Beverly went to her laptop and opened the web browser. She needed something to calm her nerves, and murder news always helped. And this was extra special murder news. She found a flood of media reports concerning the discovery of the sisters, but there were no real details and no mention of a suspect in custody. But she knew there was no way they could keep Adam Church’s name from the public. She wiped the sleep from her eyes and scanned the webpages with their lurid headlines.
LOCAL MAN ARRESTED OVER GIRLS’ MURDER
SLAUGHTER OF THE INNOCENTS
And her personal favourite:
BUTCHERED BABES
She read through the reports, finding no mention of him. How disappointing. It was the same with all the others. She closed them and switched to social media instead, and there was no holding back in that corner of the digital world.
ADAM CHURCH IS A MURDERING BASTARD.
STRING THE FUCKER UP.
BURN DOWN THE HOUSE.
She liked that idea. That would get rid of any evidence she might have left behind. No, she hadn’t missed anything. After five years of careful planning, she wasn’t going to miss anything. She returned to the screen, moving down the screaming capitals and those who’d added comments to their outrage. She found one from Judy Moore, the horrible busybody from down their street:
I always said that family was strange, especially the girl with the abnormal face and twitchy arms. What happened to her?
There was a long conversation that followed the post, which she decided to ignore.
Did I make any mistakes? Should I have done anything differently?
She reached under the bed and pulled out her special laptop. She flipped open the lid and waited for the first set of security steps to begin. After three years working at the school, everyone, including her family, believed Beverly was only an ordinary teacher of computer studies and technology. Nobody knew she’d been cracking codes and hacking into secure systems since she was fourteen. The screen flickered into life, and she completed the four-step security system she’d installed on the machine.
When the desktop appeared, she selected the secure web browser, went through another set of security protocols, and made her way on to the dark web. Here, she entered her password, opened her account and examined the latest posts and uploads. The heading New Terrorist Actions caught her eyes and she clicked on the link. Beverly had no interest in terrorists and their manifestos, regardless of what cause they followed, because all ideologies, political, religious and everything in between, were anathema to her.
Fancy being so narrow-minded you wanted to kill someone because of the colour of their skin, or their sexuality, or belief system.
It was the methodology that interested her, not ideology.
Twenty-first-century terrorism had changed the scope of killing; she’d admit that. Driving a vehicle into people as a means of murder seemed so obvious now, she couldn’t believe someone hadn’t done it sooner. Running down a street stabbing people, though, did seem somewhat inefficient to her. Plus, you’re always likely to get arrested doing that, and even though she knew that’s what most of the perpetrators expected or wanted, she had no intention of getting caught. Her ultimate act of violence would be grand, but it would be nothing as churlish as driving into a crowd.
And this is where her meticulous planning came into play. She understood doing something close to where she lived was not only dangerous, but probably stupid, but, like fundamentalist terrorists, she had no choice in the matter. Everything she was started with Adam, so her transference process had to begin with him.
She smiled as she thought of him before scrolling through the information on the screen and finding nothing worthwhile. She pushed the computer to one side and let her mind drift back to the events of that night. How easy it was to convince the sisters to come with her; after all, who wouldn’t trust a woman? Most serial killers, most murderers, are men. In contrast, women can always be trusted, especially if you’re a young girl far from home.
There had been a slight pang of guilt for them, but it disappeared when she realised she was saving them from lifetimes of pain and heartache. Any parent who would let young children wander around on their own at night didn’t deserve to have kids. At least the girls would be at peace now. And Church would get what he deserved. But what would be her next step? She hadn’t decided what her big demonstration would be, but it would be something to go out with a bang before she left and moved to a bigger city.
She returned to her phone as the laptop hummed in front of her. On the cell was a list of job vacancies she’d saved, schools and colleges well away from her hometown, but she was unsure how far she wanted to travel. She tried to focus on the employment adverts, but the criminality displayed on the laptop screen drew her back to it. Heading for the section on methods of mass murder, Beverly clicked on it and entered the chat forum. She rarely posted there, only the occasional prompt to egg people towards what they boasted about doing. She guessed they never would, but she liked to read the comments.
Someone called MajorDick, who she doubted was named after his military position, proclaimed the only way to go was with assault weapons, while others debated which the best ones were. Beverly rolled her eyes as she glossed over the conversation. She had nothing against firearms and had been an expert shot since the age of twelve when her father took her to the range, but she knew guns were only for those who wanted to die on their mission, which wasn’t her. She intended to survive and continue for as long as possible, and using firearms wouldn’t help. They were too messy and attracted too much attention. When she settled on her grand exhibition, she’d probably take a single handgun with her for emergencies, but that would be it.
