Kill Her Again (A Thriller) Read online

  “Looks like he used a stun gun on this one,” she said.

  Worthington nodded. “That’s what we’re thinking. We’ll know for sure once the M.E. gets him on the table.”

  Anna stood up. “You say Fairweather has kids. Where are they?”

  “Ahh,” Worthington said. “The reason you two are here.”

  He turned again, crossing through the living room to a narrow hallway. As Anna and Royer followed, she began to get a vague feeling of déjà vu.

  There was a bathroom at the far end of the hall, and two bedroom doors on either side, facing each other. Worthington led them to the one on the left, to yet another body—a teenage girl, her mouth taped shut, her wrists and ankles bound, more stab wounds.

  An image flashed through Anna’s mind—

  —the little girl, bound and gagged in the backseat of a car—

  Anna blinked it away, forcing herself to concentrate on the room, which was largely occupied by two twin beds and a parade of stuffed animals and action figures. One of the beds sported Los Angeles Dodgers bedsheets, while the other carried a pastel pink comforter covered with a throwback to Anna’s own childhood: My Little Ponies.

  A bookshelf to her right held dozens of children’s books, including some of Anna’s own favorites. Little House on the Prairie. Through the Looking-Glass. The Wonderful Wizard of Oz.

  She remembered many a night, her mother perched on the edge of her bed, reading aloud to her, and she wondered if Rita Fairweather had ever had the chance to do the same.

  Worthington gestured to the body on the floor.

  “Tammy Garrett. The family babysitter. She looked after the kids three nights a week.”

  She couldn’t have been more than fifteen, sixteen years old. Plump. Baby faced.

  “And the kids?” Anna asked, already knowing the answer.

  “Like I said, the reason you two are here.”

  Worthington moved to the nightstand between the two beds and with his gloved right hand picked up a small digital camera, pressed a button, and handed it to Anna.

  “Evan and Kimberly.”

  Anna looked down at the photograph on the tiny LCD screen. A woman whom she assumed was Rita Fairweather stood with her two young children, a boy and girl, on the grounds of what looked like a carnival. There was a Ferris wheel in the distance, and directly behind them the black hole of a doorway led to what a gaudily painted sign said was DR. DEMON’S HOUSE OF A THOUSAND MIRRORS.

  Something stirred at the periphery of Anna’s brain—another image flash, too fast to decipher, accompanied by a sudden unexplained rush of vertigo.

  Acutely aware that the deterioration of her mind was still in progress, and that the distraction of blood and feces and dead bodies had been temporary at best, she waited for the dizziness to pass.

  “You all right?” Worthington asked.

  She knew her face must be showing her distress. “Fine,” she said. “Just a little touch of nausea.”

  He nodded, offering her a grim smile. “Like you said, the minute it stops bothering you, you’d better start thinking about a change of careers.”

  Anna managed a smile in return, but Royer was having none of it. Giving her an impatient scowl, he snatched the camera out of her hands and stared down at the image of Rita Fairweather and her kids.

  “Where was this shot?”

  “High school football field. Carnival comes through town every year. Still here, as a matter of fact, so the photo is recent.”

  “I take it they’re missing?”

  Nothing like stating the obvious.

  “No sign of ’em,” Worthington said. “And being so close to Nevada and all, we figure there’s a fairly good chance they were taken across the state line.”

  There was no guarantee that this had happened, of course, but Worthington had been smart enough to hedge his bets and call in the FBI. Crossing state lines automatically made it a federal case, and the Ludlow County Sheriff’s Department was undoubtedly ill prepared for a crime of this magnitude—which explained the complete lack of hostility toward a couple of federal outsiders. They were anxious to hand it off.

  “What about the father?” Royer asked. “He still in the picture?”

  “Dead two years, according to the neighbors.”

  “Is there a ransom note?” Anna asked.

  It seemed like a ridiculous question. Who was left to pay ransom? And even if she were still alive, Rita Fairweather obviously wouldn’t be able to afford one.

