Hadley. She needed a fucking wake-up call; she would come to understand him, what he was doing. She would realize the folly of her life, and then she would die, too.

  * * *

  “There are fewer cuts,” Mike said. They stood outside the morgue in the parking lot, both of them chewing gum, another night already upon them. Lena kept grimacing and sniffing her clothes. It was her first autopsy.

  “What do you mean? It’s not the same doer?”

  “I’m not saying that. Just that there’s only two cuts, both across her neck.”

  Lena spit her gum out in a tissue. “I mean, is this Corina Lavoie or not?”

  “We have yet to make that official determination.”

  “I know, Mike. I mean right now, you and me – is it her?”

  “It’s her. When the sister comes in from Watertown we’ll make it official. But, it’s her. I mean, I’m ninety-five percent it’s her.”

  “Then what difference does it make how many times she was cut? She worked in Lake Haven as a caseworker with Harriet Fogarty. Two caseworkers from the same place – not a coincidence. We know this.”

  “We do. What it means is… I don’t know. That these are two different styles of killing. With one, he hides the body. The second, he leaves her there; it’s almost ostentatious. So this guy is changing. And if it’s not over with these two… maybe if it happens again, he goes even bigger, showier.”

  “Why would it happen again?” Lena asked, paling. “The cases we’re looking at – Caruthers, Morrissey, Earnshaw – Harriet and Lavoie were the only caseworkers involved.”

  “We need to look again to be sure. See if there’s anyone else in the paperwork.”

  Lena stared off toward the main drag, a few cars crawling along in the warm night. “I guess this is a call to Matt Spalding?” Spalding was an FBI liaison. Mike had worked with him a couple of times in the past. “If there’s two victims,” Lena said, “they’ll want to be apprised, to monitor things. At least once she’s officially identified.”

  They both looked into the shadows for a moment, then she moved a little closer to him, slipped her arms around his waist. He checked to see if anyone was watching, but the parking lot was empty except for a couple of cars: theirs and one other. “How you doing?” he asked her.

  “I’m okay.”

  “You don’t seem it.”

  “I’m fine. We’re just… It’s okay. I’m good.”

  She kept her arms encircled, and he felt her heart beating against his chest.

  * * *

  Jolyon ran up ahead of them on the trail, starting to disappear around the corner.

  “Red light!” Connor shouted.

  Jolyon stopped in his tracks and wait
ed, looking back over his shoulder.

  “Okay… green light,” Connor said.

  Jolyon took off running again, cresting a rise. The late Sunday morning was gloomy, not much sun, and Bobbi swatted away the swarming bugs. She was holding hands with Connor and could feel him watching her out of the corner of his eye as they walked abreast.

  He asked, “So what did the state police guy say?”

  “He sent someone over who looked around at everything, had me walk him through what happened.”

  “Another detective?”

  “A state trooper. Then he called and asked me if I thought it was Jamie.”

  “And what did you say?”

  “I couldn’t really tell. It happened way too fast, and he was down at the end of the street.”

  He sighed. “I should have been there.”

  She kept silent, watching as Jolyon stomped on something.

  “Hey!” Connor called. “What are you doing?”

  “It’s a spider!”

  “So? What did it do to you?”

  “Nothing!” Jolyon gave it one more stomp then hustled on again, talking to himself and making sound effects, like he was in the midst of a great battle.

  The trail opened up and they walked out into the wide backyard of the John Brown farm.

  The historic site included a man-made pond, squared along one side. An informational plaque was placed near the water. In 1859, in an attempt to liberate slaves in the South, Brown was captured, hanged, his body returned to the farm near Lake Placid, where it was buried in front of the original house, still standing.

  Connor let go of her hand. “Jolyon! C’mere…”

  The boy wandered over and Connor squatted down, probed around his neck, the backs of his ears.

  “Ticks?” Bobbi asked.

  “They’re usually gone by this time of summer, but it’s been so warm.” He nodded at the plaque. “What’s it say?”

  She read off the quote: “‘I, John Brown, am quite certain that the crimes of this guilty land will never be purged away but with blood. I had, as I now think, vainly flattered myself that without very much bloodshed it might be done.’”

  “Sounds like a prediction of the Civil War,” Connor said. He patted Jolyon on the butt. “Okay, bud. All clear.” They watched Jolyon run off toward the house then stop when something else in the kept grass piqued his interest. “No more spider-killing!” Connor called, then he turned to Bobbi, and his eyebrows went up. “What?”

  “You’re a great dad.”

  He took her by the arms. “I mean it, Bobbi. This is crazy shit going on. You had someone at your work killed. And now there’s another victim, sunk in a pond or something? Is she a caseworker?”

  “I don’t know. They haven’t said.”

  “Yeah, well, meanwhile, you’ve got people showing up at your apartment in the middle of the night, standing outside your door. I mean – is this state investigator guy posting someone outside your house again?”

  “The trooper who responded said Lake Placid police had been tied up because of a car accident, but they’re going to go back to… checking, or whatever. Driving by my house.”

  “Oh, big deal.”

  “I think at this point the police are trying to cover all the other DSS employees, too.”

  “See? There you go. I bet this other victim was a caseworker.” He looked perturbed, watching Jolyon while he said, “You need someone looking out for you.”

  “I’m okay.”

  He studied her, searched her eyes.

  “I can take care of myself,” she added, and then instantly regretted it.

  The silence that followed was heavy with inference, and his face fell; he let go of her, stepped away.