Further down the page, a group praised the virtues of explosives. She’d considered it and still hadn’t discounted the option, but several things dissuaded her. Firstly, because of similar attacks in the recent past, it was now much more challenging to acquire the right amount of materials without alerting the authorities. It wasn’t a risk she was prepared to take. But the real disincentive for using bombs was numerous people had used them recently. There was nothing unique in it, and she wanted her big statement to be exceptional.
Many users in the chat forum spoke about getting something powerful from one of the old Soviet states, a nuclear device or a dirty bomb, but their ridiculousness made her laugh. If the material were so easy to get, then some terrorist organisation would have done it by now. Plus, for Beverly, the whole thing was far too impersonal. How do you follow up using a nuclear device, for Christ’s sake?
She shut the laptop and lay on the bed, allowing time to dry the rest of her body. She had to decide today and set some plans in motion, otherwise there had been no point taking another sick day at work. The school was understaffed and the principal wouldn’t put up with it for too long.
Beverly closed her eyes and thought of Principal Claudia Conway, the woman who had been a teacher when Beverly was a pupil. The woman who told her she’d never achieve anything in life and was only there to be some jock’s baby-making machine. Conway was bitter and twisted then, a decade ago, and time hadn’t improved her. In fact, she’d only gotten worse. Beverly had believed the old crone would fail her at the interview and was shocked when she was offered the job. But there was method in Conway’s madness, which she only understood once she’d been working at the school for a few weeks.
First, it was the extra tasks dumped on her, so she never got away from school before seven o’clock every night. Then there was the work which had to be done at weekends. And all of it followed by constant criticism, usually in front of her colleagues. If she hadn’t had her unique plans to pursue and keep her sane, she was convinced she’d have had a nervous breakdown already. And she knew that was what Conway wanted. No, it was more than wanted. She desired it. Beverly saw it in her eyes each time they met. If only there were a way she could kill Conway without bringing too much attention to her and the school.
The thought of the principal forced her eyes open and her body up. She grabbed the laptop and opened the lid. She continued scanning the information on the screen. A group of people were speaking about poisoning the water supply, but it seemed too impractical to her. Others mentioned arson. She liked that idea, but it needed more consideration. Poison again, not in the water, but certain foods. That had potential. There was enough weed killer and rat poison in the basement, all there legitimately, and it had always been a possible choice. Hadn’t she read somewhere that poison was a woman’s prerogative, or was that just wishful thinking on her part?
A frustrated yelp slipped over her lips and she fell back into the warmth of the sheets. Her eyes blinked shut, and she dreamt about that night again.
She slept for two hours. Beverly sat up and stretched her arms and stifled a yawn. She felt more tired than when she’d first got up, and it annoyed her. Or perhaps it was the lingering thought of Conway nagging at the back of her skull.
She moved to the bedroom window, hoping the sight of the police tape surrounding the house across the road would blow away the dust clinging to her brain. She rubbed at her eyes as the woman stepped out of the car and up to the porch. Beverly guessed she must be another journalist looking for a story until she watched her duck under the tape and march to the front.
There was something in the way she moved which told Beverly she wasn’t a reporter. The stranger wore a leather jacket and skintight jeans, which it seemed to Beverly would be impossible to move in, let alone walk with the confidence she had. No, it was more than confidence. It was a certainty that most men have, that supreme belief in their authority. Even from a distance, as she peeled from the window to stride to the rear of the property, Beverly knew this stranger was an alpha. Beverly always liked to believe she was one of those, but realised she wasn’t. But this woman, who’d disappeared around the back of the house, certainly was.
She didn’t know why, but her heart was pounding against her chest. She wore nothing but the bath towel, but heat was spreading through her like lava running down a volcano. She wiped the sweat from her head and tried to control her breathing. Beverly hadn’t had an anxiety attack since university, but felt it coming on now.
But why? The woman couldn’t be a police officer, or she’d have gone into the house. Her fingers clasped at the towel. She was probably some freak who liked to visit murder scenes, or maybe one of those sickos who wrote to serial killers offering their hand in marriage. The thought made her smile, and the thump of her heart lessened a little. As it did, the stranger in the impossible jeans returned. Beverly waited for her to go to her car, but instead, she turned and stared into her bedroom window.
Beverly gasped, stepped backwards, and fell onto the bed. The thump in her chest increased a thousandfold, her mouth trembling as the breath refused to enter her lungs. She twisted on the cover, her head creaking from side to side as she searched for the anxiety medication she hadn’t used in three years.
Even if I still had it, it would be out of date.
The idea produced an impossible giggle and the pain wiped away the tension in her chest. She jerked up and continued to laugh, a riotous uproar that would have frightened small children. And that thought made her snort laughter, with her hands glued to her sides as the giggles consumed her.
When it was over, she put her head between her knees and sucked air into her lungs. Then she let it out in one long, slow movement.
When she felt in control again, she stood and went to the window. The woman and her car were gone. Beverly stared through the glass for an age and wondered what she’d do next.