  But you never knew whether there was a rich relative somewhere in the picture, and for all of her faults, Anna believed in being thorough.

  “No notes, nothing,” Worthington said. “I figure we’re dealing with a predator—and not just any predator at that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “This’ll sound a little crazy, but you work a crime scene long enough, the victims start to talk to you.”

  “And what are they telling you?”

  “That whoever did this, it wasn’t his first time. He’s had practice, and a lot of it.”

  Anna thought about the serial perps she’d studied back at Quantico. Sociopathic savages who brutalized and tortured their victims, treating them with less sympathy, less mercy, than they would a bug on a wall. It was true that many of them had been victimized themselves, but this was a reason for their behavior, not an excuse, and she knew that should she ever encounter one in the wild, she wouldn’t hesitate to blow him away.

  Just as this thought entered Anna’s mind, her gaze fell to the camera in Royer’s hand, to the photograph still on-screen. But it wasn’t the children she saw; it was the Ferris wheel, the house of mirrors.

  Then, all at once, a rush of images came at her as if they were being poured from a box full of puzzle pieces, flickering past her mind’s eye so rapidly that she was once again overcome by vertigo, a dizziness so strong she had to grab onto Worthington’s arm for support.

  “What is it?” he asked. “What’s wrong?”

  But the onslaught was so overpowering that her brain couldn’t form the words to answer him, the images continuing to assault her—

  —a spray of blood—

  —the bound little girl—

  —the man in the red baseball cap—

  —tree shadows flickering across a tattered car ceiling—

  —an ornate locket swinging from a rearview mirror—

  Anna stumbled back, nearly losing her footing as she turned and hurried through the doorway. Stepping quickly down the hall, she crossed the living room and went outside, pulling her coat off as she moved, trying to get some air, trying desperately to purge her brain of these terrible images—

  —a dark corridor of trees—

  —a remote clearing—

  —a suitcase full of bloody knives—

  Then finally, thankfully, the last of them flitted by as she leaned a hand against the wall and closed her eyes, wondering what the hell was happening to her, wondering if she was indeed going mad.

  3

  “WHAT THE FUCK is the matter with you?”

  Anna was at the rear of the house now, seated at an old patio table with a tattered umbrella. Beyond the low wooden fence, across a barren field, was the back side of a junkyard, mountainous piles of debris laid out in neat rows and bathed in moonlight.

  Old tires. Car parts. Rusty washing machines. Scrap metal. All caged in by a chain-link fence.

  Anna had been staring at it for a long time, thinking that if there were a junkyard for demoted and disgraced FBI agents, she’d surely be at the top of the pile.

  She looked up at Royer, saw the fury on his face. They’d been working together for a total of four hours now and she already knew the partnership was doomed. He’d be filing a complaint against her as soon as they were back in Victorville.

  “Well?” he said.

  “I got nauseous.” She wasn’t about to tell him the truth. “You’ve never gotten sick at a crime scene?”

 
“Never,” he said. “And if I did, I sure as hell wouldn’t show it.”

  Anna glared at him. “Is that what this is about? Macho pride? Did I embarrass you in front of the deputy?”

  “All I asked you to do was keep your mouth shut and focus, and you can’t even do that.” His cheeks were red with anger. “You’re a disgrace to the bureau, you know that? Must be nice to have a daddy with connections.”

  Anna felt the heat rise in her own cheeks. But it wasn’t anger that caused it. It was humiliation.

  After the fiasco in San Francisco, if she’d been the one making the decisions about who could stay and who needed to go, she would’ve ignored the political pressure and booted her ass right out the door. Permanently.

  But Daddy was an influential man and had been for as long as she could remember. And in her desperation to keep her career from completely caving in on her, she had called him and asked for help.

  But the truth was, she hadn’t deserved his help.