  “Connor…”

  “Yeah, I know.” He started walking.

  “There’s so much going on, I mean… You’re amazing, Connor. You’re a great father. And—”

  “Right.” He stopped abruptly and turned. “But you’re just not… what? I know there’s all this crazy shit happening, but that’s not why you’re acting like this, and you know it.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said softly.

  “Well, I mean… what? You’re just not… what?”

  She felt pressured. “I don’t know. Maybe now is not… maybe I’m not ready.”

  “When will you be? Do I get a date, a time?” He moved off again.

  “It doesn’t work like that,” she said in a whisper, not really wanting him to hear.

  Bobbi just stood there as Connor went to Jolyon, who was trying to get into the John Brown house. It was locked, and Connor pulled him away, but they cupped their hands and looked through the glass. After a moment, Connor glanced at her, and the disappointment she saw in his face was excruciating.

  Was she being stupid? Maybe there was no “right time.” Maybe “now” was all there was, no matter what was happening around them, no matter her trepidation about Jolyon. She wanted kids, she thought – she’d just expected they would come later on, her first when she was thirty or so. Maybe another one a couple of years later so he or she would have someone else to build a life with.

  Jolyon was already six. What did that mean? Have a kid as soon as possible so he had some chance of connecting with them? It was these types of questions, on top of everything else, giving her an early ulcer.

  She looked away, to the dark water of the pond. Couldn’t really see into it, but the sky reflected above, the knots of suspended storm clouds. A bug whined in her ear and she fanned her hand at it, feeling frustrated. She was entitled to wait a few more years before becoming someone’s mother, wasn’t she? Or before a major relationship? She was allowed to pause things when her supervisor had been killed and her ex-boyfriend was texting her and everybody else seemed suspicious. Right?

  Either that, or she was chicken shit.

  No, not chicken. Maybe just getting ahead of herself. Jolyon’s mother had left him when he was three years old. She was scarce now, but what if she had a change of heart, like Carrie Lafler? What if she wanted back into his life? She needed to talk to Connor, to better explain that in the midst of all of this, she was a caseworker who encountered families in pain every single day.

  Her phone tickled her leg. She withdrew it from her pocket – a text from Rachel.

  Len not home… Where r u?

  She typed back:

  With Connor. What do you mean he’s not home?

  The phone vibrated again a second later, this time with an incoming call. “Rachel?”

  Rachel’s voice held a reedy panic. “Lennox is not here, Bobbi. I came by to talk about the body they found, check on him, and no one came to the door. I figured he was sleeping, so then I went into town, ran a few errands, and I came back, and he still didn’t answer so I tried the door and went in and he’s just not here…”

  “Okay. Slow down. Take a breath. I talked to him a couple days ago; he was pretty sick. Maybe he went to the doctor.”

  “I don’t… You think so?”

  “Let me call the medical center, see if he’s there. Maybe he called someone, or brought himself to the emergency room. Alright?”

  “I’m worried, Bobbi. I’m freaking out. With what’s happening, with what’s happened to Harriet, then this other one – it’s Corina Lavoie. They haven’t said, but I know it. Did you know that the cops went to see Dodd Caruthers? Did you know about that?”

  “Who? I know they’re talking to some of the people from cases Harriet shared with—”

  “He’s a neo-Nazi, Bobbi. A fucking white nationalist.”

  Bobbi held her tongue for a moment. Lennox was born in the U.S., but he was mixed-race; his father was Jamaican.

  Connor watched her, seeming to sense something was wrong. They’d moved off toward the barn, but he was facing her direction, head cocked.

  “Alright, alright,” Bobbi started, but she didn’t know what to say next. Rachel’s alarm was catching. “Well, okay. Still, let’s check the hospita
l. Let’s not just freak out until… You know, let’s look at the everyday things. Okay?”

  It was working, Rachel calming some. “Yeah. Okay. Do you want to go? I feel like I should stay here. Should I call the cops?”

  “I’ll call Mike Nelson – I have him in my phone. Yeah, you just stay there. I’ll talk to Mike, and I’ll call the hospital.”

  “Call me right back after. Jesus, Bobbi. This is… I’m sorry, it’s just… this has been another crazy weekend, and Lennox, you know, he doesn’t really have anybody…”

  “I know. You sit tight. Call you right back.”

  Bobbi hung up and keyed her contact for Mike as she walked away from the pond, toward Connor’s truck. She caught his eye – he seemed to intuit that something was amiss, and corralled Jolyon, started ushering him the same direction.

  Mike’s voicemail picked up and she waited until the prompt. “Mike, it’s Bobbi Noelle. Listen, my friend Rachel – well, you know her, Rachel Watts – she just called from our other co-worker’s house, Lennox Palmer. He called in sick this week, and today he’s not home. His place was unlocked, and she went in… Can you just give me a call? I’m going to check the hospital, but she’s really worried, and I have to admit I am too with everything that’s happened.”

  She ended the call thinking she could’ve been more succinct or something, she’d kind of rambled, then punched in the number for County Medical as she reached Connor’s truck.

  Connor asked her, “What’s going on?” and she held up a finger.

  A recorded voice greeted her, finally gave her the option for the ER.

  Jolyon was hopping around the truck, asking for ice cream. “Hang on, bub. Here, let’s get into your car seat.”

  Someone living answered in the ER.

  “Hi,” Bobbi said, “looking to see if someone came in yesterday or maybe during the night – Lennox Palmer. I work with him at DSS. Roberta Noelle.”