Hide, p.27
Hide, page 27
After wiggling out from underneath, she stood, dusted herself off, looking up and down the block, fuming, unsettled. Reflective spray, the kind cyclists used at night so cars could see them in the dark. Someone had tagged her car. They wouldn’t have had to follow close. Anyone could have trailed her from more than a block away and not lost her. She’d led them right to her place.
Foster walked up and down the block, checking parked cars for skulking occupants. She walked both sides of the block, listening for running engines. No one was there. Back at her front door, she called Li from the porch.
“Whaddup, pard?” she answered.
Foster let a beat go, not sure how to say it, fighting the vulnerable position she found herself in. “Are you alone?” She moved away from the porch light into the shadows and kept her head on a swivel. “Is your mother or your husband in the room with you now?”
Foster could sense Li clock in over the phone. “It’s after ten. He’s at the hospital. She’s in bed. What’s going on?”
Foster went inside, locking the door behind her, then passed through the kitchen to the yard, plucking the baggie out of her pocket as she went. The butts were still there. Reaching down, she plucked them up and secured them in the bag. “Someone followed me home. I found reflective spray on the back of my car the size of a satellite dish. He couldn’t have lost me if he tried. Someone’s also been in my yard. Could be unrelated, but I don’t think it is. I’m hoping it’s just me he chose to tag, but you need to go out and check your car right now.”
“Already moving,” Li said. Foster could feel the tension in Li’s voice and hear the rustle of her clothing, her breathing, and the opening and closing of a door. “You say ‘he’? You mean Morgan?”
Foster didn’t move a single muscle while she waited for Li’s report. “I hope so,” she said. “If it isn’t, we’ve got a bigger problem.” She listened to Li’s end of the line. For a time, she heard nothing but Li walking and breathing, and then . . .
“Son of a bitch.”
“He knows where you live too,” Foster said.
“Son of a bitch!”
It sounded like Li was running. Her breathing was heavier now, panicked, short. “I’m moving my family. They can stay with my brother. Then I’m coming in. Meet you there.”
The line went dead. Foster slipped her phone back in her pocket, then decided to take another look around the yard, reclaiming it as hers. Standard search pattern, though there wasn’t much ground to cover. He’d elevated the game. Morgan, or whoever. And made a mistake.
She didn’t scream when she found the cat’s body lying against her back fence. His eyes were bugged, his tongue hanging out of his mouth. From where she stood, the flashlight shaking in her hand, she could see his neck had been broken. She flicked the light off and stood there in the dark. She barely registered the sound of the dog barking down the street. Lost wasn’t her cat. Neither of them had claimed the other, but she cried anyway.
CHAPTER 63
He walked around the old house, a small flashlight pointed downward, not wanting to draw attention to his presence this late at night. He knocked on walls, flexed the floorboards, getting a feel for the place. It wasn’t much. Not like the perfect house they’d had before, but it would do for now. He’d made sure of the basement. It was wide and deep with thick concrete walls. There was a separate entrance and sturdy stairs, room enough for a table and plenty of wall space for his tools, for crafting and creating. He was satisfied. For now.
He eased open the basement door and peered down the stairs before slowly making his way down in the dark, his feet thudding decisively on the wooden planks. There was a stale reek of dust and damp and long-ago sewage, but he could air things out when he moved his things in. Mornings, there would be natural light flooding in below from glass block windows that ran all along the basement’s length. They would have to go. He’d block them out or cover them up, in the meantime. Easy job. When he pulled the string attached to the single light bulb overhead, the dull light didn’t reach far into cobwebby corners, though there was nothing much to see yet, only a few discarded rags, a junked bed frame covered in years of dust, and an old rusty bucket someone had left behind.
How much better it would be this time without having to padlock the door. Everything was out in the open, and he felt liberated, like he’d been freed from a tomb. Only this time, he had someone to share in his creative process, his art of transformation. He’d never worked with anyone else. He’d have to learn how. But the house was here, ready and waiting. That was something.