  A man was paralyzed, had almost died, because of her inability to lead. She had let down her own partner. Had let everyone down. Including herself. And maybe that was the reason for these strange visions. The vertigo.

  Maybe it was the guilt that was driving her mad. Maybe it all came from some inner darkness she harbored, a subconscious need to be punished for what she’d done.

  But why the little girl?

  Why that particular scenario?

  Was she someone Anna knew?

  From somewhere far off, Royer said, “You’re not even listening to me, are you?” But the words barely registered, and when she looked up again he was gone. Headed back to the house.

  She watched him slide the glass rear door open, angrily flick the curtains aside, and disappear behind them.

  Anna turned, looking out across the field at those giant piles of junk, thinking she might as well get it over with and crawl on top of one right now. Her career was done. Kaput. Pump her full of morphine, Doc, then pull the plug.

  But then she paused, drawn out of her rendezvous with self-pity by movement across the field:

  A shadow near one of the junk piles.

  A silhouette, low to the ground.

  Was it an animal?

  A junkyard dog?

  She rose from her chair, moving closer to the wooden fence. And as she moved, the silhouette moved also, retreating.

  But it wasn’t a dog at all. As it hurriedly crawled backwards, it crossed into a pool of moonlight, exposing feral eyes in a small round face—

  —the face of a young boy.

  And even from this distance, Anna was sure she recognized him.

  The boy in the amusement park photograph. Evan.

  Rita Fairweather’s son.

  Quickly climbing over the fence, Anna started toward him, calling his name. “Evan?”

  But the boy picked up speed, standing now, turning toward the darkness between two piles of junk. As he disappeared between them, Anna ran, calling out for backup, hoping one of the deputies would hear her.

  The field was made of rutted, sun-baked dirt, and navigating it in the pale moonlight without falling on her face was tricky, but she managed to get across, then leaped onto the chain-link fence, using the momentum to pull her up and over it.

  As she jumped down to the other side, she landed wrong, tweaking her left ankle. Biting back the twinge of pain, she reached for her flashlight, only to realize she wasn’t wearing her coat, had left it hanging over her chair in the backyard.

  She could run back for it, but the boy might be gone by then. Hesitating only a moment, she looked up at the rusty mountains of junk that loomed above, then moved into the darkness between them.

  “Evan?”

  Nothing in return.

  “Evan, don’t be scared. I’m a friend. A friend of your mommy’s.”

  Still nothing. The darkness was nearly impenetrable here, the junk piles blocking out the moon. It suddenly occurred to Anna that Evan might not be alone, that the predator or whoever had killed those people back at the house might have been watching all this time.

  Watching and waiting.

  But for what?

  She reached to her holster and released her Glock, bringing it up in a two-handed grip, resting her finger against the trigger guard. Moving forward cautiously, she decided not to call out again. If the boy wasn’t alone, she saw no point in telegraphing her position.

  A sound spun her to the right. It was little more than a creak of metal that could simply have been caused by a shifting of the earth.

  But Anna didn’t think so.

  Turning, she wound her way around the large silhouette of what looked like the remnants of an old school bus. There was a moonlit clearing up ahead. Hearing the creak again, she gauged its direction and picked up speed, deciding to skirt the edge of the clearing to keep her exposure to a minimum.

  Then, just as she was edging closer to the moonlight, there was a burst of movement from inside a nearby pile of rubble as the boy, Evan, flew across the clearing and disappeared into the darkness on the other side.

  “Evan, wait!” she shouted, but he didn’t slow down.

  Quickly holstering her Glock, she ran for all she was worth, pain shooting through her ankle as she moved out into the open, knowing she was taking a risk exposing herself like this. But her instincts told her she was safe, that the boy was alone out here. Alone and afraid.

  She didn’t know what he’d seen back at that house, but suspected the worst, and all she wanted to do was catch up to him, to let him know that he wasn’t alone, that there were people who wanted to help him.

  “Evan!” she shouted, as she moved again into darkness, wishing she had her flashlight.