His reconnaissance had been a success. Foster was easy. She lived alone. No one visited, and her neighborhood was not one the police put a lot of effort into. But she was dangerous. He’d have to remember that. Li was different. There was an old lady in her house—he assumed she was her mother—a husband who dressed in scrubs and was rarely there, and a baby, a boy. Nice little family. They lived north. Wrigleyville. The police responded faster up there. The decision as to who he would go after first had already been made. Foster. She appeared to be the one leading the charge, the first up the hill. It was always wise to cut off the head of the snake first. But not yet. Timing was everything in things like this. Far better to let the enemy come to you instead of running out to meet them. Patience.
He pulled the string again and cut the light. Yes, this house would do just fine.
CHAPTER 64
Dr. Silva walked out of Westhaven late. Almost midnight. But what did the hour matter, she thought, when she had plans to make. The cops were being obstinate, freezing her out, and Bodie Morgan was proving just as uncooperative. Who did he think he was? Didn’t he know who he was toying with? Still, she wasn’t that worried, not yet; Silva had strategies upon strategies to put into action. It was only a matter of time before she got what she wanted. Now, though, what she needed was home, a shower, and a quick meal before bed. Tomorrow she’d set about turning things around.
Norman was not on the gate; the new guy was in the guardhouse. Silva couldn’t recall his name, but she waved at him as she drove past and turned onto the narrow road leading to the main thoroughfare a quarter mile up.
As she drove away, she glared at Westhaven’s facade and pulled a face. Substandard. Embarrassing. She was much too good for the place. Alvin Keyes, the Beltway Slasher. They could say what they wanted about her, but she’d been the one to get him to reveal where he’d buried three of his victims. The damage to his mind, the psychotic break he’d experienced, had been a risk worth taking, at least for her. Where was the gratitude? The recognition? It was a clear case of the ends justifying the means, and in return she’d been banished.
“But like the phoenix,” she muttered to herself, “I will rise.”
Silva punched the buttons on her radio, and the car flooded with orchestral music. She’d be home in forty minutes.
CHAPTER 65
She’d watched Silva’s car turn out of the gate and head for the main road, and she’d smiled, knowing she’d never get there. She imagined Silva anticipating getting home, getting ready for bed safe in the knowledge that she was secure, tucked in, and in charge. Maybe she was thinking about pouring herself a nice scotch or a bourbon, slipping out of her heels.
Amelia started her car and crept it forward at five miles per hour, lights out, her eyes on Silva’s taillights. Silva would stop soon. She’d be forced to. This Amelia was doing for Bodie. For family. Silva wanted him locked up like an animal for the rest of his life, babbling like an idiot, zonked out on drugs, tarred and feathered like some madman. She couldn’t have that. Bodie might not appreciate the efforts Amelia took to keep him out of trouble, but that didn’t mean she didn’t have to make the effort. Now that their father was back, it was even possible that Bodie might overcome his aversion to him, and they could all be together again, but better this time.
“Just a little further,” she muttered, watching Silva’s car up ahead. “Just a little.” Her eyes narrowed as Silva approached the spot. She stopped her car yards away and cut the engine. When she heard the loud pop of the tires and saw Silva brake to a sudden stop, taillights blazing red, she smiled. “Game time.”
Amelia watched as Silva got out of her car, leaving the driver’s door open, the car dinging, a frenzy of bassoons, flutes, French horns, and cymbals firing out of the radio. Silva checked her left front tire. Amelia knew it was flat. She’d scattered the small tire spikes across the road. Silva thought she knew Bodie, but Bodie knew her too. He knew this road was sparsely traveled at night. He knew Silva often worked very late and drove home alone in a black BMW. He knew which way she turned when she passed through the gate. And Amelia had checked. There were only cameras near the hospital entrance, trained on the guardhouse.
The worried look on Silva’s face excited her, and she could almost see the old woman work it through in her head. This was a major inconvenience. She’d have to call someone for a tow or a tire change. Her after-work scotch or bourbon or shower would be pleasures delayed. When Silva reached inside her car and came out with her cell phone, Amelia got out and walked up looking innocent, helpful. “Everything okay there?”