  Hearing a whimper, she froze, knowing she was close. And despite the lack of illumination, she sensed that the boy had miscalculated and had hit a dead end of some kind, a wall of junk that held no escape.

  She heard him struggling for breath. Raw and ragged. Frightened out of his wits.

  “Evan? Are you there? It’s okay; I won’t hurt you.”

  Then, as her eyes began to adjust, she could see the small, pale oval of his face, low to the ground, eyes wide and terrified. He was lying inside a warped wooden cabinet with one of its doors missing, the other hanging by a single hinge.

  Moving closer, Anna crouched down, peering in at him.

  “It’s okay, hon. It’s gonna be—”

  The vicious bark of a dog cut her off and spun her around. Anna reached for her Glock, but a shotgun blast to the sky stopped her cold as a flashlight beam shone directly in her face.

  “Keep your fuckin’ hands right where they are, missy. You wouldn’t be the first trespasser I’ve shot.”

  4

  DANIEL POPE WAS watching himself on TV when he got the call.

  He did that a lot. Watched himself.

  Not out of any sense of vanity—that was one human failing Pope couldn’t claim—but simply because he found that studying his performances allowed him to improve his craft. Such as it was.

  While Pope didn’t take much pride in his personal life these days, he’d always been proud of his work. Something to cling to.

  And Pope desperately needed something to cling to.

  So there he sat, in the dim light of his hotel room, smoking a bowl of White Widow as he watched the DVD of last night’s show. The same DVD they sold to tourists in the casino lobby for fifteen bucks a pop.

  Then his cell phone chirped.

  Pope grabbed the remote, hit the pause button, then snatched the phone up off his nightstand and squinted at the screen.

  Just what he was afraid of.

  Sharkey.

  Pope debated letting voice mail pick it up, but knew that would only stall the inevitable, forcing him to call Sharkey back. And he certainly didn’t want to have to do that.

  He stared at his image on the TV screen, saw himself frozen in motion, wearing that ridiculous glittery black tux, thinking he should seriously cons
ider revamping his wardrobe. Flashy costumes were more or less cultural de rigueur in a Vegas-style lounge show, even a low-rent show like his. But why not let his assistants, Carmen and Feather, handle the glitter? A good half of the tourists only came to stare at their tits anyway.

  Pope sighed, then finally clicked the phone on and put it to his ear. “Hey, Sharkey, what’s up?”

  “You’re actually awake at this hour?”

  “You must’ve figured I would be.”

  “Nah, I was just gonna leave a message. But I like this better. I always feel like I have to be polite on voice mail.”

  “I don’t think anyone would ever accuse you of that.”

  Sharkey barked. It was supposed to be a laugh, but didn’t quite qualify. “You’re a funny guy, Danny. Maybe you should consider a change of format. Put a little comedy in your act.”

  “It’s already got some,” Pope said.

  “Yeah? Color me stupid, but I don’t think a bunch of idiots bouncing around onstage is all that funny.”

  “Did you call to offer me a critique, or is there a point to this conversation?”

  Sharkey got quiet a moment, then said, “Troy wants to see you. And he’s pretty upset.”

  “About what?”

  “About you, that’s what.”

  Pope quickly ran a list of possible fuckups through his slightly stoned brain, but only came up with one likely suspect.

  “The session?”

  “Bingo. He’s thinking maybe you got something wrong. Got some wires crossed, made a mistake.”

  “It doesn’t work that way,” Pope told him, staring again at the TV screen, looking at his face, noticing that his expression was frozen in a grimace—an accurate reflection of how he felt about the subject of Anderson Troy.

  “I won’t even pretend to know how it works,” Sharkey said. “But then I’m not paid to be curious. The man gets pissed, I gotta do what I can to calm him down. Even if it means dealing with a bullshit artist like you.”

  “What’s the matter, Sharkey? You don’t believe in hypnosis?”

  “I don’t believe in anything.”