Silva tensed, but when she saw it was a woman, she appeared to relax. “I must have run over something in the road,” she said. “I’ve got a flat.”
“Oh no.” Amelia sounded sympathetic, worried even for the woman’s safety. She checked the tire, kicked it. “It’s flat, all right. I could change it for you. Pop your trunk. I’ll get the spare.”
“That’s not necessary. I’ve got AAA.”
“It’s no trouble,” Amelia said. “I could have you going in fifteen minutes. It’s so late. You don’t want to be out here any longer than you have to be.”
“I didn’t see you on the road behind me,” Silva said.
Amelia could tell Silva was getting nervous, suspicious. The woman took a step away from her. “You weren’t paying attention,” Amelia said. “So, the spare?”
Silva glanced behind her at the stretch of empty road. She was too far away from Westhaven’s gate and the guardhouse. “Thank you, but I’ve got service.” She clutched her phone to her chest like it would protect her. “I’m a doctor. I work at the hospital there. I’ll be fine.”
Amelia stepped forward and lazily kicked at the road, brushing the spikes away with the toe of her boot. “I know who you are, Dr. Silva.”
Silva flicked a look at the driver’s door. It stood open. The steering wheel just inches away. Amelia could tell she wanted to run for the safety of her front seat but didn’t dare move. “What do you want?”
“I’m a Good Samaritan,” Amelia said. “You’re in a bind. I’ve stopped to help.”
Silva slid a look at the spikes, then read the smiling face. “You’re no such thing.”
Amelia slid the knife out of her pocket. She couldn’t stand here all night out in the open. It was then that Silva broke and lunged for the open door. Amelia caught her by the back of her coat and shoved her inside.
“Don’t,” Silva pleaded. “You don’t have to do this.”
“I know,” Amelia said. “I want to.”
The first plunge of the knife hit Silva right below her rib cage, the better for suffering, Amelia decided. Blood quickly flooded her silk blouse as she let out a sorrowful whimper. Amelia so enjoyed the sound of pain. The second strike hit right above Silva’s collarbone, Amelia striking before the good doctor panicked and laid on the car horn in a desperate attempt to sound the alarm. Silva made no sound as blood ran like a river down her torso. Amelia leaned over and whispered in the dying woman’s ear, “Night-night, Doc.”
She lifted the knife for one last go but stopped when something reflected off her knife blade. It was the glare of headlights coming up the road. Out of time. Silva’s head had fallen back against the headrest, her mouth slack, tears trickling down her cheeks. Amelia longed for one more strike but didn’t dare. The headlights were coming. She looked down at Silva, bereft that she wouldn’t be able to watch her breathe her last.
“Die well,” she whispered before pulling a red wig from inside her jacket and placing it on Silva’s head. The wig was a big F U to the cops, one she hoped would have them spinning their wheels to explain. She slammed the door shut, kicked the rest of the spikes to the side of the road, ran back to her car, and sped away. When she hit the main road, she turned left toward the highway. Pumped but denied her payoff.
“No, no, no.”
Each “no” was punctuated by a bang to the steering wheel. She’d planned it so carefully, the time, the method, and she’d meant for it to go so differently, had anticipated it taking hours, not minutes. But her thoughts quickly turned toward self-preservation. Had she brushed every last spike away? Had the driver in the approaching car noticed her fleeing taillights? Though she’d made sure not to touch a thing inside Silva’s car, had she left behind even a single strand of hair? She glued worried eyes on her rearview mirror and drove well below the speed limit. She slowly caught her breath, convincing herself she’d done well enough, that she was sure none of this would be tied back to Bodie or her. Dr. Mariana Silva was dead, and the Morgans would be okay.
By the time she got home, she’d almost convinced herself that they would be. The kill hadn’t been as clean as she would’ve liked or as her father would’ve expected, but it was done. She poured herself a glass of white wine but barely tasted it as it slid down her throat. So she poured another, then another.
Bodie was safe.
She’d done her job.
But it had all happened too quickly.
Angry, she hurled the empty glass against the wall and watched as it shattered into a trillion jagged little pieces. “Now what am I supposed to do with the rest of my fuckin’ night?”
CHAPTER 66
Bodie stared at the detectives looming over him. They’d just shown up at his door in the middle of the night and dragged him out. One cop was a big white guy with a buzz cut, the other a human version of a Ken doll. It was those dead girls. Amelia had told him not to worry, but he did. He didn’t do well under pressure. He shut his eyes to the grim faces and clenched jaws and scornful looks. They stared at him like he was nothing. Defective scum. He hated himself for wishing Am were here to help him.
He’d been in this cramped room for hours now. It was now 6:00 a.m. They were trying to wear him down, confuse him, scare him into incriminating himself. He knew how they worked. Cops were all the same. It should be his father sitting here, anyway, not him, but as angry as he was at the man, however much he blamed him for the shithole his life had become, he couldn’t bring himself to give up his family’s secret. He should have asked for a lawyer hours ago, but then he’d have had to talk and tell things, and Morgans didn’t do that. “For the thousandth time, you’ve got the wrong guy,” he said. “And you can’t just bring me down here and lock me in a room whenever you feel like it. I’m a citizen. I have rights.”
The detectives who’d identified themselves as Lonergan and Kelley said nothing.
“Look, you’re barking up the wrong tree, all right? I just want to be left the hell alone.”
The door burst open, and the female detectives he remembered from his apartment came in, looking just as grim as the two in front of him. Foster and Li. How could he ever forget their names?
“Account for your time,” Foster said.
His breath caught. Did they know about the girl in the other building? Had she seen him, turned him in? “When?”
“Let’s start with yesterday,” Li said, “all the way up until we brought you in here early this morning.”
Bodie stared up at Li, then Foster, then at the two cops holding the wall up. He knew exactly what he’d been doing most of that time, but he couldn’t tell them. If they knew he’d been on his roof, if they knew he’d been watching the girl, he’d be done. “Why?”
Li banged on the table, her eyes wild. “Wrong answer. Account for your time. We’ll tell you when to stop.”
Foster tossed a photo of the reflective paint on the back of her car and one from Li’s. In both, the zoom-in on the glowing circles was prominent. “Someone marked our cars.” She tossed another photo of the cigarette butts lying in the grass. “Someone was in my yard.”
Bodie got it now. His father was hunting again, only this time he wasn’t hunting pretty young women; he was hunting cops. The man was insane. “Not me.” It was all he could think to say. Foster and Li were in trouble, and so was he. “I didn’t. I don’t smoke.” His pleading eyes watched the cops. All of them looked like they wanted to kill him. “I don’t know where either of you live. I don’t own a car.” He stared at the photos. “I didn’t do that.” Even he could hear the desperation in his voice, the fear. He needed to man up. “I need to make a call.”
“Your sister can’t help you now,” Li said.
It startled him. They knew about Am? How much did they know? He faced each cop down, feeling the heat, shaking inside but fighting for his life. Was everything unraveling? He’d thought he could get out of this on his own, but now he needed to talk to Am. “I have to make a call.”
Li slammed her files down on her desk. “He wants to make a call? That sicko was outside my house with my baby sleeping inside. My mother.”
“Someone was,” Foster said calmly. “But look at him. Unless we’re dealing with a Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde situation, I can’t see him getting it together well enough to coordinate all this. And he doesn’t smell like a smoker. No telltale signs either—nicotine-stained teeth, yellowing at the fingertips.”
“I know it sounds like it should be him,” Symansky said. “He’s done something like this before, but I’m with Foster. We can’t even get him on killing the cat.” He slid her a look of sympathy. “Condolences by the way.”
“He wasn’t mine,” she said. She didn’t want to talk about Lost. “We hold him for a while longer to make sure but get him what he asked for. Maybe we find a way to get him to give us a blood sample. Meanwhile, we get some coverage on Li’s place.”
